Plum Pudding: Of Divers Ingredients, Discreetly Blended & Seasoned

In Short

This volume is a miscellany of essays, sketches, and meditations—a "plum pudding" of diverse literary ingredients meant to be savored in small portions. Originally appearing in newspapers and magazines during the early 1920s, the writing captures the spirit of a journalist-flâneur navigating New York City and its suburbs. Its enduring appeal lies in the author’s ability to elevate the daily commute, the tavern lunch, and the act of reading into something poetic and significant, offering a warm, witty, and deeply human perspective on the rhythm of modern life.

The Story

The arc of the book is not one of linear narrative, but of a shifting focus that moves from the interior life of the writer to the bustling streets of Manhattan, and finally to the quiet reflections of the suburban commuter. It begins with the "Perfect Reader," establishing a philosophy that values the personal connection between a book and its owner, suggesting that literature is a tool for self-discovery. From there, the gaze expands to the "Three Hours for Lunch Club," a semi-fictional, semi-real society that serves as the book's backbone. Through these lunches, the author explores the tension between the "devotions of industry" and the human need for leisure, intellectual companionship, and robust conversation.

As the collection progresses, the settings broaden. We journey to Philadelphia via the "Peaceful and Rapid" Reading railroad, contemplating the beauty of the harbor and the fleeting nature of travel. We visit taverns, both actual and legendary, where the author seeks the company of literary ghosts and the wisdom of past writers. Throughout these movements, the book remains anchored by the author’s attempt to reconcile his role as a professional journalist—constantly meeting deadlines and observing the "grim routine"—with his identity as a lover of poetry and quietude.

The story takes a turn toward the domestic and the observational in its later sections. The author contemplates the transition from city dweller to commuter, exploring the geography of the subway and the unique character of different rail lines. He reflects on his own past, visiting a former home and acknowledging the "ghosts" of his earlier, more naive self who once believed in the inevitability of fortune.

The book concludes by returning to the central theme: the necessity of "tender recognition" for one's fellow beings. Whether in a secret city restaurant or the crowded subway car, the author argues that the observer must find the "majesty of the spectacle" in the mass of humanity. The final movement is one of acceptance—a realization that life is a "quotidian immersion" that, if approached with curiosity and a sense of shared frailty, can be profoundly enriching. The collection ends not with a final resolution, but with an invitation to keep observing, keep reading, and keep finding the small, secret joys that make the daily trudge through the world bearable and even beautiful.

How It Unfolds

The literary apprenticeship The author reflects on his college days and the "decisive vibration" of encountering great poetry, which transformed him from a casual reader into a lifelong devotee of literature. He establishes the idea that self-love and private enthusiasm are the true catalysts for a life of the mind.

The anatomy of a lunch Focusing on the ritual of the mid-day meal, the author introduces the Three Hours for Lunch Club as a necessary rebellion against the "capsule of efficiency" imposed by modern commerce. He asserts that a proper lunch is a sacred, unhurried space for conversation and the cultivation of friendship.

The city as a text Moving into the streets, the author treats New York as a living, breathing library. He finds poetry in the subway, in the architecture of the Woolworth Building, and in the specific, humble qualities of old taverns like McSorley’s.

The life of the commuter The tone shifts to the suburban experience, detailing the daily trek between the city and the home. The author categorizes commuters by their rail lines and habits, finding a strange, romantic identity in the red-striped tickets and the evening train ride back to the suburbs.

The final synthesis In the concluding pieces, the author synthesizes his experiences as a journalist and a dreamer. He argues for a "tender recognition" of human failings, asserting that the only way to endure the "questioning star" is to find beauty in the common, struggling mass of humanity.

The People

The book is populated by a mix of real-world figures and archetypal characters. The author himself serves as the primary lens, a man who is both a working journalist and a "suburban sentimentalist," someone who finds fame and fortune in the simple act of eating a doughnut in a small town. He is a guide who is honest about his own "flaws" and his tendency to romanticize the ordinary.

Alongside him are the members of the Three Hours for Lunch Club, such as "Endymion" and "Lawton," who represent the ideal companions: those who value the "genialities of the world" over the pressures of the office. They are the ones who initiate new members with the mantra, "There is no inanition in an initiation," and who remind the reader that friendship is a vital, intentional act.

Then there are the "ghosts"—the literary figures like Joseph Conrad, Walt Whitman, and John Keats—who act as mentors to the author. He engages with their work to understand his own place in the world, often finding comfort in their "saline truth." Finally, there is the "commuter," a figure who represents all of us. Whether he is the "magnificent" commuter with a confident air or the "shabby errand boy" asleep in the subway, each person is presented with a mix of humor and "admiring pity," their lives treated as part of a larger, mysterious, and ultimately majestic human drama.

In Its Own Voice

"The poet lives in an alien world; that is not his pride; it is his humility."

The author describes the necessary isolation required for a creative life, noting that the poet must often seem boorish to the world to remain true to his duty.

"The poet who has not learned how to be rude has not learned his first duty to himself."

This line serves as a central tenet of the author's philosophy regarding the preservation of one's time and spirit.

"How can one pass through this quotidian immersion in humanity without being, in some small degree, enriched by that admiring pity which is the only emotion that can permanently endure under the eye of a questioning star?"

The author reflects on the experience of watching crowds in the subway and finds a profound sense of purpose in observing the "patient fellowship of hope."

What It's Really About

The central theme is the search for "consecrated purpose" in an age of mechanical routine. The author argues that human beings, particularly those who create or think, must fiercely protect their capacity for wonder and leisure against the "maddening pack-thread" of industry. He explores the question of how to remain an individual—a "poet" in the broadest sense—while participating in the necessary, often brutal, economy of modern life. It is an argument for the sacredness of the small: the lunch, the pipe, the commuter train, and the book. Ultimately, the book posits that we find our identity not in our grand successes, but in our ability to witness and pity the "obscure virtues" of the people we pass on the street.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the leisurely, digressive essays of writers like E.B. White or the urban wanderings of Joseph Mitchell will find a kindred spirit here. The book is an intimate, comforting read that feels like a conversation with a witty, well-read friend who knows the best places to find a quiet drink in a loud city. It is a balm for anyone feeling the "distressing" weight of modern efficiency, offering a permission slip to stop, look at the sky, and read a poem.

Be aware, however, that the book is very much a product of its time. The author’s references to specific 1920s political figures, local New York geography, and his occasionally flowery, self-conscious prose can feel distant or even archaic. His attitudes reflect the period's insular assumptions, and his "light-hearted" style sometimes masks a lack of awareness about the wider world beyond his own demographic. Yet, if you can navigate these period artifacts, you will find a remarkably persistent voice that reminds us that, even in the middle of a frantic, changing world, there is always room to sit down, share a meal, and observe the "multitudinous miracle" of life with a heart that is not yet hardened.