- Index
- introductory words
- on h.g. wells, his writings and his circle
- that nasty untidy real world - down with freedom, socialism 1910
100+ years ago, and still socialists do not learn! The new Machiavelli
Ann Veronica, 1909 - a review
Mr Britling sees it through, 1916 - a review
Joan and Peter , 1918 - a review
- george bernard shaw (g.b.s)
bibliography
introductory words
Collectivism is a salve for the ego of inferior men. It allows inferior men to dream up grand schemes, it allows them to justify their use of force to make others conform to those ego driven schemes.
H. G. Wells believes that the collective is more important than the individual, so at least his mind is less conflicted. He was also more of a realist than his Socialist compatriots.
The more I read into George Orwell, the less I thought of his intelligence. So far, the more I read into Wells, the more impressed I am; not by his atheistic Socialist religion, but by his realism as he watches the world, and his consistency as he tries to work out his ideas.
So few people appear to be able to deal with the messy world without a set of 'principles' embodied in a religion, with its attendant social clubs. Wells was never able to free himself entirely from Fabianism.
on h.g. wells, his writings and his circle
that nasty untidy real world - down with freedom, socialism 1910
I'm having a bit of a binge reading up on the early development of socialism in the UK, often under the heading of Fabianism. The Fabian Society started from 1884. Prominent in the movement were Beatrice and Sidney Webb (later 1st Baron Passfield), George Bernard Shaw, Hugh and Edith Bland (née Nesbit, the writer of children's fairy tales), and H.G. Wells. They were heavily enamoured with Communism, National Socialism and the like, as well as eugenics and other forms of tidying up the poor.
Almost all the leading members of the Labour Party are subscribers to the Fabian Society. The London School of Economics has strong ties to the cult.
A woman of passion by Julia Briggs is a detailed biography of E. Nesbit. The new Machiavelli [1910] is a semi-satire and biography of the Fabian set written by H.G. Wells. Wells was still promoting Liberal Fascism well into the 1930s. (See also red ed wants socialist/fascist ‘new’ labour to return to its Fabian roots.)
"...we were socialists because individualism for us meant muddle, meant a crowd of separated, undisciplined people all obstinately and ignorantly doing things, each in his own way..."
[Wells, The new Machiavelli, p. 140]
Like the typical Victorian novel (they did not have television in those days), The new Machiavelli goes on for about 500 pages, with the main characters not being introduced until about p.200 for Webb and p.250 for his girl friend Amber/Rosamund.
The book is "awfully interesting", as D.H. Lawrence had said. Upton Sinclair, who considered The new Machiavelli to be Wells's masterpiece, was a dedicated Socialist like H.G. Wells. There are certainly some impressive and thought-provoking passages in among the 500 pages of racing and tumbling verbiage. Wells is a complex and intelligent writer, who managed to get himself on Hitler's death lists for when Britain was conquered, despite being enamoured of Fascism. Amongst other commentators, Joseph Conrad called it a "master-work". Another critic (Vincent Brome, H.G. Wells, 1951, p.107) regarded The new Machiavelli as "the beginning of the retreat of Wells the story-teller . . . It was the first ominous eruption of those magnificent moments of self-assertion which were to disintegrate the novelist in him." I'm with D.H. Lawrence, it's much more interesting than his popular science-fiction.
Shades of hippiedom, 1960s, all of them bed-hopping like billy-o; but as they didn't have such good birth control, they had to cover their tracks by marriages of convenience.
more reviews: utopianists : Robert Heinlein, H.G. Wells, William Morris
100+ years ago, and still socialists do not learn! - The new Machiavelli
And now a longer excerpt from The new Machiavelli. Remington is Wells, and he is talking with Margaret, his wife. He is an M.P. considering going over to the Tories from the Liberals in order to reform them
Remington and his wife are Socialists in the early days of the party and he stood as a Liberal - shades of the 'the Social Democrats'
(P.S. Wells never went for parliament, his metier was writing, where he developed ideas of the new world that 'scientific' Socialism would herald. He came into conflict with the Fabians because he didn't much like their theoretical, rather soft, approach).
pp.361-364, The new Machiavelli
[Remington]
"But aren't these people real?"
"They're so superficial, so extravagant!"
I said I was not shocked by their unreality. They seemed the least
affected people I had ever met. "And are they really so extravagant?" I asked, and put it to her that her dresses cost quite as much as any
other woman's in the house.
"It's not only their dresses," Margaret parried. "It's the scale and
spirit of things."
I questioned that. "They're cynical," said Margaret, staring before
her out of the window.
I challenged her, and she quoted the Brabants, about whom there had
been an ancient scandal. She'd heard of it from Altiora, and it was
also Altiora who'd given her a horror of Lord Carnaby, who was also
with us. "You know his reputation," said Margaret. "That Normandy
girl. Every one knows about it. I shiver when I look at him. He
seems - oh! like something not of our civilisation. He will come and say
little things to me."
"Offensive things?"
"No, politenesses and things. Of course his manners are - quite right.
That only makes it worse, I think. It shows he might have helped - all
that happened. I do all I can to make him see I don't like him. But
none of the others make the slightest objection to him."
"Perhaps these people imagine something might be said for him."
"That's just it," said Margaret.
"Charity," I suggested.
"I don't like that sort of toleration."
I was oddly annoyed. "Like eating with publicans and sinners," I said. "No!..."
But scandals, and the contempt for rigid standards their condonation
displayed, weren't more than the sharp edge of the trouble. "It's
their whole position, their selfish predominance, their class
conspiracy against the mass of people," said Margaret. "When I sit at
dinner in that splendid room, with its glitter and white reflections
and candlelight, and its flowers and its wonderful service and its
candelabra of solid gold, I seem to feel the slums and the mines and the over-crowded cottages stuffed away under the table."
I reminded Margaret that she was not altogether innocent of unearned
increment.
"But aren't we doing our best to give it back?" she said.
I was moved to question her. "Do you really think," I asked, "that the
Tories and peers and rich people are to blame for social injustice as
we have it to-day? Do you really see politics as a struggle of light on the Liberal side against darkness on the Tory?"
"They must know," said Margaret.
I found myself questioning that. I see now that to Margaret it must
have seemed the perversest carping against manifest things, but at the
time I was concentrated simply upon the elucidation of her view and my
own; I wanted to get at her conception in the sharpest, hardest lines
that were possible. It was perfectly clear that she saw Toryism as the
diabolical element in affairs. The thing showed in its hopeless
untruth all the clearer for the fine, clean emotion with which she
gave it out to me. My sleeping peer in the library at Stamford Court
and Evesham talking luminously behind the Hartstein flowers embodied
the devil, and my replete citizen sucking at his cigar in the National
Liberal Club, Willie Crampton discussing the care and management of
the stomach over a specially hygienic lemonade, and Dr. Tumpany in his
aggressive frock-coat pegging out a sort of copyright in Socialism,
were the centre and wings of the angelic side. It was nonsense. But
how was I to put the truth to her?
"I don't see things at all as you do," I said. "I don't see things in
the same way."
"Think of the poor," said Margaret, going off at a tangent.
"Think of every one," I said. "We Liberals have done more mischief
through well-intentioned benevolence than all the selfishness in the world could have done. We built up the liquor interest."
"We!" cried Margaret. "How can you say that? It's against us."
"Naturally. But we made it a monopoly in our clumsy efforts to prevent
people drinking what they liked, because it interfered with industrial
regularity -"
"Oh!" cried Margaret, stung; and I could see she thought I was talking mere wickedness.
"That's it," I said.
"But would you have people drink whatever they pleased?
"Certainly. What right have I to dictate to other men and women?"
"But think of the children!"
"Ah! there you have the folly of modern Liberalism, its half-cunning,
half-silly way of getting at everything in a roundabout fashion. If
neglecting children is an offence, and it is an offence, then deal
with it as such, but don't go badgering and restricting people who
sell something that may possibly in some cases lead to a neglect of
children. If drunkenness is an offence, punish it, but don't punish a
man for selling honest drink that perhaps after all won't make any one
drunk at all. Don't intensify the viciousness of the public-house by
assuming the place isn't fit for women and children. That's either
spite or folly. Make the public-house fit for women and children. Make
it a real public-house. If we Liberals go on as we are going, we shall
presently want to stop the sale of ink and paper because those things
tempt men to forgery. We do already threaten the privacy of the post
because of betting tout's letters. The drift of all that kind of thing
is narrow, unimaginative, mischievous, stupid..."
I stopped short and walked to the window and surveyed a pretty
fountain, facsimile of one in Verona, amidst trim-cut borderings of
yew. Beyond, and seen between the stems of ilex trees, was a great
blaze of yellow flowers...
"But prevention," I heard Margaret behind me, "is the essence of our
work."
- On p.436, we come to one of Wells's grand schemes.
- "And so it was the Endowment of Motherhood as a practical form of Eugenics got into English politics."
- He means giving money to mothers for breeding! Remember, this is in 1910 and you can see similar forms of meddling with medals for motherhood, common in the Socialist dictatorships. Of course, the real effect has been uneducated girls becoming pregnant in order to receive government hand-outs and privileges, so becoming independent of men while becoming dependant on the State.
On page 400,
- "I confess myself altogether a feminist",
- and,
- "I want to change the respective values of the family group altogether, and make the home indeed the women's kingdom and the mother the owner and responsible guardian of her children."
- He seems to have got his way, but like most Socialist grand schemes, it is hardly bringing in the promised Utopia.
So many of these would-be revolutionaries were dismayed by the Puritanism of Victorian England. Thus, they wanted to remake everything in sight, all had to be thrown out of the window without the moderation of common sense - attacks on family, marriage, patriotism. This can be seen in the new religion of Socialism in Marx, Fabianism and all their fellow travellers, and continuing
right into modern times.
- related documents :
- For Socialism and Peace: the Labour Party's Programme of Action, 1934
Fascism
is Socialism
-
(published slightly earlier than The New Machiavelli, which was first published in 1910.)
Ann Veronica was taken as a description of H.G. Wells' involvement with Amber Reeves and perhaps with Rosamund Bland. Probably the most interesting part of the book is chapter 10 (approximately 20 pages) on the Suffragettes.
By the time of Mr Britling, Wells at 50 years old was, by my lights, growing in stature. He has moved from science-fiction, which is what built his fame, to social commentary. To me this is far more interesting. These books were mostly, written as 'faction'.
In Mr Britling, Wells reviews the responses of Britain at the beginning of World War One. I regard this book as well worth reading, but like all of Wells' books that I have read to this date, he can go on a bit. This was in the days before television and radio when you wanted your money's worth from a book, rather than the modern rush to extract information.
"The young man's sedulous blue eyes looked out of his pink face
through his glasses at Mr. Direck, anxious for any light he could
offer upon the atmospheric vagueness of this England.
He was, he explained, a student of philology preparing for his
doctorate. He had not yet done his year of military service. He was studying the dialects of East Anglia--
"You go about among the people?" Mr. Direck inquired.
"No, I do not do that. But I ask Mr. Carmine and Mrs. Britling and the
boys many questions. And sometimes I talk to the gardener."
He explained how he would prepare his thesis and how it would be
accepted, and the nature of his army service and the various stages by
which he would subsequently ascend in the orderly professorial life to
which he was destined. He confessed a certain lack of interest in
philology, but, he said, "it is what I have to do." And so he was
going to do it all his life through. For his own part he was
interested in ideas of universal citizenship, in Esperanto and Ido and
universal languages and such-like attacks upon the barriers between
man and man. But the authorities at home did not favour cosmopolitan
ideas, and so he was relinquishing them. "Here, it is as if there were
no authorities," he said with a touch of envy.
Mr. Direck induced him to expand that idea.
Herr Heinrich made Mr. Britling his instance. If Mr. Britling were a
German he would certainly have some sort of title, a definite
position, responsibility. Here he was not even called Herr Doktor. He
said what he liked. Nobody rewarded him; nobody reprimanded him. When
Herr Heinrich asked him of his position, whether he was above or below
Mr. Bernard Shaw or Mr. Arnold White or Mr. Garvin or any other
publicist, he made jokes. Nobody here seemed to have a title and
nobody seemed to have a definite place. There was Mr. Lawrence
Carmine; he was a student of Oriental questions; he had to do with
some public institution in London that welcomed Indian students; he
was a Geheimrath--
"Eh?" said Mr. Direck.
"It is--what do they call it? the Essex County Council." But nobody
took any notice of that. And when Mr. Philbert, who was a minister in
the government, came to lunch he was just like any one else. It was
only after he had gone that Herr Heinrich had learnt by chance that he
was a minister and "Right Honourable...."
"In Germany everything is definite. Every man knows his place, has his
papers, is instructed what to do...."
"Yet," said Mr. Direck, with his eyes on the glowing roses, the neat
arbour, the long line of the red wall of the vegetable garden and a
distant gleam of cornfield, "it all looks orderly enough."
"It is as if it had been put in order ages ago," said Herr Heinrich.
"And was just going on by habit," said Mr. Direck, taking up the idea."
[Quoted from Mr. Britling sees it through by H.G. Wells, pp 37-38]
Despite the prolixity and the occasional touch of the maudlin, I highly recommend this book as social commentary, and as a place to watch Wells working out his own views in the wake of the shock of World War One.
speculating on educational reform, 1918
"Miss Murgatroyd was a sturdy, rufous lady with a resentful manner, as though she felt that everything and everybody were deliberately getting in her way, and an effort of
tension that passed very readily from anger to enthusiasm
and from enthusiasm to anger. Her place was in the van.
She did not mind very much where the van was going so
long as she was in it. She was a born teacher, too, and so overpoweringly moved to teach that what she taught was a
secondary consideration. She wanted to do something for
mankind it hardly mattered what. In America she would
have been altogether advanced and new, but it was a peculiarity of middle-class British liberalism at the end of the nineteenth century just as it was of middle-class French liberalism a hundred years before, that it was strongly reactionary
in colour. In the place of Rousseau and his demand for a
return to the age of innocence, we English had Ruskin and
Morris, who demanded a return to the Middle Ages. And in
Miss Murgatroyd there was Rousseau as well as Ruskin ; she
wanted, she said, the best of everything; she was very comprehensive; she epitomized the movements of her time."
Of course Mr. Mainwearing had no special training as a
teacher. He had no ideas about education at all. He had
no social philosophy. He had never asked why he was alive
or what he was up to. Instinct, perhaps, warned him that
the answer might be disagreeable. Much less did he inquire
what his boys were likely to be up to. And it did not occur
to him, it did not occur to any one in those days, to consider
that these deficiencies barred him in any way from the
preparation of the genteel young for life. He taught as he
had been taught ; his teachers had done the same ; he was
the last link of a long chain of tradition that had perhaps
in the beginning had some element of intention in it as
to what was to be made of the pupil. Schools, like religions,
tend perpetually to forget what they are for. High Cross
School, like numberless schools in Great Britain in those days,
had forgotten completely ; it was a mysterious fated routine ;
the underlying idea seemed to be that boys must go to
school as puppies have the mange. Certain school books existed, God alone knew why, and the classes were taken
through them. It was like reading prayers. Certain examination boards checked this process in a way that Mr.
Mainwearing felt reflected upon his honour, and like all
fundamentally dishonest people he was inclined to be touchy
about his honour. But parents wanted examination results
and he had to give in. Preparation for examinations dominated the school ; no work was done in the school that did
not lead towards an examination paper; if there had been
no examinations, no work would have been done at all. But
these examinations might have been worse than they were.
The examiners were experienced teachers and considerate
for their kind. They respected the great routine. The examiners in classics had, at best, Babu Latin and less Greek,
and so they knew quite well how to set a paper that would
enable the intelligent candidate to conceal an entire incapacity for reading, writing, or speaking a classical language ;
the examiners in mathematics knew nothing of practical calculations, and treated the subject as a sort of Patience game ; the foreign language examiners stuck loyally to the grammar; in drawing the examiners asked you to copy "copies," they did not, at any rate, require you to draw things; and altogether the "curse of examinations" might have pressed
on Mr. Mainwearing harder than it did. Suppose the language papers had been just long passages to translate into
and out of English, and that the mathematical test had been
all problems, and the drawing test had been a test of drawing anything! What school could have stood the strain?
[pp.138-9]
And thus Wells moves on from the vacuous run wild and run free
Fabianists to the lazy repression of prior times.
doubtless more to follow
He thought Lang and Atkinson's Social Origins one of the most illuminating books he had
ever read since Winwood Reade's Martyrdom of Man.
No doubt it will be amusing to many English readers that
Oswald should have mixed up theories of the origins and
destinies of mankind with his political views and his anxieties about Joan's behaviour and Peter's dissipations but
he did. It was the way of his mind. He perceived a connexion between these things.
The view he had developed of human nature and human
conditions was saturated with the idea of the ancestral ape.
In his instincts, he thought, man was still largely the creature of the early Stone Age, when, following Atkinson, he
supposed that the human herd, sex linked, squatted close
under the dominion of its Old Man, and hated every stranger.
He did not at all accept the Aristotelian maxim that man
is "a political animal." He was much more inclined to
Schopenhauer's comparison of human society to a collection
of hedgehogs driven together for the sake of warmth. He
thought of man as a being compelled by circumstances of his
own inadvertent creation to be a political animal in spite of
the intense passions and egotisms of his nature. Man he
judged to be a reluctant political animal. Man's prehensile
hand has given him great possibilities of experiment, he is
a restless and curious being, knowledge increases in him and
brings power with it. So he jostles against his fellows. He
becomes too powerful for his instincts. The killing of man
becomes constantly more easy for man. The species must
needs therefore become political and religious, tempering
its intense lusts and greeds and hostilities, if it is to save
itself from self-destruction. The individual man resists the
process by force and subterfuge and passivity at every step.
Nevertheless necessity still finds something in the nature of
this fiercest of its creatures to work upon. In the face of
adult resistance necessity harks back to plastic immaturity.
Against the narrow and intense desires of the adult man,
against the secretive cunning and dispersiveness of our ape
heredity, struggle the youthful instincts of association. Individualism is after all a by-path in the history of life.
Every mammal begins by being dependent and social; even
the tiger comes out of a litter. The litter is brotherhood.
Every mother is a collectivist for her brood. A herd, a
tribe, a nation, is only a family that has delayed dispersal,
stage by stage, in the face of dangers. All our education is a
prolongation and elaboration of family association, forced
upon us by the continually growing danger of the continually growing destructiveness of our kind.
And necessity has laid hold of every device and formula
that will impose self-restraint and devotion upon the lonely
savagery of man, that will help man to escape race-suicide.
In spite of ever more deadly and far-reaching weapons, man
still escapes destruction by man. Religion, loyalty, patriotism, those strange and wonderfully interwoven nets of superstition, fear, flattery, high reason and love, have subjugated
this struggling egotistical ape into larger and larger masses
of co-operation, achieved enormous temporary securities.
But the ape is still there, struggling subtly. Deep in every
human individual is a fierce scepticism of and resentment
against the laws that bind him, and the weaker newer instincts that would make him the servant of his fellow man.
Such was Oswald's conception of humanity. It marched
with all his experiences of Africa, where he had struggled
to weave the net of law and teaching against warrior, slave-trader, disease and greed. It marched now with all the appearances of the time. So it was he saw men.
[pp.313-314]
describing the snowflakes of 1914
All these young people who had grown up without any
clear aims or any definite sense of obligations, found themselves confronted, without notice, without any preparation,
by a world crisis that was also a crisis of life or death, of
honour or dishonour for each one of them. They had most
of them acquired the habit of regarding the teachers and
statesmen and authorities set up over their lives as people
rather on the dull side of things, as people addicted to
muddling and disingenuousness in matters of detail; but
they had never yet suspected the terrific insecurity of the
whole system until this first thunderous crash of the downfall. Even then they did not fully realize themselves as a
generation betrayed to violence and struggle and death. All
human beings, all young things, are born with a conviction
that all is right with the world. There is mother to go to
and father to go to, and behind them the Law; for most
of the generation that came before Joan and Peter the delusion of a great safety lasted on far into adult life; only
slowly, with maturity, came the knowledge of the flimsiness
of all these protections and the essential daugerousness of
the world. But for this particular generation the disillusionment came like an unexpected blow in the face. They were
preparing themselves in a leisurely and critical fashion for
the large, loose prospect of unlimited life, and then abruptly
the world dropped its mask. That pampered and undisciplined generation was abruptly challenged to be heroic beyond all the precedents of mankind. Their safety, their freedom ended, their leisure ended. The first few days of August, 1914, in Europe, was a spectacle of old men planning
and evading, lying and cheating, most of them so scared by
what they were doing as completely to have lost their heads, and of youth and young men everywhere being swept from
a million various employments, from a million divergent interests and purposes, which they had been led to suppose were
the proper interests and purposes of life, towards the great
military machines that were destined to convert, swiftly and
ruthlessly, all their fresh young life into rags and blood and
rotting flesh. . . .
[pp.347-348]
george bernard shaw (G.B.S)
Shaw was involved in writing many of the early Fabian tracts. I have read at least twenty of his plays, including his long prefaces and afterwords. he has a stereotyped mind that returns continually and boringly to his main dogmas This is alleviated only by his humour and his generosity in real life. Androcles and the Lion and Saint Joan I found very amusing. If you want to tackle his heavier expositions, then try Man and Superman and Back to Methuselah. But he is not complex enough to treat as a serious political writer.
bibliography
The new Machiavelli by H.G. Wells
First issued as a part-work in 1910, and published as a book in 1911. |
 |
House of Stratus Ltd, hbk, 2001
ISBN-10: 0755104161
ISBN-13: 978-0755104161
amazon.com
amazon.co.uk |
Kindle edition
Trajectory Classics, 2014
ASIN: B00PIIKLVC
$5.90 [amazon.com] {advert}
|
 |
 |
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, pbk, 2014
ISBN-10: 150040974X
ISBN-13: 978-1500409746
$9.99 [amazon.com] {advert}
£6.35 [amazon.co.uk] {advert} |
Wildside Press,
hbk, 2004
ISBN-10: 0809596407
ISBN-13: 978-0809596409
$31.06 [amazon.com] {advert}
£27.03 [amazon.co.uk] {advert} |
 |
Characters in the New Machiavelli and their real-life originals:
Altiora Bailey : Beatrice Webb
Oscar Bailey : Sydney Webb
the Booles : Hugh and Edith (Nesbit) Bland
Curmain (Edith's secretary) : Jimmy (Horace) Harsnell
Isabel : a meld of Rosamund "Bland" and Amber Reeves
Remington : Wells
The Blands appeared as the Booles in early editions, most likely in the part-work. But sometime, probably early in the history of the book,
they were written/censored out and melded with the Webbs (Baileys). The changes start at about p.448. "Bailey, I found was warning fathers of girls against me". In the original version, this reads "Boole, I found was warning fathers of girls against me" and thereafter there are several rather clumsy changes, for example, the description remains that of Hugh Bland, rather than Sydney Webb.
Julia Briggs believes that Wells was just being mean to people that annoyed him in satirising the Webbs and the Blands. However, my reading is that a far more convincing case can be made that Wells greatly regretted his own lack of courage by staying with his wife instead of running off with Amber Reeves, or even with Rosamund. |
|
| Maud and Amber by Ruth Fry |
 |
Canterbury University Press, New Zealand,
hbk, 1992
ISBN-10: 0908812108
ISBN-13: 978-0908812103
amazon.com
amazon.co.uk |
Amber Reeves had a daughter by Wells - Anna-Jane, who lived to be 101 [1909-2011]. Amber and Wells met at the Oxford University Fabian Group. Amber was regarded as a star pupil at Oxford, in the early days of female education in the UK.
Wells wrote a fictionalised version of his relationship with Amber under the title of Ann Veronica.
Both Maud and Amber originated in New Zealand. From a political family, their father William became the New Zealand representative (Agent General) to the Empire. The family came to London in 1896, whence Maud and Amber were involved in Fabianism, the Suffragette Movement and so on [see The poor in London, 1909 - you never had it so good], before subsequently returning to New Zealand.
New Zealand is regarded as the first country in the world to have female franchise, in 1893. Britain had to wait until 1928, France 1944, Switzerland 1971, Portugal 1976. |
|
| A woman of passion by Julia Briggs |
 |
Tempus, reprint, pbk, 2008
The History Press, reprint, 2007
ISBN-10: 0752442546
ISBN-13: 978-0752442549
$20.75 [amazon.com] {advert}
£11.17 [amazon.co.uk] {advert} |
Kindle edition
Tempus, reprint, 2008
ISBN-10: 0752442546
ISBN-13: 978-0752442549
$17.48 [amazon.com] {advert} |
 |
|
Ann Veronica by H.G. Wells,
first published in 1909 |
 |
Penguin Classics, pbk 2005
ISBN-10: 0141441097
ISBN-13: 978-0141441092
$8.86 [amazon.com] {advert}
£12.00 [amazon.co.uk] {advert} |
Kindle Edition
File Size: 1772 KB
Print Length: 283 pages
Musaicum Books, 2017
ASIN: B073548911
$0.00 [amazon.com] {advert}
£0.00 [amazon.co.uk] {advert} |
 |
|
Mr. Britling sees it through by H.G. Wells,
first published in 1916 |
 |
CreateSpace, pbk, 2015
ISBN-10: 1514282666
ISBN-13: 978-1514282663
£5.77 [amazon.co.uk] {advert}
$7.49 [amazon.com] {advert} |
Kindle edition
Kypros Press, 2016
File Size: 1419 KB
Print Length: 366 pages
ASIN: B01DAANLVG
$1.04 [amazon.com] {advert}
£0.85 [amazon.co.uk] {advert} |
 |
|
Joan and Peter; the Story of an Education by H.G. Wells
first published in 1918
A note: It is difficult citing pages for books by H.G. Wells as each appears to have been published in a wide variety of formats and by several publishing houses. Should you care, there are searchable copies online. |
 |
Quotations in the review above are from the 1965 Odhams Press edition (hbk)
ASIN: B000OT1DKS
amazon.com
amazon.co.uk |
HardPress Publishing, 2012, hbk
ISBN-10: 1290452105
ISBN-13: 978-1290452106
£15.95 [amazon.co.uk] {advert}
$23.95 [amazon.com] {advert} |
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