Living by Henry Green
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Because, Just Because

Things are changing in 1928 England. Or so the old and the young in Living think. The old men are engaged in the crises of declining vitality; the old women are primarily coping with these masculine crises. The young men are ambitious and feel themselves under-appreciated; the young women feel the same and attach themselves to the optimistic young men. It is the same for the folks who ride the trams as it is for them who ride the Bentley motor cars. Everyone is dissatisfied with his lot. But class boundaries, particularly language, prevent the possibility of mutual sympathy.
 
What is clear to the reader, however, is that precisely the same life-patterns are being established by the young as the old have come to regret. The young men inevitably will be disappointed that they 'escaped' into the trap of marriage and the slavish role of bread-winner. The women will eventually grieve over their lost lives and a futile reliance on masculine effort. The things that tempt them to the trap are universal and timeless although they appear unique and urgent: sex, companionship, independence, reputation.

Those who are no longer young but not yet old, namely those who actually run the show, all worry about maintaining whatever it is they've achieved. Their positions are vulnerable. The young are militating for change because the past is rotten and the world has been mis-managed. The old, the mentors and promoters of the middle-aged, are incapacitated and unable to protect their former protégés. They scheme and intrigue among themselves to hold off their inevitable decline. 

Meanwhile the business, a steel foundry on which they all depend, is slipping slowly down the plug-hole. The Belgians (not the Chinese yet of course) outbid them routinely. Waste is immense because of bad workmanship. Customers are returning obviously defective products. Machinery is not maintained properly and has become lethally dangerous. Union organisers are making inroads. These are mere annoyances, however, compared with the issue of the toilet monitor installed by the factory manager and removed by the son of the owner. Such is the rule of the trivially dominant.

This is a remarkably insightful novel for a young man of 22. It is at least partially autobiographical since Henry Green (Yorke) was the son of a Birmingham industrialist and took over the family business. Despite admiration by Auden, Waugh, and Anthony Powell, Green was not a reader's writer and never sold more than 10,000 volumes of any of his eleven titles, perhaps because he pursued the family's business interests over his literary career. The family firm, H Pontifex & Sons, continued in operation until its bankruptcy in 2011 so he apparently did not degrade that legacy.

Nevertheless, Green died a somewhat lonely, alcoholic death in 1973. One is tempted to the conclusion that even acute literary insight doesn't prevent ultimate disappointment with one's lot. The only response to the question about the real point of life that is posed to one of Green's characters is "Because, just because." Perhaps no other is possible.

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