Do Labour really want peace? A letter from Cecil Day-Lewis: 7 March 1936

From our correspondence.

7 March 1936

SIR,—The Labour Party has now banned the Authors World Peace Appeal. This is a body so loosely organised that it cannot be said to have a membership. It was founded by a dozen respectable, worried writers, mostly of the generation on which the 1914 war had such a shattering impact. Some seven hundred signatories have signed a declaration which says: “We writers believe that our civilisation is unlikely to survive another world war. We believe that differing political and economic systems can exist side by side on tile basis of peacefully negotiated settlements. As writers we want peace and through our work will try to get it: and pledge ourselves to encourage an international settlement through peaceful negotiation. We condemn writing liable to sharpen existing dangers and hatred. As signatories we are associated with no political movement, party or religious belief, but are solely concerned with trying to stop the drift to war.”

Now, does the Labour Party intend all signatories who happen to be Labour Party members to write and say they don't believe our civilisation will be upset by another war: that they don't believe that differing Political and economic systems can exist side by side that they don't want peace and won't try to get it through their work? Or what?

The organisation, in so far as it exists—it is extremely hard to organise writers at all, as the Labour Party has found in its day—consists of an executive committee elected at an annual conference, and several working panels or groups of writers who volunteered for some kind of work. Thus, one such group considers hate and war themes in children's books; it has been extremely efficacious in so far as it is now, since the publication of the AWPA evaluation list (very similar to that of the American Cincinnatti committee—which has, we think, survived all purges in the States!) almost impossible to buy any of the really shocking comics from the multiple stores and bookstalls which used to stock them freely. It also hopes to start a cheap children's paper, so as to provide better alternative fare: are Labour members not to write in it? If a Peace Book Club is started through AWPA, are Labour Party members not to belong?

Now let us consider what happens to any of the banned organisations if Labour Party members are withdrawn lest they should be corrupted by Cormmunists. There remain a few Communists, some “fellow travellers”, a few Liberals, a few dissident Tories (unless the Conservative Central Office takes a leaf from Transport House), some convinced pacifists and Quakers and a great many well-meaning non-political persons who can usually be pulled round by the politicians. But the old hands from the Labour Party who can, on the whole, see what they are doing and why, and are prepared to argue and be tough in a friendly way, are to be taken away. Not enough dissident Tories, Liberals and pacifists are left, and the Communists will doubtless be able to pull the organisations their way.

Is this what the Labour Party intends?

We writers can do a good deal in the way of interpreting the various angry ideologies to one another. We can do a great deal in the way of establishing relations with writers in other countries. We can cool the war, which is hotting up against the real wishes of all but a tiny minority, with irony and laughter and even with that most dangerous thing, truth (or, to use Beatrice Webb's phrase, “a few facts”). We can do it better if we are in a professional organisation. Does the Labour Party not want us to do these things? If so, is it so sure that it really wants peace?

C Day Lewis
Naomi Mitchison

Cecil Day-Lewis with his wife, daughter and son Daniel. Photograph: Getty Images.

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Why do the words “soup, swoop, loop de loop” come to mind every time I lift a spoon to my lips?

It’s all thanks to Barry and Anita.

A while ago I was lending a friend the keys to our house. We keep spare keys in a ceramic pot I was given years ago by someone who made it while on an art-school pottery course. “That’s er . . . quite challenging,” the friend said of the pot.

“Is it?” I replied. “I’d stopped noticing how ugly it is.”

“Then it’s a grunty,” she said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A grunty. It’s something you have in your house that’s hideous and useless but you’ve stopped noticing it completely, so it’s effectively invisible.”

I was much taken with this idea and realised that as well as “grunties” there are also “gruntyisms”: things you say or do, though the reason why you say or do them has long since been forgotten. For example, every time we drink soup my wife and I say the same thing, uttered in a strange monotone: we say, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop.” How we came to say “soup, swoop, loop de loop” came about like this.

For a married couple, the years between your mid-thirties and your late forties might be seen as the decade of the bad dinner party. You’re no longer looking for a partner, so the hormonal urge to visit crowded bars has receded, but you are still full of energy so you don’t want to stay in at night, either. Instead, you go to dinner parties attended by other couples you don’t necessarily like that much.

One such couple were called Barry and Anita. Every time we ate at their house Barry would make soup, and when serving it he would invariably say, “There we are: soup, swoop, loop de loop.” After the dinner party, as soon as we were in the minicab going home, me and Linda would start drunkenly talking about what an arse Barry was, saying to each other, in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice: “Please do have some more of this delicious soup, swoop, loop de loop.” Then we’d collapse against each other laughing, convincing the Algerian or Bengali taxi driver once again of the impenetrability and corruption of Western society.

Pretty soon whenever we had soup at home, Linda and I would say to each other, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop,” at first still ridiculing Barry, but eventually we forgot why we were saying it and it became part of the private language every couple develop, employed long after we’d gratefully ceased having soupy dinners with Barry and Anita.

In the early Nineties we had an exchange student staying with us for a year, a Maori girl from the Cook Islands in the southern Pacific. When she returned home she took the expression “soup, swoop, loop de loop” with her and spread it among her extended family, until finally the phrase appeared in an anthropological dissertation: “ ‘Soup swoop, loop de loop.’ Shamanistic Incantations in Rarotongan Food Preparation Rituals” – University of Topeka, 2001. 

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt