A whole lifetime ago, in a job in Port Moresby which was so insignificant that it had better be forgotten, I had a boss by the name of Peter Chipps (with two 'p's), who, at the end of the day, was farewelled by the other accountants with a chortled "Good-bye, Mr Chipps" whenever he left.
At the time, I was yet to discover the pleasures of English literature and was unable to appreciate the source of all their merriment, but having read James Hilton's "Good-bye, Mr Chips" in later years, this book and his other bestseller, "Lost Horizon", have become two of my favourites.
There was not a single teacher I ever knew who was entirely like Mr. Chips, but there were several who had certain of his attributes and achieved that best reward - to be loved by their pupils. I most probably learned more in the street than I ever did at school, and at a time when they were still doing the German equivalent of 'the-cat-sat-on-the-mat' stuff in class, I was already reading Jules Verne at home. I remember nothing of what I learned at school, except perhaps a good foundation in grammar and mathematics, as well as a certain facility in wood-working which has prompted me to make my own bookshelves since.
I was just fourteen when I left school which was the age then at which most German boys who did not have rich parents left school and went to work. Whether that was a good or a bad thing, whether I would have been a better citizen if I had gone to high school and beyond, I cannot say. I can only reply in the manner of the youth who, on being asked if he had been educated at school, replied: "That is a matter of opinion."
A boy is born the day he enters the school and dies the day he leaves it; in between are youth, middle-age, and elderly respectability. I enjoyed my schooldays, on the whole, but I don't think my schooling made me what I am today, whatever that may be (a grumpy old bastard mainly).
I am old enough now to feel that school was a good place because I was young then, and I am happy to read - time and again - James Hilton's "Good-bye, Mr Chips", which I only discovered as late as 1975 through his other book, "Lost Horizon", when my then employers, TOTAL-Compagnie Française des Pétroles, had put me up at the Shangri-La Hotel in Singapore in 1975. There, and in later stays in the Shangri-La in Hong Kong and Paris, I was always greeted by this charming little book on the bedside table, with its flyleaf inscribed by the concierge:
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"This captivating story you are about to read was written in 1933 by an English novelist who wrote of an idyllic settlement high in the mountains of Tibet. Today, even amongst those who have never heard of Lost Horizon, the words 'Shangri-La' stand as a synonym for paradise. In 1971, a deluxe hotel was founded in the thriving city of Singapore in Southeast Asia. In choosing the name Shangri-La, there was a desire to set a standard, to create an identity that would eventually produce a group of hotels unique in the world. As the group expanded, it has sought to retain all the ideals of its mythical namesake. Serenity, harmony and natural beauty, all characteristics of the Shangri-La group. This enchanting book will give you a glimpse of this world. A world once imagined, a dream that has become a reality. We hope you enjoy it."
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You may read "Good-bye, Mr Chips" and "Lost Horizon" here and here.
