"Cultivating literature as I do upon a little oatmeal, and driving, when in a position to be driven at all, in that humble vehicle, the 'bus, I have had, perhaps, exceptional opportunities for observing their mutual position and behaviour; and it is very peculiar"
About this Quote
Payn opens with a sly piece of self-placement: a novelist who runs on "a little oatmeal" and rides the "humble" bus, watching the dance between literature and the classes who consume it. The joke is not just thrift; its a calculated lowering of status. By stressing his cheap breakfast and public transport, he positions himself as a working observer inside a culture that still wants writers to sound like gentlemen. That friction - authorship as aspiration, authorship as wage labor - is the engine under the sentence.
"Mutual position and behaviour" reads like sociology, but its really a satirical field report. Payn implies that literature and everyday life are not harmoniously aligned; they have a relationship to negotiate, complete with etiquette, snobbery, and misunderstandings. The bus becomes a moving cross-section of Victorian modernity: mass transit, mixed company, awkward proximity. A writer on the omnibus is both invisible and conspicuous, overhearing talk that respectable drawing rooms would sanitize. Its an ideal perch for noticing how people perform taste in public, how reading is used as a badge, how culture travels (literally) through a city that is democratizing faster than its manners.
The final turn - "and it is very peculiar" - is the deadpan release valve. Payn withholds the punchline to suggest that the peculiar thing is pervasive, almost too obvious to summarize: literature claims refinement, but it is produced and consumed amid hunger, transit schedules, and class jostling. The sentence quietly punctures the romantic myth of the writer, replacing it with a commuter who knows exactly where art sits in the daily pecking order.
"Mutual position and behaviour" reads like sociology, but its really a satirical field report. Payn implies that literature and everyday life are not harmoniously aligned; they have a relationship to negotiate, complete with etiquette, snobbery, and misunderstandings. The bus becomes a moving cross-section of Victorian modernity: mass transit, mixed company, awkward proximity. A writer on the omnibus is both invisible and conspicuous, overhearing talk that respectable drawing rooms would sanitize. Its an ideal perch for noticing how people perform taste in public, how reading is used as a badge, how culture travels (literally) through a city that is democratizing faster than its manners.
The final turn - "and it is very peculiar" - is the deadpan release valve. Payn withholds the punchline to suggest that the peculiar thing is pervasive, almost too obvious to summarize: literature claims refinement, but it is produced and consumed amid hunger, transit schedules, and class jostling. The sentence quietly punctures the romantic myth of the writer, replacing it with a commuter who knows exactly where art sits in the daily pecking order.
Quote Details
| Topic | Writing |
|---|---|
| Source | Help us find the source |
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