The Devil is a Gentleman - review
Phil Baker's biography of Dennis Wheatley (Dedalus Ltd) is an excellent read, being accessible, informative and wry. I really knew very little about Wheatley's life, whilst being reasonably familiar with his literary output, and so could approach this bio with pretty much a blank slate in terms of expectations. Born in 1897, Wheatley's origins were middle class and towards the lower end of that particular scale: his father, a self-made man, was a wine merchant and this was duly the business into which the young Dennis entered, a career somewhat interrupted by the Great War, in which he served. On emerging relatively intact from the conflict, he went back into the family business before beginning to write the kind of novels that he himself enjoyed. These might be best placed in the genre of 'ripping yarns' - Boys' Own tales in which decency, comradeship and bravery were paramount virtues and in which thrilling episodes were interspersed by surprisingly heartfelt love stories.
One cannot read TDISG without marvelling at the remarkable luck that Wheatley seems to have enjoyed throughout the course of his long life. Certainly he had some ups and downs - his association with confidence trickster Eric Gordon-Tombe being one of them - but in general his path seems to have been smooth, at least in comparison with most writers. His main obstacle appears to have been the failure of the literary establishment to take him seriously (a fate suffered, if that's the right word, by a more contemporary writer, Terry Pratchett). The term 'laughing all the way to the bank' is probably the best way to assess this: Wheatley's novels, both ripping yarn and occult, were staggeringly popular and remain so today. A chance meeting with Christopher Lee in, of all places, Harrods, led to the association with Hammer Horror.
Baker also goes into Wheatley's war work in the 40s - employed by the British government to engage in 'deception' work against the Nazis, Wheatley appears to have done so with gusto. Though right wing himself, and initially sympathetic to the German regime before the outbreak of the war, I do not think it is fair to call Wheatley a fascist. The actual level of his involvement with ritual magic is under some debate: Baker gives the impression that he was a fellow traveller rather than a committed mage. His comments to the media about Satanic practices probably owe more to his own fiction than they do to anyone's practices in reality, but then, he was in the business of selling sensational novels. He met Crowley, who at that stage was, as Baker says, more likely to borrow fiver than conjure a demon, but does not seem to have thought too highly of him - hardly a surprise.
Wheatley comes across as a sympathetic figure: a decent, honourable man capable of sustaining committed friendships, with a weakness for fine wines, old books, occult souvenirs and, generally, a higher standard of living than his origins had entitled him to. The popular conception of the mid-twentieth century occultist, clad in smoking jacket with a crystal glass of burgundy in one hand, is of Wheatley himself. He died at 80 and, Baker engagingly remarks, one hopes that he passed into the Light to be greeted on the other side by some thoroughly top chaps in the field.
One cannot read TDISG without marvelling at the remarkable luck that Wheatley seems to have enjoyed throughout the course of his long life. Certainly he had some ups and downs - his association with confidence trickster Eric Gordon-Tombe being one of them - but in general his path seems to have been smooth, at least in comparison with most writers. His main obstacle appears to have been the failure of the literary establishment to take him seriously (a fate suffered, if that's the right word, by a more contemporary writer, Terry Pratchett). The term 'laughing all the way to the bank' is probably the best way to assess this: Wheatley's novels, both ripping yarn and occult, were staggeringly popular and remain so today. A chance meeting with Christopher Lee in, of all places, Harrods, led to the association with Hammer Horror.
Baker also goes into Wheatley's war work in the 40s - employed by the British government to engage in 'deception' work against the Nazis, Wheatley appears to have done so with gusto. Though right wing himself, and initially sympathetic to the German regime before the outbreak of the war, I do not think it is fair to call Wheatley a fascist. The actual level of his involvement with ritual magic is under some debate: Baker gives the impression that he was a fellow traveller rather than a committed mage. His comments to the media about Satanic practices probably owe more to his own fiction than they do to anyone's practices in reality, but then, he was in the business of selling sensational novels. He met Crowley, who at that stage was, as Baker says, more likely to borrow fiver than conjure a demon, but does not seem to have thought too highly of him - hardly a surprise.
Wheatley comes across as a sympathetic figure: a decent, honourable man capable of sustaining committed friendships, with a weakness for fine wines, old books, occult souvenirs and, generally, a higher standard of living than his origins had entitled him to. The popular conception of the mid-twentieth century occultist, clad in smoking jacket with a crystal glass of burgundy in one hand, is of Wheatley himself. He died at 80 and, Baker engagingly remarks, one hopes that he passed into the Light to be greeted on the other side by some thoroughly top chaps in the field.