#rupert smith

[yourdailyqueer]

Rupert Smith (James Lear)

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Gay

DOB: Born 1960

Ethnicity: White - English

Occupation: Writer, journalist

[protoslacker]

The defining characteristics of "war amongst the people" are that conflicts tend to be timeless, more political in nature, and fought between parties that are part of, and in amongst, the civilian population rather than between uniformed armies on a battlefield.

Wikipedia article on The Utility of Force.

The Utility of Force: The Art of War in the Modern World by Rupert Smith

[oldquotes]

'Some mistakes are worth making twice.' -Rupert Smith | View more inspirational quotes at Jar of Quotes.

[man-reading]

Man’s World

By Rupert Smith

2010

Contrasting today’s blogs with diaries of the past, this novel follows two parallel narratives that are 50 years apart and vastly different, at least at first appearance. In modern-day London, Robert searches for fulfillment in a world of sex, drugs, designer clothes, and hip gay clubs, during which he records his experience on his blog. Half a century earlier, Michael kept a secret diary in which he chronicled the dangers of negotiating the closet and the laws that could land himself and his friends and lovers in prison. Past and present collide when Robert moves into a new block of flats and discovers that history is alive and kicking on his doorstep. Funny, sexy, and moving, this tale demonstrates how much the world has changed, and remarkably, how much it can remain the same.

[thedissenters]

Friday, February 17, 1978

Liza [Minnelli] came to the office to have her portrait done. She was a little nervous to begin with, and then Chris Makos went over and showed her a picture of his cock that I’d taken, and that made her more nervous, but she was wearing the right makeup and all the pictures came out good.

John Lennon came by and that was exciting. He’s lost weight. Rupert’s [Smith] working on some art thing with him. And he was sweet. He’d refused Catherine [Guiness] the autograph in the restaurant the other week, but Paul McCartney’s picture was in the paper the other day, and when she asked him again he drew a mustache on Paul and signed it.

The Andy Warhol Diaries - Andy Warhol; Pat Hackett

[isfjmel-phleg]

allieinarden replied to your quote: It did not take John long to reach Jefferson...

Meanwhile “Smith” suddenly sounds a whole lot less like Psmith–Wodehouse apparently didn’t care about making him a Psmith analogue once he ran out of Psmith’s actual scenes and lines.

Calling a friend by his first name? “The old Berserk blood of the Smiths”? Easily quitting the campaign against the tenements? Mildly putting up with getting sent to jail? This Smith certainly has much less gumption than his English counterpart. As a mishmash of Psmith and Billy, he can’t seem to keep his personality consistent. Neither can John once he takes over Psmith’s role from this point.

[isfjmel-phleg]

It did not take John long to reach Jefferson Market, and by the judicious expenditure of a few dollars he was enabled to obtain an interview with Smith in a back room. The editor of Peaceful Moments was seated on a bench, looking remarkably disheveled. There was a bruise on his forehead, just where the hair began. He was, however, cheerful. “Ah, John,” he said. “You got my note all right, then?” John looked at him, concerned. “What on earth does it all mean?” Smith heaved a regretful sigh. “I fear,” he said, “I have made precisely the blamed fool of myself that Comrade Parker hoped I would.” “Parker!” Smith nodded. “I may be misjudging him, but I seem to see the hand of Comrade Parker in this. We had a raid at my house last night, John. We were pulled.” “What on earth—?” “Somebody—if it was not Comrade Parker it was some other citizen dripping with public spirit—tipped the police off that certain sports were running a pool-room in the house where I live.” On his departure from the News, Smith, from motives of economy, had moved from his hotel in Washington Square and taken a furnished room on Fourteenth Street. “There actually was a pool-room there,” he went on, “so possibly I am wronging Comrade Parker in thinking that this was a scheme of his for getting me out of the way. At any rate, somebody gave the tip, and at about three o'clock this morning I was aroused from a dreamless slumber by quite a considerable hammering at my door. There, standing on the mat, were two policemen. Very cordially the honest fellows invited me to go with them. A conveyance, it seemed, waited in the street without. I disclaimed all connection with the bad gambling persons below, but they replied that they were cleaning up the house, and, if I wished to make any remarks, I had better make them to the magistrate. This seemed reasonable. I said I would put on some clothes and come along. They demurred. They said they couldn’t wait about while I put on clothes. I pointed out that sky-blue pajamas with old-rose frogs were not the costume in which the editor of a great New York weekly paper should be seen abroad in one of the world’s greatest cities, but they assured me—more by their manner than their words—that my misgivings were groundless, so I yielded. These men, I told myself, have lived longer in New York than I. They know what is done, and what is not done. I will bow to their views. So I was starting to go with them like a lamb, when one of them gave me a shove in the ribs with his night stick. And it was here that I fancy I may have committed a slight error of policy.” He smiled dreamily for a moment, then went on. “I admit that the old Berserk blood of the Smiths boiled at that juncture. I picked up a sleep-producer from the floor, as Comrade Brady would say, and handed it to the big-stick merchant. He went down like a sack of coal over the bookcase, and at that moment I rather fancy the other gentleman must have got busy with his club. At any rate, somebody suddenly loosed off some fifty thousand dollars’ worth of fireworks, and the next thing I knew was that the curtain had risen for the next act on me, discovered sitting in a prison cell, with an out-size in lumps on my forehead.” He sighed again. “What Peaceful Moments really needs,” he said, “is a sitz-redacteur. A sitz-redacteur, John, is a gentleman employed by German newspapers with a taste for lese-majeste to go to prison whenever required in place of the real editor. The real editor hints in his bright and snappy editorial, for instance, that the Kaiser’s mustache gives him bad dreams. The police force swoops down in a body on the office of the journal, and are met by the sitz-redacteur, who goes with them cheerfully, allowing the editor to remain and sketch out plans for his next week’s article on the Crown Prince. We need a sitz-redacteur on Peaceful Moments almost as much as a fighting editor. Not now, of course. This has finished the thing. You’ll have to close down the paper now.” “Close it down!” cried John. “You bet I won’t.” “My dear old son,” said Smith seriously, “what earthly reason have you for going on with it? You only came in to help me, and I am no more. I am gone like some beautiful flower that withers in the night. Where’s the sense of getting yourself beaten up then? Quit!” John shook his head. “I wouldn’t quit now if you paid me.” “But—” A policeman appeared at the door. “Say, pal,” he remarked to John, “you’ll have to be fading away soon, I guess. Give you three minutes more. Say it quick.” He retired. Smith looked at John. “You won’t quit?” he said. “No.” Smith smiled. “You’re an all-wool sport, John,” he said. “I don’t suppose you know how to spell quit. Well, then, if you are determined to stand by the ship like Comrade Casabianca, I’ll tell you an idea that came to me in the watches of the night. If ever you want to get ideas, John, you spend a night in one of these cells. They flock to you. I suppose I did more profound thinking last night than I’ve ever done in my life. Well, here’s the idea. Act on it or not, as you please. I was thinking over the whole business from soup to nuts, and it struck me that the queerest part of it all is that whoever owns these Broster Street tenements should care a Canadian dime whether we find out who he is or not.” “Well, there’s the publicity,” began John. “Tush!” said Smith. “And possibly bah! Do you suppose that the sort of man who runs Broster Street is likely to care a darn about publicity? What does it matter to him if the papers soak it to him for about two days? He knows they’ll drop him and go on to something else on the third, and he knows he’s broken no law. No, there’s something more in this business than that. Don’t think that this bright boy wants to hush us up simply because he is a sensitive plant who can’t bear to think that people should be cross with him. He has got some private reason for wanting to lie low.” “Well, but what difference—?” “Comrade, I’ll tell you. It makes this difference: that the rents are almost certainly collected by some confidential person belonging to his own crowd, not by an ordinary collector. In other words, the collector knows the name of the man he’s collecting for. But for this little misfortune of mine, I was going to suggest that we waylay that collector, administer the Third Degree, and ask him who his boss is.” John uttered an exclamation. “You’re right! I’ll do it.” “You think you can? Alone?” “Sure! Don’t you worry. I'll—” The door opened and the policeman reappeared. “Time’s up. Slide, sonny.” John said good-by to Smith, and went out. He had a last glimpse of his late editor, a sad smile on his face, telling the policeman what was apparently a humorous story. Complete good will seemed to exist between them. John consoled himself as he went away with the reflection that Smith’s was a temperament that would probably find a bright side even to a thirty-days’ visit to Blackwell’s Island.

The Prince and Betty, P. G. Wodehouse

Reworking of a similar scene in Psmith, Journalist. Once Smith is imprisoned, John Maud takes over the Psmith role in the plot, suddenly developing an eloquence he didn’t so much have before.

[isfjmel-phleg]

"I’ve never done any newspaper work, of course, but—" "Never!" cried Smith. "Is it so long since the dear old college days that you forget the Gridiron?" In their last year at Harvard, Smith and John, assisted by others of a congenial spirit, had published a small but lively magazine devoted to college topics, with such success—from one point of view—that on the appearance of the third number it was suppressed by the authorities. "You were the life and soul of the Gridiron," went on Smith. "You shall be the life and soul of Peaceful Moments. You have special qualifications for the post. A young man once called at the office of a certain newspaper, and asked for a job. ‘Have you any specialty?’ enquired the editor. ‘Yes,’ replied the bright boy, ‘I am rather good at invective.’ ‘Any particular kind of invective?’ queried the man up top. ‘No,’ replied our hero, ‘just general invective.’ Such is your case, my son. You have a genius for general invective. You are the man Peaceful Moments has been waiting for."

The Prince and Betty, P. G. Wodehouse

From here on in the story, John starts taking over part of what would be Psmith's role (and lines, to some extent) from Psmith, Journalist--which is rather awkward because he's set up from the beginning as more of a Mike or Billy Windsor type and then suddenly is imbued with wit and craftiness. Smith, meanwhile, takes on more of the Windsor role.