'Of all branches of human endeavour, diplomacy is the most
protean.' That is how Harold Nicolson begins this book. It is an
apt opening. The Paris Conference of 1919, attended by thirty-two
nations, had the supremely challenging task of attempting to bring
about a lasting peace after the global catastrophe of the Great
War.
Harold Nicolson was a member of the British delegation. His book
is in two parts. In the first he provides an account of the
conference, in the second his diary covering his six month stint.
There is a piquant counterpoise between the two. Of his diary he
writes, 'I should wish it to be read as people read the
reminiscences of a subaltern in the trenches. There is the same
distrust of headquarters; the same irritation against the
staff-officer who interrupts; the same belief that one's own sector
is the centre of the battle-front; the same conviction that one is,
with great nobility of soul, winning the war quite single-handed.'
The diary ends with prophetic disillusionment, 'To bed, sick of
life.'
As a first-hand account of one of the most important events
shaping the modern world this book remains a classic.
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