I’m not sure I can reprint the entirety of Julia Strachey’s one New Yorker piece, “Can’t You Get Me Out of Here,” which I mentioned in my post on Strachey’s autobiography (posthumously edited by Frances Partridge), without running afoul of someone’s copyright, but I can’t resist sharing its sublime opening:
My father, whose failing eyesight prevents him from reading to himself any more, sometimes invites me to tackle our English daily newspapers with him, and to read the interesting bits aloud. The procedure goes like this: I read out one of the headlines: “‘”UNFORGETTABLE!” SAYS THE QUEEN.'” I pause. No protest, so I continue: “‘The the Queen called unforgettable ended in twenty-one gun salutes, glistening eyes, prolonged handshakes, and that happy sense of well-being –‘”
“Pass on!” interrupts my father sharply. “Next!”
I try another headline. “‘SAILORS VANISH IN CANVAS BOAT.'”
“Pass on!” says my father at once.
I try again. “‘BURIED WALLS RIDDLE. Experts are baffled by the discovery of two six-foot-wide concrete walls below the pavements in Finchley Road –‘”
“Pass!” shouts my father. I look desperately for something else. I try heading after heading.
“‘THE GREATEST LIAR,'” I proclaim, and read, “‘A man went to the psychiatrist and told him –‘”
“Pass away!” barks my father.
I turn the page.
“‘COLD STORE BEAUTIES.'” I pause a moment. Then read, “‘Mean of the lilies on view–‘”
“Pass!”
” … umm … er … well, how about ‘MR. GAITSKILL HITS BACK. In an attempt to rescue the Socialist Part–‘”
“Pass on!”
And so we seem to go on all through the paper — Pass! Pass away! Pass along! Pass!
And these words of command from my father have so hypnotized me that I have fallen now into the habit of organizing my entire life to the administrative rhythm of these commands.
Thus, seated at our country kitchen table: “No more beans to be got out of these pods — Pass along. Washing up next.”
Or, in the sitting room” “That’s just about all I can bear to read in the parish magazine today — Pass away. — Out into the square now to find old Mr. Field and ask him to mow the lawn.”
But most often it pops up to keep my thoughts in order. To prevent them coming round full circle too often and that sort of thing. Pass! Pass away! Pass on!
“Can’t You Get Me Out of Here?” can be found online in the collection Stories from the New Yorker, 1950-1960. Now pass on and get to reading the whole thing!
Pass!