Maiden Voyage

“This is a very moving, a remarkable first book, and the author appears to be that very rare being, a born writer. I have not seen a first book that produces this impression more strongly—a single phrase (and a perfectly natural one, there is no affectation of writing), and one sees the central point of the person described. ..I feel that Mr. Welch may easily prove to be not only a born writer, but a very considerable one.”

—DAME EDITH SITWELL

“Very few other novelists have been able to combine the purity of a child’s vision with a highly sophisticated knowledge of human behaviour and of the visual and tactile qualities of the world which surrounds us all.”

—ROBERT RUBENS

“Welch deserves our backward glance for several reasons. He was, first, a writer of highly individual talent working in the tradition of the English picaresque. Moreover, his strong sense of physical and spiritual isolation and his preoccupation with Self produced books which can be seen as belonging within the mainstream of the Existential novel and as precursors of the ‘confessional poetry’ which have become important literary genres in the last three decades.”

— ROBERT PHILLIPS

“His great powers of description, his wit, and his command of language should arouse anybody’s admiration.”

—JAMES PURDY


“A radiant air of telling the truth inseparable from the act of standing back a little, as if in order to see better. The truth of Denton Welch is a visionary truth; the vision wears a personal color which stains everything upon which it falls.”

—ALAN PRYCE-JONES

“One of the most gifted writers to emerge in post-war Britain. Welch...has a razor-keen eye, a droll sense of humour, the typical epicene relish for details of face and figure and dress, an aesthete’s appreciation of graceful lines, and an absolute horror of vulgar taste.”

—Christopher stace, Daily Telegraph (London)

       

       

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By Denton Welch

A Voice Through a Cloud 

In Youth Is Pleasure 

Brave and Cruel 

A Last Sheaf

The Journals of Denton Welch

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First published in England in 1946

       

Copyright © 1968 by University of Texas

        

All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.

         

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

          

Published in the United States by E. P. Dutton, Inc.,

2 Park Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10016

            

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 83-72963

             

ISBN: 0-S25-48103-6 

          

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A  FOREWORD

       

By  EDITH  SITWELL

       

This is a very moving and remarkable first book, and the author appears to be that very rare being, a born writer. I have not seen a first book that produces this impression more strongly—a single phrase (and a perfectly natural one, there is no affectation of writing), and one sees the central point of the person described. In the touching very youthful creature who is the central character, with his curious young wisdom and his occasional young silliness, his longing for affection and hatred of falsehood, his adventurousness, his enquiring nature, his courage, his fright, his shyness and agonies of mind, his youthful clumsiness, his warm kindness, and his pathos, we live again in our own youth. For we are inside that boy’s heart and mind, and the whole book has a moving and youthful quality.

Mr. Welch uses words as only a born writer uses them. He never fumbles. In two episodes of the book, he produces, with absolute restraint, a feeling of overwhelming horror, for all that youthfulness. In another, the parting between this young being and his greatest friend, the writing is extraordinarily touching, real, and true. I feel that Mr. Welch may easily prove to be, not only a born writer, but a very considerable one.

      

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CHAPTER

  • ONE
  • TWO
  • THREE
  • FOUR
  • FIVE
  • SIX
  • SEVEN
  • EIGHT
  • NINE
  • TEN
  • ELEVEN
  • TWELVE
  • THIRTEEN
  • FOURTEEN
  • FIFTEEN
  • SIXTEEN
  • SEVENTEEN
  • EIGHTEEN
  • NINETEEN
  • TWENTY
  • TWENTY-ONE
  • TWENTY-TWO
  • TWENTY-THREE
  • TWENTY-FOUR
  • TWENTY-FIVE
  • TWENTY-SIX
  • TWENTY-SEVEN
  • TWENTY-EIGHT
  • TWENTY-NINE
  • THIRTY
  • THIRTY-ONE
  • THIRTY-TWO
  • THIRTY-THREE
  • THIRTY-FOUR
  • THIRTY-FIVE

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    After I had run away from school, no one knew what to do with me. I sat in my cousin’s London drawing-room, listening to my relations as they talked. I did not know what was going to happen to me.

    The week before, instead of catching the train to Derbyshire, where I was at school, I had taken a bus in the opposite direction.

    Sitting upstairs on the bus I felt light, as if I were hollow and empty. Something was churning inside me too, like sea-sickness.

    I stared down at the crowds and the traffic but I did not really see them. Only half of me seemed to be on top of the bus.

    When the conductor called out “Waterloo” I ran down the steps and stood for a moment in the road. A carthorse was pouring out a golden jet of water. I watched it bubbling and hissing into the gutter, then I began to climb the stone stairs between the fat statues.

    The trains inside the station were lying close together like big worms. I saw that one was going to Salisbury. I thought, I’ll go there. I had seen it once with my mother; we had been to look at the cathedral. She was dead now.