A Book of Literary Confessions: Virginia Woolf and Margaret Kennedy’s handwritten opinions unearthed

My cousin and I recently unearthed a gem. We are literary executors of our grandmother, the novelist Margaret Kennedy. Her core papers are snug at Somerville College, Oxford, but, while sorting the residue, we found a book which had long lost its cover. Its yellow and curling title page announced “Really and Truly: A Book of Literary Confessions”. Within were pages of printed questions with 10 sets of handwritten answers dated between 1923 and 1927. Then the names came into focus and our eyes popped. Here were Rose Macaulay, Rebecca West, Hilaire Belloc, Stella Benson – and Virginia Woolf. And our granny.

There are 39 questions, ranging from “the greatest genius who ever lived”, to best and worst novelists/poets/playwrights/essayists both dead and living. And some waspish ones: “the most overrated English writer living” and “a deceased writer whose character you most dislike”.

The book got filled in by hand and passed on. Each contribution was sealed up, presumably to await a distant thriller-opening, which gave safe space for barbs and jokes at contemporaries’ expense.

The most likely instigator would be Rose Macaulay as the first entry – but the first five entries have been glued with the same paper or sealed with the same signet ring, so the book was almost certainly held by the same person during that period: logically, Macaulay, or West as the last of those entries. (I hit a sleuthing brick wall when the imprinted crest turned out to be bogus: whose was it!) All the rest, beginning with Belloc in January 1925, were closed with what looks like Sellotape, although that wasn’t invented until 1930, three years after the final contribution, by Margaret Kennedy in 1927. The plot twists.

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Why did the book end up with Kennedy? She left two spaces between the previous entry and hers: I guess she meant to garner a couple more contributions before keeping it with her effort as the conclusion, but in the end she forgot and sat on it.

Fun and interest sprout throughout. While the writers’ views are the main fascination, the collection is also a testament to different times. Almost all had views on the classical authors, Homer coming top for Greek, with Catullus edging out Lucretius for Latin. Some (stand up, Macaulay) had views on writers in all referenced languages, but only Belloc admitted to not knowing some (although he answers “Spanish“ with “Don’t know Castilian”).

Some things don’t change: there is little consensus on anything, save that all think Shakespeare the greatest genius among writers who ever lived, except for Belloc, who voted for Homer, and Macaulay, who... didn’t know.

The most-referenced writers (after Shakespeare) are interesting. James Boswell comes top, as a result of his clean-up of the “best biography” category, with Thomas Hardy panting down his neck. Close behind are Max Beerbohm, Plato, then, together, Jane Austen, Catullus, Cervantes, Dostoyevsky, Milton and Bernard Shaw. There is no mention anywhere of Virgil or Donne, and only one of Chaucer, Dickens, George Eliot and Henry James.

The most versatile writer (apart from Shakespeare) appears to be Beerbohm, who is admired across four categories: best prose writer, essayist, critic and of course humourist.

The most-referenced of the contributors are Belloc (four; six if you include two “myselfs”); Stella Benson (three, all Margaret Irwin fandom) and Woolf (two, both by Kennedy).

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I like Robert Lynd’s sly reply to “the most underrated English writer living or dead”: “Shakespeare”. Even better is Woolf assigning both best and worst living English novelist to Hardy. Woolf wins a slightly unexpected-charm prize with “I like all dead men of letters” in response to “a deceased man of letter whose character you most dislike”.

It is the dislikes which, perhaps inevitably, deliver most fun. ASM Hutchinson, the successful romantic novelist, comes top of the dislikes table, with Thomas Carlyle and George Meredith just behind. None of these get any balancing praise. “A deceased man of letters whose character you most dislike” is won by Dr Johnson, followed by Oscar Wilde and Meredith, with Proust and Byron getting a vote each. Are flamboyants unpopular with other writers?

Even better is the inter-contributor bitchiness. “Most overrated English writer living” elicits two Bellocs (from Woolf and West) and a Woolf (from Margaret Kennedy, who also considered her the greatest living critic of literature), as well as two Kiplings, a DH Lawrence, a Joyce and a Hardy.

It is interesting how perceptions change, especially how little mention there is of now-most-celebrated writers from that era. TS Eliot is only mentioned by one participant, and then as both the worst living English poet and the worst living critic of literature. DH Lawrence and James Joyce are both nailed as the most overrated English living writers.

Rebecca West is the least compliant: “these are silly questions. It’s like being asked to select the best sunset” about “who is the greatest poet/prose writer who ever lived?”; she names no fewer than six worst living English playwrights; she claims that “there is no critic of literature writing in English today”; and her choice for writer whose work is likely to be read 25 years hence is simply “me”.

In similar vein, Belloc’s favourite living humourist and English essayist are both himself.

The least expected reply perhaps comes from Margaret Kennedy: her greatest prose writer ever is “The authors of the Book of Common Prayer”.

Whose work do I come away itching to read? Stella Benson’s. Margaret Irwin’s admiration (best living English novelist and humourist and most likely to be read in 25 years), and her own thoughtful replies, urge me to make her acquaintance.