Not that it Matters — Context and Discussion

The Writer's Desk and the World Beyond

Milne repeatedly frames his essays as responses to immediate circumstances: a printer waiting for copy, a dictionary opened at random, a new nib. This gives the collection a sense of spontaneity, as if the reader is catching the author in the act of thinking on paper. In 'The Pleasure of Writing,' he contrasts his own method with that of 'Shakespeare' or 'Mr. Blank,' who must plan before writing. Milne claims he can go 'straight from my breakfast to the blotting-paper' when the nib is new. Yet the essays are carefully shaped, not mere streams of words. The tension between claimed ease and evident craft runs through the book.

Lord's and the Rituals of Summer

In 'A Day at Lord's,' Milne describes the experience of returning to the cricket ground after the war. He notes that the seats are 'uncommonly hard,' and a folded Daily Telegraph provides 'something of the solace which good literature will always bring.' The essay catalogues the small rituals of a day's play: the crowd clapping when rain ceases, the umpires inspecting the pitch, the groundsmen's sudden activity. Milne admits that before the war he would have been annoyed by rain, but now he finds it 'delightful to herald again a break in the clouds.' The essay is less about cricket than about the pleasure of recapturing old sensations.

The Diminishing Seashore

'By the Sea' takes up the theme of childhood memory and loss. Milne recalls a time when 'pools were always full of starfish' and 'crabs—really big crabs—stalked the deserted sands.' Now, he claims, the beach is 'deteriorating'; he has seen only five starfish in ten years. He refuses to accept the explanation that his finger has grown bigger, preferring to believe the supply is giving out. The essay ends with a wry observation about hanging starfish in the hall as barometers, a detail that captures the blend of nostalgia and self-mockery that characterizes many of these pieces.

The Art of the Trivial

Throughout Not That It Matters, Milne elevates minor subjects—goldfish, golf, thermometers, the habit of keeping a diary—into occasions for reflection. In 'The Diary Habit,' he likely explores the impulse to record daily life, while 'Thoughts on Thermometers' turns a household object into a source of speculation. The title itself, 'Not That It Matters,' signals a deliberate lightness. Milne does not claim importance for his observations; instead, he invites the reader to share in the pleasure of noticing. The essays are linked not by argument but by a consistent voice: urbane, self-deprecating, and alert to the comedy of ordinary life.

These essays reward a reader who enjoys watching a writer think on the page. Milne's subjects are deliberately small, but his treatment of them reveals a sharp eye for detail and a gentle humor. The collection is best read not straight through but dipped into, one essay at a time, allowing each piece to stand on its own. The pleasure lies not in any grand conclusion but in the quality of attention Milne brings to the world around him.

Milne’s fussing over the right nib reminds me of my father’s fountain pen, the way he’d pause mid-sentence to admire its line. I felt that same quiet reverence in Practical Essays — Reading Notes, where the sheer pleasure of a well-turned phrase sits beside the humble tools that make it. A shared tenderness for craft, really. Neither book demands urgency; they simply let you sit with the feeling.