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Autobiography of Leonard Woolf #5
THE JOURNEY NOT THE ARRIVAL MATTERS : AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE YEARS 1939- 1969
The author's account of World War II, his wife's death, and his political and literary activities. "A splendid ending to one of the most remarkable literary achievements of our time" (New York Times Book Review). Index; photographs.
- GenresBiographyAutobiography
Unknown Binding
First published January 1, 1969
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About the author
Leonard Woolf
130 books63 followersLeonard Sidney Woolf was a noted British political theorist, author, publisher (The Hogarth Press), and civil servant, but perhaps best-known as husband to author Virginia Woolf.
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Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews
December 27, 2018
Intimidated by the prospect of reading all five volumes of this great man’s work, I settled on his last, the sunset years from the onset of WWII until Leonard Woolf exited the stage in 1969.
Woolf, by 1939 was an established member of the UK literati, being publisher of The Hogarth Press for over 20 years, bathing in the spotlight cast by his far more literary wife, Virginia, and being a member of the Labour Party and Fabian Society; he was a driving force behind the formation of the moribund League of Nations; he was a devout socialist who had access to the halls of power through his connections in the literary and civil service channels. Despite his socialism, he boldly postulated that “there is no dictatorship of the proletariat, only a dictatorship of the bourgeoisie (who were once the proletariat).” This book covers the war years, takes a diversion into the suicide of Virginia in 1941, then moves onto the story of The Hogarth Press, and finally journeys through Woolf’s post war years when he continued to work hard per his Jewish work ethic, but took the time to revisit the places of his youth, like Ceylon, and summed up his life as “much ado about nothing” —in other words, his journey was better than his arrival.
Woolf is candid in this book. He was not a fan of Israel although he was a Jew. He thought the Pope was an ass. Theology, metaphysics, economics and sociology in his books were phony. He was an atheist who believed in Justice and Mercy. He preferred imbecile children to be sent to mental homes. He decried the wars of 1914 and 1939, casting them as repetitions of human folly similar to the Greek wars of 490 BC and 480 BC. He held sacred the rights of the individual, the “I” that came to prominence during the Renaissance, so much so that drowning the excess puppies in his dog’s litter—as was customary at the time—was anathema to him. He espoused civilization and condemned barbarism, and yet promoted self-government in the colonies, urging the British parliament to prepare its far flung dominions for this eventual role—which didn’t quite happen, as was experienced in Africa and Asia during his later years.
Life in England during the war is vividly rendered. The fear of bombs landing at any time, the charred buildings that were vibrant dwellings only moments ago, the disruption of transport and supplies, and the resulting boredom of spending hours to do what formerly took minutes takes their toll on the Woolfs, more so on Virginia; her depression returns with a vengeance. Intellectuals, especially Jews, talk openly of committing suicide rather than be captured by the Germans if they landed on British beaches. Virginia finally succumbs to her fears, despite her husband’s best efforts to save her.
The section on The Hogarth Press, one founded on a shoestring by Leonard and Virginia in 1917, will be of interest to writers and publishers, of which I am one. Woolf stubbornly resisted going big with his press, which to him would have become a race to the bottom to cover mounting overhead . He compares books to soap in a manufacturing sense: the difference is that each bar of soap is the same while each book title is different and will experience different fortunes in the market. Despite its smallness, THP, amassed an eclectic collection of writers at the time, among them numbered Katherine Mansfield, E.M Forster, and T.S. Elliott. But the marquee name that made the press’s reputation for exemplary literary output was Virginia Woolf. The English translations of Gorky, Dostoevsky and Freud also helped. Ironically, the war created a shortage of paper and every remaindered book was sold due to pent-up a demand, a direct opposite from today’s reality where unending supply chases diminishing demand.
Little is mentioned about his ongoing relationship with Trekkie Parsons, a younger, married woman with whom he had a peculiar living arrangement (after Virginia’s death, Trekkie lived with Woolf part-time when she was not living with her husband; the husband subsequently helped Woolf unload The Hogarth Press on a larger outfit, Chatto & Windus, that in turn was absorbed by Random House). Trekkie accompanied Woolf on his overseas travels as well. His references to her in the book are always respectful and avuncular.
In the final part of this book, Woolf dwells on his travels, to Israel and Ceylon in particular. In the latter country, where he had served 50 years earlier for a period of seven years as a civil servant—acting as judge, administrator and businessman—he is feted and escorted with respect around the island. His first novel, The Village in the Jungle, set in Ceylon, had gone onto become an academic text in that country. But the villages in the jungle are giving way to the encroachment of civilization on Woolf’s later visit. The new generation of Ceylonese civil servants admit that things were better under the British, that the politicians were interfering too much these days. Having lived in that country in the ’60’s, I have to agree with them, although our man Woolf looks upon the land through rose coloured glasses and sees only the validation of his original idea that self-government was good for the colonies and that it had paid off in Ceylon.
Woolf sums up his life by admitting that we all create a magnetic field around our selves that blinds us to reality, a field driven by our profession and ego. Extreme examples are publishers, politicians and popes. He faces the fact that the nearly 200,000 hours he spent on volunteer work to advance socialism was a waste of time, it didn’t change the world one iota, although it helped him realize his own insignificance in it and kept him sharp and active until the age of 88. Great humility from a great man who finally recognized the assets of old age: “the storms and stresses, the competitions and ambitions are over.” And through this recognition, he arrived upon the title for this final volume of his autobiography: The Journey not the Arrival Matters.
Woolf, by 1939 was an established member of the UK literati, being publisher of The Hogarth Press for over 20 years, bathing in the spotlight cast by his far more literary wife, Virginia, and being a member of the Labour Party and Fabian Society; he was a driving force behind the formation of the moribund League of Nations; he was a devout socialist who had access to the halls of power through his connections in the literary and civil service channels. Despite his socialism, he boldly postulated that “there is no dictatorship of the proletariat, only a dictatorship of the bourgeoisie (who were once the proletariat).” This book covers the war years, takes a diversion into the suicide of Virginia in 1941, then moves onto the story of The Hogarth Press, and finally journeys through Woolf’s post war years when he continued to work hard per his Jewish work ethic, but took the time to revisit the places of his youth, like Ceylon, and summed up his life as “much ado about nothing” —in other words, his journey was better than his arrival.
Woolf is candid in this book. He was not a fan of Israel although he was a Jew. He thought the Pope was an ass. Theology, metaphysics, economics and sociology in his books were phony. He was an atheist who believed in Justice and Mercy. He preferred imbecile children to be sent to mental homes. He decried the wars of 1914 and 1939, casting them as repetitions of human folly similar to the Greek wars of 490 BC and 480 BC. He held sacred the rights of the individual, the “I” that came to prominence during the Renaissance, so much so that drowning the excess puppies in his dog’s litter—as was customary at the time—was anathema to him. He espoused civilization and condemned barbarism, and yet promoted self-government in the colonies, urging the British parliament to prepare its far flung dominions for this eventual role—which didn’t quite happen, as was experienced in Africa and Asia during his later years.
Life in England during the war is vividly rendered. The fear of bombs landing at any time, the charred buildings that were vibrant dwellings only moments ago, the disruption of transport and supplies, and the resulting boredom of spending hours to do what formerly took minutes takes their toll on the Woolfs, more so on Virginia; her depression returns with a vengeance. Intellectuals, especially Jews, talk openly of committing suicide rather than be captured by the Germans if they landed on British beaches. Virginia finally succumbs to her fears, despite her husband’s best efforts to save her.
The section on The Hogarth Press, one founded on a shoestring by Leonard and Virginia in 1917, will be of interest to writers and publishers, of which I am one. Woolf stubbornly resisted going big with his press, which to him would have become a race to the bottom to cover mounting overhead . He compares books to soap in a manufacturing sense: the difference is that each bar of soap is the same while each book title is different and will experience different fortunes in the market. Despite its smallness, THP, amassed an eclectic collection of writers at the time, among them numbered Katherine Mansfield, E.M Forster, and T.S. Elliott. But the marquee name that made the press’s reputation for exemplary literary output was Virginia Woolf. The English translations of Gorky, Dostoevsky and Freud also helped. Ironically, the war created a shortage of paper and every remaindered book was sold due to pent-up a demand, a direct opposite from today’s reality where unending supply chases diminishing demand.
Little is mentioned about his ongoing relationship with Trekkie Parsons, a younger, married woman with whom he had a peculiar living arrangement (after Virginia’s death, Trekkie lived with Woolf part-time when she was not living with her husband; the husband subsequently helped Woolf unload The Hogarth Press on a larger outfit, Chatto & Windus, that in turn was absorbed by Random House). Trekkie accompanied Woolf on his overseas travels as well. His references to her in the book are always respectful and avuncular.
In the final part of this book, Woolf dwells on his travels, to Israel and Ceylon in particular. In the latter country, where he had served 50 years earlier for a period of seven years as a civil servant—acting as judge, administrator and businessman—he is feted and escorted with respect around the island. His first novel, The Village in the Jungle, set in Ceylon, had gone onto become an academic text in that country. But the villages in the jungle are giving way to the encroachment of civilization on Woolf’s later visit. The new generation of Ceylonese civil servants admit that things were better under the British, that the politicians were interfering too much these days. Having lived in that country in the ’60’s, I have to agree with them, although our man Woolf looks upon the land through rose coloured glasses and sees only the validation of his original idea that self-government was good for the colonies and that it had paid off in Ceylon.
Woolf sums up his life by admitting that we all create a magnetic field around our selves that blinds us to reality, a field driven by our profession and ego. Extreme examples are publishers, politicians and popes. He faces the fact that the nearly 200,000 hours he spent on volunteer work to advance socialism was a waste of time, it didn’t change the world one iota, although it helped him realize his own insignificance in it and kept him sharp and active until the age of 88. Great humility from a great man who finally recognized the assets of old age: “the storms and stresses, the competitions and ambitions are over.” And through this recognition, he arrived upon the title for this final volume of his autobiography: The Journey not the Arrival Matters.
November 1, 2012
This is the fifth and final volume of Leonard Woolf's autobiography. Although it does not appear to be the author's specific intention, the book is quite moving, particularly Mr. Woolf's discussion of the suicide of his wife and his life in the immediate aftermath of that event, and the rather autumnal tone of the latter portion of the book, which is quietly pervaded by the author's impressions of growing old. However, Mr. Woolf may have grown old in the chronologigal sense, but his mind remains keen; one does not get the impression that the author is nearing the age of 90 during the writing of the book. Several times in the book, Mr. Woolf rephrases the words of Christ and remarks, "Sufficient for the day is the good thereof." This makes for a fitting summation to a long, eventful life, well-lived, apparently without regret. Mr. Woolf seems a remarkable man and I am happy to have made his acquaintance in these remarkable volumes.
April 15, 2021
The final book of Leonard’s autobiography and it’s brilliant. I’ll miss catching up with Mr Woolf and his amazing life. Please read. He’s such a worthy soul.
December 6, 2024
The final volume of 5 of Leonard Woolf’s un put down able autobiography .
I give the overall biography 5 stars. Having spent 2 weeks reading the man’s simple and lucid prose , I am almost self conscious trying to piece together a critique . I would like to try to describe the man himself .
Obviously extremely intelligent. Very analytical of himself and of the life he has led. Nobody’s fool. An ego which rarely clouds his mind. Somewhat detached. Very happy to meet any person regardless of social situation. A lover of life. Really a connaisseur of life.
I think I will summarise by quoting a piece from this last memoir. He is reflecting on the usefulness of his work and life :
“ looking back .. I see clearly that I achieved practically nothing…. The world today .. the last 57 years would be exactly the same as it is if I had played ping pong instead of writing books and memoranda . .. I must have in a long life ground through between 150000 and 200000 hours of perfectly useless work “
Love that self effacing humorous summary. Yet there is so much in this set of memoirs simply because he is such a great man.
I give the overall biography 5 stars. Having spent 2 weeks reading the man’s simple and lucid prose , I am almost self conscious trying to piece together a critique . I would like to try to describe the man himself .
Obviously extremely intelligent. Very analytical of himself and of the life he has led. Nobody’s fool. An ego which rarely clouds his mind. Somewhat detached. Very happy to meet any person regardless of social situation. A lover of life. Really a connaisseur of life.
I think I will summarise by quoting a piece from this last memoir. He is reflecting on the usefulness of his work and life :
“ looking back .. I see clearly that I achieved practically nothing…. The world today .. the last 57 years would be exactly the same as it is if I had played ping pong instead of writing books and memoranda . .. I must have in a long life ground through between 150000 and 200000 hours of perfectly useless work “
Love that self effacing humorous summary. Yet there is so much in this set of memoirs simply because he is such a great man.
May 27, 2014
So concludes Woolf's very fascinating and frank and ruminating autobiography, where he really shows and proves his hard opinions of people and events. Here we get the Second World War and the dictators via fascism and communism. He wonders at American cleverness in getting people to orbit around the planet but also is disappointed at their stupidity in involving themselves in Vietnam. He talks about Virginia's suicide and the everyday bombings in London, and government officials not taking his advice via the League of Nations. The difference in mentality of the First World War (indifference but displeasure with the Kaiser) versus the Second (absolute fear of Hitler). The boredom of being at war. Waiting. Waiting! His storytelling technique, as with his wife's, isn't particularly linear, which he points out to us in this volume (apparently it was critiqued in previous ones by reviewers). It was worthwhile. And with it I now can cross off yet another one of my 2014 resolutions.
June 20, 2011
His thoughts on World War II and on Virginia's death, Leonard Woolf always proves himself to be Virginia's literary inspiration. He tells of the Jewish plight while the Nazis were intending to invade. I wanted to read his side of it. He did indeed plan to commit suicide with other Jews in England if the Nazis entered the country. However he did not link this much to Virginia's suicide. This book encompasses much of this thoughts on that awful period of their lives and what he knew of its beginnings in Europe.
January 26, 2015
The descriptions of what it was like to live daily life in Britain in WWII were interesting and the story of Virginia's final depression and death were moving but the rest of the book got a little lost. Oh well, good for him for getting it done at age 88!
November 12, 2008
this little book so personal and so honest gives a portrayal of the affects of war on artists and the bohemian society of the 30's. it is rich too in insights about Virginia Woolf.
September 26, 2015
I loved reading Leonard's autobio: nearly as much as reading Virginia's diaries.
Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews