Secrets of great writers revealed by their crossings-out and additions

THERE are few things more stable than the printed page.

A hard copy, something you can actually hold in your hands, can no longer be altered by any of the people — authors, editors, publishers — involved in its production.

But if the end result is fixed and unchangeable, then the opening stages are the polar opposite. False starts, dead ends, blind alleys, hesitations, crossings-out and even wholesale rearrangements involving scissors, cello tape and staples have always been a traditional part of the writer’s world.

This is the focus of a fascinating new exhibition at the Bodleian’s Weston Library, Write, Cut, Rewrite, curated by Dirk van Hulle and Mark Nixon, who have also produced a handsome accompanying catalogue.

The Bodleian is a treasure house of manuscripts and most of the exhibits are drawn from its collection, although the many items relating to Samuel Beckett come from the archive of Reading University.

Beckett, author of Waiting for Godot, provides an illuminating example of how difficult it can be to start a book. He spent two weeks refining the first sentence of his first novel, Murphy, eventually ending up with 10 words that are only slightly, if significantly, different from what he started with.

John le Carré went through repeated changes as he struggled with the opening to Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, constantly adjusting the viewpoint, the emphasis and details of the setting with various pages in the process (handwritten and typed) on display.

Endings can be tricky, too. Raymond Chandler tinkered extensively with the ending to The Long Goodbye and the typescript at the Bodleian shows crossings-out and additions in blue and red ink. Even so the published version has a different, and better, ending.

Getting names right can be very important for the “feel” of a story. The first line of the first page in what looks like an exercise book shows Barbara Pym crossing out a surname and pencilling in another.

In Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, Ian Fleming originally intended to call his inventor Caractacus Pough, not Pott. Why change it? Perhaps because of the uncertainty of pronouncing Pough in a children’s book.

And, though you’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover, you can’t help make some assumptions about writers from their handwriting and their personal possessions.

The neat clarity of pages from Alexander Pope are side by side with an almost illegible scrawl from Samuel Beckett, both here to show the writers’ vigorous zig-zag strokes while deleting passages.

George Eliot’s neat little oblong notebook can be compared with the one kept by Bruce Chatwin, full of sketches and isolated phrases.

This is only a glimpse of the wealth of material to be seen and pored over at Write, Cut, Rewrite. The exhibition runs until Sunday, January 5, 2025.

Philip Gooden