I came to this via a discussion of the Leveson inquiry into the conduct of the British press. I was arguing that one of the main reasons why there is such disgraceful behaviour in the tabloid media is because bad behaviour is invariably rewarded by higher circulation and increased public attention. The reason: British newspaper buyers don’t seem to make ethical judgements when choosing their newspapers, and for as long as that remains true, tabloid excesses will continue.

Listening to this, Tony Blair’s former Press Secretary, Alastair Campbell, suggested that I should look for this clip on YouTube. So I did.

Section of a Proust page proof — from the Bibliotheque Nationale.

Today is the centenary of the publication of Du côté de chez Swann, the first volume of Marcel Proust’s sprawling masterpiece, À la recherche du temps perdu. There’s a lovely post about it by Adrian Tahourdin in the TLS Blog.

On the eve of publication Proust set out his artistic credo in Le Temps: “Je ne publie qu’un volume, Du côté de chez Swann, d’un roman qui aura pour titre général A la recherche du temps perdu. J’aurais voulu publier le tout ensemble; mais on n’édite plus d’ouvrages en plusieurs volumes. Je suis comme quelqu’un qui a une tapisserie trop grande pour les appartements actuels et qui a été obligé de la couper” (“ . . . I would have liked to have published the whole thing together, but works are no longer published several volumes at a time. I am like somebody who has a wall hanging too big for the intended rooms and who has been obliged to cut it up”). He points out that his novel “is dominated by the distinction between involuntary and voluntary memory” and goes on to stress that the “Je”, i.e. the Narrator, of the novel is not him, before concluding “The pleasure that an artist gives us, is to introduce us to another universe” – “Le plaisir que nous donne un artiste, c’est de nous faire connaître un univers de plus”. He must have known these words could be fully applied to his own forthcoming work.

The first English translation was by Scott Montcrieff, who was a journalist on the Times. One of my early mentors was a wonderful journalist, Claude Cockburn, whose first job was on the Times and who used to invite me and my girlfriend (later my wife) to his house outside Youghal in Co. Cork. In his memoirs he recalls being assigned first to the paper’s Foreign department. On entering the room, he found a long table at which sat various sub-editors poring over galley proofs and papers. At the end sat a chap who had barricaded himself behind great piles of books. “That’s Montcrieff”, explained one of the hacks. “He likes to get on with his work undisturbed”. The ‘work’, needless to say, was the translation. Those were the days.

The second English translation was by Terry (Terence) Kilmartin, who was the Literary Editor of the Observer, and the man who brought me onto the paper. But he never did any translating in the office.

Michael Wolff, biographer of Rupert Murdoch, has an amusing story in USA Today about recent developments the Digger’s private and public lives.

Try as he might, for the 15 years he’s been married to Wendi Deng, 39 years his junior, he has never wholly managed to effect a rapprochement between her and his adult children, who are, for Murdoch, the tent poles of his life. At the same time, he has found it hard to admit that his marriage was in difficulty, even as he and Deng increasingly lived apart.

It was Deng’s telling moment in the sun — stepping between Murdoch and a pie wielder when he was called, two years ago, to testify about hacking before Parliament — that he has told friends crystallized his anger. He realized he did not want her protecting him now — making him look old, he felt, and weak — or his legacy later.

So, according to Wolff, with the encouragement of his children, the Digger began planning his exit — his resolve aided by his closer monitoring of her personal life. In June, acting on new reports about her “involvement” with Google’s executive chairman, Eric Schmidt, he abruptly ended his marriage — to no one’s greater surprise than his wife’s.

Wolff reports that Murdoch is now a very happy bunny. He has a new business to run — the News Corp newspaper empire, which has been hived off and has $3B in the bank. He has bought a vineyard in California — everyone needs a hobby. But the really intriguing thing is that his “hurt feelings have been soothed by a new romantic interest, a younger woman who has been traveling with him — his massage therapist — who, he has told friends, has made him very happy”.

Wow! Who knew that the Digger had “feelings”? And, while we’re on the subject, one wonders how that “closer monitoring” of Ms Deng was accomplished. I’m sure that no phone hacking was involved. Perish the thought.

I hate to mention it, but the last dictator I recall being, er, soothed by a masseuse was the late Colonel Gadafi, who had a statuesque Ukrainian ‘nurse’ who went everywhere with him (but who also legged it the minute things got hot in Tripoli.)

I also hear, from an authoritative source, that Ms Deng’s new friend has bought a tasteful Georgian house in Clerkenwell.