The Iran Diaries, 2002

From momentmag.com

By Sarah Breger

Last week, I stumbled on my father’s diary from his first trip to Iran in 2002. My father, Marshall Breger, who died this past August, travelled to Iran three times and spent over 20 years organizing interreligious dialogue with a number of Iranian clerics and scholars. To say that was controversial in the Jewish world would be an understatement, but he believed in the power of cultural exchange and the necessity of face-to-face conversations. The genesis of that first visit was an invitation to give a lecture on constitutional law at Mofid University in Qom, Iran’s second holiest city, but it soon morphed into an 11-day tour all over the country for meetings with scholars, religious leaders and, most importantly to him, the Jewish community. There is something almost eerie in reading his observations from a 2026 vantage point, in the middle of the current conflict; they are a window into what could have been.

                                                                                                          Credit: Mostafa Meraji

Friday June 14, 2002: To my amazement I am met at the airport by a young professor from Mofid and by three members of the Tehran Jewish community—one wearing a kippah. I can almost hear his wry amusement that the men were holding up a sign in Hebrew that said Baruch Habah (welcome) and that they gave him a kosher salami to take on his travels. (That evening I try the salami—not bad.)

He was also surprised by the professor who ended up being his driver and translator for the entire trip and who, as soon as he entered the car, started to pepper me with questions about the differences between Reform, Conservative and Reconstructionist Judaism. It turned out his guide was a self-taught scholar of Judaism (despite not being Jewish himself)who had translated the Steinsaltz Essential Talmud from English into Farsi. My father would say later that he didn’t realize how many Iranians were deeply interested in Jewish theology and philosophy. In discussing his stay at the law school in Mofid, he noted: My host is an incessant inquirer about Judaism. Just one example—‘If women are not allowed to show their hair if they are married, why should not the State of Israel enforce this rule?’ After wrestling with him about the issues of synagogue and state—I found discussions on the right of return relatively simple.”

‘They assume that youth will determine the next elections and that Iran’s problems will be solved by generational change.’

Sunday June 16: Rarely have I seen women so subservient. In the hotel the guests in chadors beg me to enter before them in the elevator. This was in Qom, by far the most conservative city in Iran. The question of women’s rights and, by extension, how religion plays out in the public square comes up many times in the travel log. When he traveled from Qom to Tehran, he noted a more open and relaxed atmosphere and wrote that women in Tehran merely wore scarves “of sorts” and had developed what he called “modesty chic,” adding: Northern Tehran reminds me of North Tel Aviv, yuppies, parks, broad parkways.

My father wrote that he had many difficult conversations about Israel and observed that Iranians cared deeply about the plight of Palestinians. But some said they were open to the idea of a two-state solution and would accept any deal the Palestinian people agreed to. He was fascinated that Iranians he met drew a sharp distinction between Judaism and Zionism, and that they were more understanding and respectful of Shabbat and kashrut needs than some people in the West.

In Tehran and Isfahan, he met with members of the Jewish communities, who peppered him with questions about Jewish life in America.

After a talk he gave motzei Shabbat (Saturday night) at a synagogue in Tehran, one woman said she had heard kashrut standards were flawed in America: Was that true? Another woman wanted to know if rabbis in America were talking about signs of the moshiach (messiah). “In answering the question about signs of moshiach I told them that many feel the creation of the State of Israel is the dawn of our redemption. I did not pursue the matter.”

In Isfahan, by chance, he had tea in the university guest house with two post-college women—one from Kansas and one from Costa Rica—who had come to learn Farsi. They talked about Iranian society. Her friends, she tells me, care more about jobs (they’re worried) and personal freedoms than reform or revolution. They assume that youth will determine the next elections and that Iran’s problems will be solved by generational change. This was echoed a few days later: Sunday, June 23: I spoke with an acerbic man who lost an arm in the Iran-Iraq war. He was confident about the long term success of reform, pointing out that the conservatives are hoping that the slow pace will turn off youths—or that extreme events—a U.S. invasion for example—would galvanize Iranians to support the regime. In a sense, he said, the conservatives were playing for time, hoping for an external event that would break in their favor.

Hope seemed to be a theme on the trip. The people he met wanted, in their own ways, for Iran to become a more democratic and open society. Of course, that was 24 years ago, and perhaps those he met, by chance or circumstance, were particularly open-minded. Three years after my father’s trip, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad would be elected and the country would go through governments led by both hardliners and reformists. The system never did democratize, and anti-regime protests, such as those in 2009, 2022-2023 and, most recently, in 2026, were harshly suppressed.

There is no question Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei’s “Death to America, Death to Israel” rhetoric expressed a central feature of the regime’s worldview. But reading this account of my father’s time there has expanded my perception of Iran. I wonder what happened to the people he met and, if they are still alive, what they are thinking today. The American Jewish community often paints Iran in broad strokes, instead of recognizing that it is a complex, multifaceted society.

https://momentmag.com/from-the-editor-the-iran-diaries/ 

Writing to feel better: why diaries are once again popular in 2026

From msn.com/en-my

In the age of all things digital and incessant notifications, taking the time to write for oneself seems like a true luxury. In 2026, the personal journal is experiencing a revival, appealing to young and old alike in search of calm, clarity, and mental well-being. What was long perceived as a teenage activity is becoming a valued tool for reconnecting with oneself.

An ancient practice, brought back into fashion

Keeping a diary is nothing new. For centuries, historical and literary figures have used personal writing to record their thoughts, emotions, and experiences. Today, this habit is experiencing a revival in a context marked by hyper-connectivity. Faced with the constant flow of information and digital overload, writing by hand allows us to slow down, refocus, and take a well-deserved break.

This return is also part of a broader movement towards "analogue" activities: reading paper, creative hobbies, or simply the pleasure of touching and manipulating a notebook, away from the screen.

A recognized tool for mental health

Journaling is not limited to a nostalgic activity; it also benefits from scientific support. Psychological research, particularly the work of American psychologist James W. Pennebaker, shows that expressive writing can help better manage stress, structure thoughts, and gain perspective on difficult events. 

Writing down your emotions, worries, or successes acts as an emotional release valve, especially during periods of transition or uncertainty. It doesn't replace professional support when needed, but it's an accessible and practical way to improve your daily psychological well-being.

A space for oneself, completely private

                                                                                       Photo d'illustration : cottonbro studio / Pexels

In a world where almost everything is shared online, a personal diary offers a silent refuge. Here, there is no audience, no algorithm, no pressure to validate. This absence of external scrutiny fosters authentic and free expression: one writes without filters, without seeking to please or perform. This need for privacy affects teenagers as much as adults. Many find in it a personal space to reflect, listen to themselves, and understand themselves, sheltered from the eyes of others.

Formats suitable for everyone

The personal journal is no longer limited to a simple "blank notebook." In 2026, journaling comes in many forms: bullet journals, guided journals, structured journals, or dedicated apps. Some offer questions or exercises related to gratitude, emotions, or personal goals, making it easier for beginners to get started.

Meanwhile, creators are sharing their writing routines on social media, democratizing this habit and inspiring new generations to pick up a pen rather than a keyboard.

Writing to get to know oneself better

Beyond its calming effects, journaling fosters self-knowledge. Rereading one's writings allows one to identify patterns, observe changes, or better understand one's reactions to certain situations. This practice is part of a holistic approach to self-care, alongside meditation, therapy, or personal development. And the beauty of this habit lies in its flexibility: it can be daily or occasional, structured or spontaneous.

A simple, sustainable and accessible practice

The success of the personal journal also lies in its simplicity: a notebook and a pen are all you need. No special equipment or specific skills are required. In a world where wellness solutions can sometimes seem complex or expensive, this accessibility makes it a valuable tool.

Far from being a passing fad, the personal journal fulfils a fundamental need: to slow down, express oneself, reflect, and reconnect with oneself. It offers a discreet yet effective respite from an often hectic daily life, allowing for a better understanding of one's experiences and the nurture of one's mind.

In 2026, the personal diary is once again captivating people because it combines intimacy, freedom, and well-being. Simple, accessible, and deeply personal, it remains a silent yet powerful companion for anyone wishing to reconnect with themselves.

https://www.msn.com/en-my/news/other/writing-to-feel-better-why-diaries-are-once-again-popular-in-2026/ar-AA1Z495L

Country diary 1911: Listening to a beetle ‘talk’

From theguardian.com

By Thomas Coward

16 March 1911: When alarmed the coprophagous beetle stiffens its legs, rolls over, and begins to squeak 

One of those heavily built coprophagous beetles whose “shoulders” are adorned with big spines or antlers struggled painfully to force its slow way through the rank grass. This beetle, like the better known dors which appear in the warmer months, walks laboriously when it goes abroad by day, but flies well, though recklessly, at night. This particular species feeds and flies all winter. When alarmed or touched it stiffens its legs (stiff enough already), rolls over on its side or back, and begins to “talk.”

I picked it up and held it to my ear to listen to the squeak, which, is really a mechanical and not a vocal note; when I put it down it immediately rolled over on to its back and, like a cast sheep, feebly waved its legs in the air. It takes these beetles so long to regain their correct position that if they are often alarmed they must spend a great deal of their lives on their backs; it is a curious habit, and really cannot give them much protection from their many foes.

The Guardian, 16 March 1911.

https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/2026/mar/16/country-diary-1911-listening-to-a-beetle-talk

New book explores 19th-century coded diary and its parallels to the present day

From mountainx.com

HISTORY REPEATS: “I think that I imagined that the 19th century was a long, long time ago,” says writer Jeremy B. Jones, in discussing his early mindset while researching his latest book, Cipher. But the more he dug, “the more I realized that the things that show up in the 19th century are still showing up today.” Photo by Thomas Calder

No one word can capture a book, but in the case of Jeremy B. Jones‘ latest work of literary nonfiction, Cipher: Decoding My Ancestor’s Scandalous Secret Diaries, happenstance is certainly a prominent component of the story’s origin.

Jones’ introduction to the coded diaries, which were written by his quadruple-great-grandfather William Thomas Prestwood, came about by chance.

In 2014, the Henderson County native was preparing for the publication of his memoir Bearwallow: A Personal History of a Mountain Homeland. His press requested photographs for the book. While searching through his grandmother Betty Jean Prestwood Jones’ home, he discovered a 1979 article from the Asheville Citizen Times with the headline, “Secret Journals Yield Honest Picture of WNC.”

Jones, it turned out, would become the latest in a small but significant group of individuals intrigued by these mysterious pages that documented a span of over 50 years (1808-59). Entries included encrypted accounts of Prestwood’s everyday life — from his capturing of runaway horses to his many sexual conquests — written in a cipher that combined numbers, unusual pictographs and some letters.

One of the diary’s other key guardians was Steven Scott Smith, who in 1975, stumbled upon the collection of writings in a heap of trash outside an abandoned home on the verge of being razed. The odd hieroglyphics were indecipherable, but as Jones writes in the book, “[Smith] knew enough to know that old might mean valuable[.]”

Three years later, through a mutual friend, Smith was connected to Nathaniel Browder, a retired National Security Agency (NSA) cryptanalyst.

“After a hundred and twenty years of the notebooks passing from hand to hand; after three years of Steven Smith carrying them to libraries and archives, Browder sat down with a handful of pages and his magnifying glass and broke the code in half an hour,” Jones writes.

More than 35 years later, standing inside his grandmother’s home in Fruitland,  Jones read through the 1979 newspaper article, which characterized his kin as “an intellectual,” “a naturalist,” “a mathematician” and “a tireless lover.”

Jones’ grandmother smiled. “He was one of ours,” she told her grandson. “My great-great-grandaddy.”

Little did Jones know that over the next decade, a significant portion of his life would be spent researching this relative. And while Prestwood’s unrelenting sexual desires were initially a source of amusement, Jones’ ancestor’s ties to slavery quickly complicated the writer’s understanding of his family history.

“I am a man born in the South, from families settled in the South for hundreds of years,” Jones writes. “Finding slavery in one’s family tree is like finding salt in the ocean. And still, I thought the mountain poverty of my people might have spared me.”

Beyond biography 

I met with Jones, a professor of English studies at Western Carolina University, in October, on land his family has owned in Fruitland for over a century. His wife and two children are temporarily living in his now-deceased grandmother’s home, displaced by Tropical Storm Helene.

We toured a portion of the 100-acre property, which is scattered with old barns and other structures. Eventually, we settled on a wooden bench outside the home that belonged to Jones’ great-great-grandparents, Asbury and Clementine Prestwood.

“I think that I imagined that the 19th century was a long, long time ago,” Jones says in discussing his early mindset while researching Cipher. “That allowed me to go into the diaries with a comical intent.”

But the longer he waded through William Thomas Prestwood’s pages, “the more I realized that the things that show up in the 19th century are still showing up today.”

While Prestwood’s journey is at the heart of Cipher, Jones’ book is not a biography by any stretch. His ancestor’s lifetime overlaps with key events in U.S. history, many of which are touched on and contemplated in Jones’ writing.

For example, President James Madison authorized a failed invasion of Canada during the War of 1812, with ideas of expansion and/or securing a bargaining chip with Great Britain. A few decades later, President Andrew Jackson signed the Indian Removal Act of 1830.

Jones, who began writing the book during President Donald Trump’s first administration and completed final edits during President Joe Biden’s time in office, says the parallels he initially explored on the page between Trump’s push to build a wall on the southern border and Jackson’s desire to push Indigenous people westward have taken on a new meaning in Trump’s second term.

At the time of our conversation in October, federal agents were still several months away from overwhelming cities such as Chicago and Minneapolis; Renee Nicole Good and Alex Pretti were still alive. But even then, the administration’s push for mass deportations had triggered a number of controversies, including the deportation of Kilmar Abrego Garcia, a Maryland resident with protected status, to El Salvador’s CECOT prison.

“Some of the things that I thought were a little more subtle [during Trump’s first administration] are just louder now in terms of parallels between things that were happening in the 19th century and the [current] Trump administration,” Jones says, looking out onto his family’s property from our location on the bench. Whereas Trump’s initial term focused primarily on preventing entry into the U.S., he notes, his second term is more in line with Jackson’s direct efforts to remove groups of people.

These parallels, however, are not unique to Jackson and Trump. As Jones writes in Cipher, the two men, separated by centuries, are mere instances in a deeper history often characterized by the desire to cling to “a narrow American identity … so obviously desperate and doomed that it made me want to scream and laugh all at once. And yet we carried on, as we’d carried on since we declared our independence: sorting out who belongs and who doesn’t.”

Talking to the dead 

Despite the book’s exploration of heavy and consequential topics — from white privilege to toxic masculinity — there is a joy in reading Jones’ Cipher. Part of this stems from the author’s complex relationship with Prestwood.

Though separated by centuries, Jones nevertheless engages with his ancestor throughout the book, often in letters addressed directly to Prestwood. In one, he writes, “Because I read your pages while knowing much of your future, I know you’ll lose a child next year. I’m sorry, William. It’s an uncomfortable power I have on this side of history.”

A few pages later, Jones reaches the portion of Prestwood’s diaries in which his quadruple-great-grandfather has surpassed Jones’ current age. “He was finally my elder,” the author writes, “experiencing stages of life I’d not yet encountered.”

In other chapters, Jones imagines the future, contemplating his own death and what his life’s story will mean for subsequent generations of his family tree.

“They will unearth me in 2220 and not understand how I could stomach stepping into an airplane that burns up the atmosphere, slowly boiling the planet they’ll inherit,” he writes. “How I drive sixty miles to work, dumping poison into the air they’ll breathe. I will plead with my descendants about how I didn’t know what to do, tell them about how it’s all too big, too systematic, too woven into everything for me to make a change.”

As this passage and others reiterate, Jones is unafraid of applying the same critical eye he casts upon Prestwood to own life choices. By extension, he invites readers to contemplate their own complicity in today’s social, political and cultural issues, all of which will inevitably turn into tomorrow’s history.

Throughout our conversation on that wooden bench in Fruitland, Jones and I return to this reality: That we are here for only a moment. And we have no real say over how the future will judge us.

But as with his book, Jones and I agree there is a certain liberation in knowing so much is out of our control; that the most we can do is strive to live a decent life void of self-serving exploitation.

Near the end of Cipher, Jones recalls a conversation he had with novelist Wendell Berry, who declared to Jones that he didn’t believe in hope.

“We’re living in a cult of the future right now; everyone is panicked about what might happen, about all these hypotheticals and end-time scenarios,” Jones remembers Berry telling him. “They’re paralyzed. But what can you do about that? All most of us can really do is find the problem in front of us and get to work there. Find the need where you live. Hope can go wrong far too easily.”

https://mountainx.com/arts/literature/new-book-explores-19th-century-coded-diary-and-its-parallels-to-the-present-day/

‘I feel I am not yet grown up’: Alan Bennett’s diary of his 90th year

From theguardian.com

He got stuck in the bath and met the queen. But despite a few wobbles and procedures, the author still can’t believe his age

30 January 2024

Windsor. The royal dolls’ house at Windsor Castle is being revamped to include contemporary authors, a selection of whom have submitted miniature versions of their work, with a reception given by Her Majesty the Queen.

The driver’s name was Juliano and it took me some time to realise that the blank square on the back of the seat in front of me in the car, an Audi, was a TV screen. There is some delay outside the Henry VIII gate, where we spot Andrew Wilson waiting on the same errand, also early. I am astonished at the extent of the castle, first visited as a schoolboy in 1951 and again (though I don’t remember this) with Alec Guinness to look at the portrait of Thurlow, whom he was toying with playing in the film of The Madness of George III. At another portal a wheelchair is waiting, which I inhabit for the whole of the visit … comfortable but a mistake. Not pushed by Rupert [Thomas, Bennett’s civil partner] but by a young man whom I don’t see much of as he’s behind me. The entrance to the Waterloo Chamber through a loggia reminiscent of a Cambridge college library (St John’s). It is vast and gleaming, lined with portraits by Sir Thomas Lawrence and a touch vulgar. A few other early arrivals. Everybody pleasant.

Bennett with Queen Camilla at the Windsor Castle reception on 30 January 2024. Photograph: Getty/2026 Getty Images

Tom Stoppard there and struck as I have been before by his noble profile. Many people speak, particularly the binders of the various tiny volumes, the room getting busier and HM the Queen appears without being announced, and mingles, chatting, admirable throughout. I am fetched in my wheelchair and told not to stand but this means that HMQ must bend over to speak to me. Recalls when she met me before at Clarence House, and we talk about libraries … very easy, no formality, forget even “Your Majesty” and “Ma’am”, none of the usual constraints of royalty so that now, remembering what I said, I would like to improve on it. She makes a little speech, introduced by Tim Knox (a friend of Rupert’s), he with notes, she seemingly impromptu, and with me the only author mentioned by name, possibly because I am in her eyeline. I talk to lovely Jacqueline Wilson, who tells me she is past the peak of her fame, at any rate with her publishers … but always memorable to me because at an event once she queued up to have her book signed. No real food to speak of and what there is so small it perhaps deliberately matches the miniature volumes the reception is in aid of, the tiny ham sandwiches delicious. HMQ having gone, we all troop down to look at the dolls’ house. Far larger than I’d expected, the house grander and nobler and pleasing, as architecture, the furniture and objects astonishingly intricate and minute. Rupert, who loved dolls’ houses as a child, is ravished and even I manage praise. The miniature books displayed next door. All proceedings punctuated by binders introducing themselves. My “book”, an extract from Enjoy, looking more substantial than I’d thought. I’d hoped to see Simon Armitage and Sue, his wife, but they were at some poetry jamboree. Give a lift back to Andrew Wilson, who in casual conversation lets fall a quote from Elgar that I may be able to use in [Bennett’s 2025 film project] The Choral. A lovely occasion and full marks to all.

10 February

The party I would have liked to attend is my own funeral. I’d like to know who came and what they said, who wept and who didn’t, and how long it took for friends to get over it.

24 February

I’m so looked after these days that sometimes home resembles a five-star hotel. When I go up to bed after supper, Rupert comes up behind me to make sure I don’t fall and sometimes giving me a push. I then brush my teeth in the bathroom while R goes into the bedroom where he performs the ritual turning back of the sheets so I can get straight into bed. It is almost literally the lap of luxury.

I do not always know nowadays whether I’ve eaten or not or whether it is time for bed. Yesterday, Rupert came up to tell me supper was ready and I was assuming he had come up to tell me it was bedtime.

1 March

It is absurd to say that I feel I am not yet grown up. I am not laying claim to perpetual youth (though 89 is something of a surprise), and youth I was never much aware of when I had it. What I mean is, there has never come a time when I could be thought to have acquired dignity, common sense, still less worldly wisdom, qualities that supposedly come with age and get lost with age, too. One doesn’t look for common sense from someone over 90.

I was most conscious of this feeling when I was briefly appointed a trustee of the National Gallery. (When I asked why, I was told it was because I was the man in the street.) My fellow trustees were all distinguished in their fields – commerce, art, public service. I liked pictures but looking round the table I could see I was there under false pretences. I’ve never had to chair a meeting or sit round and persuade otherwise-minded people to my point of view. I was in my 50s but I was not a grownup. Thirty years and more have passed but that conviction has never left me. I have a partner, a house and some standing in the community but none of it counts. When I enter a room full of people (these days a rarity) I am 16. Except in the even more rare occasion of entering a room of 16-year-olds, when I am 90. I have the credentials but I don’t seem to have the baggage. Once upon a time, I think I imagined age itself as an eminence, years were a plinth, it had prospects even if the end was clouded in mist.

A virtue of age is that it emancipates one from class. The old are in a class of their own. It also bestows a privilege of plain speaking.

3 May

To Harley Street. A small lesion by the side of my nose which Mr Groves had looked at under a magnifying glass. Not a problem but it ought to come out, the procedure booked for 8 August.

“Why do you smile?”

“8 August, back in the day. 1952. It was the day I went into the army.”

Oh. History. Two years’ obligatory service. Young men.

6 May

Bank holiday Monday. Lovely thing today: Annabel phoned to say they would like to ring a peal of bells on Thursday in celebration of my birthday. This is so unexpected I don’t quite burst into tears but certainly cry, which I’ve seldom done before, if ever, from pleasure. We know the bellringers a bit from our evening walk which sometimes takes us (just) to the churchyard on a Monday evening, their practice day, where we sit on the bench. But I rejoice in the compliment and what’s more don’t intend to be modest about it.

"I can say I love London, I can say I love England. I can’t say I love my country because I don’t know what that means"

9 May

The great day dawns rather earlier than perhaps we would have chosen, as the celebratory peal of bells kicks off at 10.30. Hearing it get started I open the front door and sit on a chair to listen, greeting one or two local people who pass, some bringing cards so that by the time we struggle up to the churchyard it’s nearly 11. And it is a struggle, with some rests en route, sitting on the wall in the sun. Then we get to the bench, where I sit on a blanket under the (tremendous) noise. In the church the ringers are in the glass-fronted chamber under the tower. They finish ringing and come out and I say how touched I am. We all have our photographs taken. It’s a lovely warm day with the birds varied and deafening, my stomach on the edge but not so much as to dampen my spirits. Loads of cards.

After the bellringing, some cows come stampeding up the village street. I momentarily think they have been roped in as part of the celebrations but they have just got out, oblivious of the day’s significance. And when I think there’s nothing else to look forward to, Andy appears at Leeds station with a card from our regular wheelchair helpers – the Assistance Team, Andy, Andrew and Ian. Immensely touched by this. Encomium in the Mail from Craig Brown. Telephone messages from Alison Steadman and many more, and repeats on the TV tonight, though as always very late.

As I think I’ve noted elsewhere, 90 is not a goal – though I’ll save the cards as evidence of the affection in which I seem to be held.

Alan Bennett: ‘A virtue of age is that it emancipates one from class. The old are in a class of their own.’ Photograph: Tom Miller/eyevine

19 May

Ninety may not be without consequence but nor does it have much consequence. Some effects of ageing not without interest … cataracts, for instance, which are not ready to be removed but which meanwhile etch the world in a jigsaw of lines. In her last years, Thora Hird would often claim to have company while at the same time knowing that no one was there. Scotty, her long-dead husband, for instance. She didn’t let anyone or herself think that this meant she was doolally. A good job she wasn’t living in the 17th century, when it might have got her burned.

22 May

Cecil Sharp House. Readthrough of The Choral. Ready to be depressed as I generally am on such occasions, I am bowled over, and so is Rupert, partly because of the inclusion of music (Elgar) and the atmosphere so upbeat and young. Roger Allam is excellent and where I’d been bothered about his northern accent it was flawless (and seemingly effortless). Ralph Fiennes not giving any hint of how he would play Guthrie, the chorus master and main part, and with an unexpected beard. (“It’s Chekhov,” N Hytner.) Clyde [played by Jacob Dudman] and the boys very good, the emphasis sometimes wrong but not irredeemably so. We sit beside Nick H on the edge of a huge quadrangle of tables, the reading kicking off with the usual circumnavigation in which everyone says their name and their function (“Alan Bennett, Author”). Rupert wanted to say, “I’m just here with him”, though I don’t know whether he was bold enough. Felt ancient and must have seemed so to the young actors – for one or two it was their first job – though everyone very friendly, coming up and shaking hands. Wish I weren’t so celebrated, as it’s a barrier, though Nick seems entirely at ease and this afternoon feels jubilant.

The Choral begins shooting next Tuesday 28 May on Ilkley Moor. This will, I imagine, be my last film. My first film also began on Ilkley Moor, with Michael Palin riding down Cow Pasture Road at the start of A Private Function (1984). This suggests some intention on my part. Not so. Sheer coincidence.

Turn on the TV half-expecting – on the model of the escaped cows in the village – such a joyous occasion to be noted on the news.

8 June

Nick calls with some more rushes. Hard for me to hear, they look good if a little too clean, with R very enthusiastic and saying so. One oddity. There’s a scene at an army medical – an occasion I dreaded at the time, 1952, almost as much as the actual call-up – when the conscripts have their genitals examined.

Lofty: What are they looking for?

Elliot: VD.

Lofty: VD, me? Fat chance.

But our young cast have never heard of VD. So much for the scourge of my youth. Both being infected and being infectious was an everyday fear (entirely, of course, without cause) so when Nick rang up asking me to doctor the script, I wasn’t surprised. It had always meant trouble.

“They won’t know what you’re talking about. These are young people. They would say sexually transmitted disease or STD.”

There was the slogan: Clean living is the only answer. Famously, VD was believed catchable from lavatory seats, mildly in the case of gonorrhoea, not mildly at all in the case of syphilis. That was another reason for not looking forward to national service, the unavoidability of lavatory seats. Swathe them how one did with toilet paper, one must risk VD.

14 July

Sitting in the square this morning waiting for Rupert, who’s getting the paper, Ed Miliband came up pushing his bike on the way to seeing his mother (89). I congratulated him on Labour’s election victory and he agreed they’ve a real mess to clear up. At which point Andrew Marr limped up the street and an ex-BBC executive strolled over from Chalcot Square, and we had the kind of gathering the newspapers like to imagine takes place in Primrose Hill on a regular basis. Nothing much was said and all I thought was, “Well, this will look good in the diary.” The BBC man said we should go over and have tea any time, Ed Miliband went across the square to see his mother who won’t remember seeing him, and R and I limped back (though not as fluently as Andrew Marr) before Rupert went over for a World of Interiors reunion at Maria’s while I read about the failed assassination of Donald Trump.

25 July

Our definition of treason is too narrow … yet another legacy of Mrs Thatcher (taking a leaf out of Elizabeth I’s book). Running a motorway into the heart of Bradford is as much a betrayal of this country as is the demolition of its market hall. If one does want to betray one’s country there is no one satisfactory way, or more people would be doing it.

I can say I love London, I can say I love England. I can’t say I love my country because I don’t know what that means. I put more or less these words into the mouth of Guy Burgess in the film An Englishman Abroad [1983], but it’s my own voice, too.

7 August

Labouring half the day over the accumulated correspondence, and not all of it from British Gas. Riots this last week, the far right trying to con the country it is going to the dogs.

Nervous still about the “procedure” tomorrow, particularly in the light of all the precautions taken, lists made and ailments remembered. London empty.

10 August

Yorkshire the county continues to enjoy a bit of a cult, which were I not born and brought up here I would probably find insufferable. The ee ba gum side of it I’ve never had much time for, whereas what I think of as Yorkshire talk is a slightly old‑fashioned utterance, kindly but mildly ironic. Another characteristic of Yorkshire speech is a grudging credit or, when given, given backwards by means of negatives. “She’s not a bad‑looking girl.” Praise that is given as a concession and it has a name in grammar: litotes. Positive statement said in a negative manner. Yorkshire, it’s the land of litotes.

14 August

I am sitting on my usual seat in Chalcot Square when a woman cycles past.

“How are you?” she calls.

“Oh, not so bad,” I answer. Which is litotes. We all do it, ie Yorkshire.

27 November

A call from Radio 4 for my views on assisted dying. Answer: too near to the unassisted type to be keen on it.

28 November

Killing Time still No 5 in the bestseller list.

The new washed-clean world I had imagined (but never been promised except by Alec Guinness) post-cataract operation has proved a fantasy. Licensed to laze around until five, with Rupert’s help I write this up and now around six we go out for our walk. Life.

9 December

Yesterday I woke up with an inability to maintain upright. I couldn’t sit in bed but keeled over. No fancy thoughts about this, just remain under the weather throughout the day. Around seven, Rupert goes over to borrow Mary-Kay’s [Wilmers, co-founder and former editor of the London Review of Books] walker. He comes back with [Bennett’s ex-GP] Roy MacGregor and Charlie, me somehow stuck in the bath and they help without complaint or embarrassment, enabling me to have my spaghetti supper and bed down for the night (pill and whisky and milk), the cause of this sudden indisposition undiagnosed though Roy thinks from post-operative shock. Charlie calls around today to see how I am. Very well is the answer, except I have to pause before I remember Roy’s name. Still cannot remember the word for the operation on the eye. CATARACT as Rupert again supplies me. I have no squeamishness at the thought, but there is a persistent blank. Why? And with the lines and scribbling still there, vision not wholly healed. I am ungainly, clinging to the furniture, one staging post to another. It will be better tomorrow I think: tomorrow is a weekday.

15 December

A prerequisite for happiness is to be without entitlement, not to feel you are owed a place in the world. At Oxford it was other people’s sense of entitlement, “my first” was how the clever boys at Balliol thought of it. Not getting one was Boris Johnson’s first setback.

Boxing Day

Rupert’s Christmas present a worn stumpwork embroidery of Orpheus serenading an assorted group of animals – an elephant, deer, squirrel, dozens of different creatures. His delight is something to see. My delight is in an old brown slipware dish cooked in and with a faint pattern, a lovely thing.

31 December

Now and again, I find words hard to come by. Not the right words particularly, it’s not an aesthetic dilemma, just words themselves somehow unavailable, words not, as it were, to hand. It passes and fluency returns, but it’s a jolting experience and an alarming one, the loss of words generally associated with strokes. One’s humanity is temporarily (one hopes) withdrawn. Suspended. It’s a kind of blundering in the head, a cerebral incompetence.

The rest is or should be silence. But, instead, and if we are allowed to, we pick up the pieces.

Enough said.

 Enough Said by Alan Bennett is published by Profile Books and Faber & Faber at £25.

https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2026/mar/08/enough-said-alan-bennett-new-diaries-exclusive-extract-90th-year