The quickest of glances along my bookshelves confirms that England has produced some remarkable – and remarkably prolific – diarists. I doubt there is something special in their character that makes the English particularly inclined to the sustained self-absorption, curiosity, and sheer discipline that are necessary for maintaining a diary over years or even decades, but I am at a loss to explain why so many English men and women have kept such compelling diaries. Are there great American, Irish, or Australian diarists? Probably, but none come to mind immediately.

Another oddity is the fact that the best diarists were often not especially distinguished in other respects. James Lees-Milne, for example, did valuable work saving important British houses and estates after the war and was influential in the formation of The National Trust. Alan Clark was on the fringes of power during Margaret Thatcher’s period in office, but was never himself a central figure. The same might be said of Harold Nicolson earlier in the century. Frances Partridge, a friend of everyone in the Bloomsbury set, never achieved the distinction of those to whom she was closest like Lytton Strachey or Dora Carrington. Yet all of them were wonderful diarists and their fame is assured because of the journals they kept.

Henry ‘Chips’ Channon was American by birth but adopted England and Englishness in his early twenties with the most extraordinary passion and commitment. (On the evidence of his diaries, he never passed up an opportunity to be rude about America and Americans). His apparently effortless entry into England’s high society from the 1920s onward may have been eased by a generous allowance from his father, but what sustained him there was charm, wit, and a good marriage. He had some success in politics, but his fame rests on the unusually frank diaries he kept for decades and which are now being published in their unexpurgated form for the first time. (Two further volumes are in the works).

It’s easy to poke fun at Channon. He was an incurable snob. His appetite for socializing with aristocrats was remarkable, as was his indolence, at least in the early years. A large part of the 1920s seems to have passed with little more happening than lunch with Princess so-and-so followed by dinner with the Duke of such-and-such. Although some of his descriptions of this social whirl are entertaining and insightful, the early sections of the Diaries are a bit of a slog for the reader, as they were occasionally, I suspect, for Channon himself.

Things get a lot more interesting in the 1930s when Channon’s social position gave him a close-up view of the unfolding Abdication crisis and, following his election to Parliament, in the years leading to the outbreak of war in 1939. At this point the diaries show him on the wrong side of history. Channon admired Hitler and supported appeasement. In those respects, he was like many of his class and generation, as he was in his casual, uncritical, and horrible antisemitism and racism.

It’s barely believable that only a century ago Britain was led (and largely owned) by the few families that Channon befriended. Little could they have known that within a century most of them would lose their fortunes, houses, lands, and power. And little could Channon have known that he would be the chronicler of a dying way of life and a dinosaur class. On the evidence of these diaries it’s not difficult to understand why Channon never attained high office. His snobbishness must have offended many while his vast wealth and tireless socializing must have made him seem like a dilettante. Above all, his contemporaries must have seen what is all too evident in these private journals, that despite all the charm and all the advantages, Channon suffered from a persistent ennui and self-doubt that prevented him mustering the effort required to climb the political ladder. He may have had charm in abundance, but there’s no disguising the darker sides of his personality. He had terrible judgement, was wrong on all the big political issues of the time, and was an incorrigible snob. It’s a paradox that a man like Channon should have provided one of the most vivid chronicles of a fascinating period of history.