Over the years, a number of books have been written about three great knights
of the British theater in this century -- John Gielgud, Laurence Olivier and Ralph
Richardson. Next week, in a trifecta of publishing, Applause Books in New York
is bringing out volumes on all three: "The Real Life of Laurence Olivier" by Roger
Lewis, a new biography published in England last year; "An Actor and His Time,
"an updated memoir by John Gielgud, and a new edition of "Ralph Richardson: An
Actor's Life," by Garry O'Connor, a biography published in England in 1982 that
has been revised since the actor's death in 1983 at the age of 80.

The Richardson book includes new material and a diary that Mr. O'Connor, who
lives in Oxford, England, kept while completing the manuscript. In these selections
from the diary the notoriously elusive Richardson duels with his biographer.

Aug. 11, 1980

I see only too well Richardson's point of view in not wanting a book written about
him. Often what he tells me -- and what he has published or said in interviews -- is
a smokescreen devised to conceal the fact that he is not prepared to say anything
about his origins. Other people when approaching him have experienced exactly the
same pattern: first amazement at, and flattery of, the person interviewing him; then
a certain amount of delaying tactics; then, at the later point, outright refusal. His
mother running away from his father has probably -- as the pain healed -- left him
with no interest at all in prying into his own psychological makeup.

Sept. 22, 1980 Have received a letter from John Gielgud saying he would be delighted
to see me, and to fix lunch. He is due to arrive today from New York on the Concorde. However, he then writes and says that he cannot see me after all, and that he rather
balks at the idea of talking about Ralph. In his New Yorker profile of Ralph, Kenneth
Tynan had quoted Gielgud on the subject of Mu [Meriel Forbes-Robertson, Richardson's second wife], saying, "He liked her to serve a good dinner, and then pull up her skirts
and do a dance on the table." Gielgud felt that by having said such things he had given
deep offense to Mu and Ralph and that if he talked to me he would be indiscreet. This
is quite a blow. I write complaining to Richardson, as Gielgud also gives me to
understand that it is Ralph who has asked him not to speak. I am still expecting to do
a book with Richardson's cooperation. However ...

Oct. 1, 1980 Period of uncertainty over. I heard from Max Reinhardt, the publisher
for whom we were expecting to do the book, that Ralph is now definitely off the idea.
I am going ahead on my own and now have no worries about going to see Ralph and
tell him so. I feel, upon balance, that some shutter has come down inside him, and that
he does not want to give away any part of himself that makes him function. He wants
to hoard all of himself for himself, for that is the power of his acting. It is like Philoctetes
and his bow. He mustn't give away the source of his power, for if he does, one of the
arrows will leap out and wound his own flesh.

It is also possible that what has stopped him has been the feeling that he wants to
outdo Olivier. Competition between them is still very fierce, and at this point Olivier has
given up writing his book in collaboration with Mark Amory and gone ahead by himself
[this becomes "Confessions of an Actor"].

In the letter I now write to Richardson, my complaint about his stopping Gielgud from
talking to me is forcibly expressed and I don't conceal my anger.

Oct. 2, 1980 I receive his reply. Dear Garry: How strange it is. Last night I started a
letter to you on this pad of paper and this morning I received your letter. You speak
about Johnny Gielgud. I had begged you not to bother my friends, not to make them
feel that they must respond because they were my friends and I was urging them --
but I am afraid that you have not done this. Now Johnny G. has been extremely busy,
he has in fact not been very fit. He has intimated, "Ralph -- do I really have to do this?
"Most certainly not, was my heartfelt reply. I am sorry you say you are offended -- but
I did beg you not to do this. Well, here is enough ink. Ever, with warmest best wishes,
Ralph.

A second letter, dated Oct. 1, also arrives.

Dear Garry: I've had a number of hobbies in my time; these I have found refreshing.
They started with white mice and among the last were drawing and painting. A time
ago I had a letter from you and with it a proof copy of "Miss Tayte" [Dame Maggie
Teyte, the opera singer], which was quite splendid. Before this I had suggestions that
I might write an autobiography. I was not very keen to do so, but from your letter and
from your book, I saw a chance.

Then I thought, no, I am not a star like Miss Tayte. This would be a silly thing to do.
Then a spirit came to me and said, "All your white mice are dead and you're not doing
much painting now. Why not refresh yourself with a new hobby? Why not write
something? Don't write your dull life. But a few sketches, shapes, colors, memories
or make up things you could recall or thoughts discuss." Well, now I've started. By your
letter and your book I am starting to do this and do find it refreshing. I hope you can
forgive me. I always said to you that I would like to try if I could write with you but I
was not sure if I could.

Clearly his intention is to discourage me from continuing work on his biography, but I
go ahead and arrange other interviews with his friends, among them William Douglas
Home.

Oct. 3, 1980 I write to Ralph suggesting a compromise. That I leave it for a month or
two, then try to contact Gielgud again. I myself think his assessment of Gielgud's mood
is wrong. Gielgud loves talking about his friends -- although he does not want to hurt or embarrass them. I enclose a copy of Xenophon's life of Socrates, the purpose of which, though it may sound presumptuous, is to try to get Ralph to think seriously about the problems of doing a biography. I still think he believes he has put me off going ahead.

Nov. 3, 1980 I receive a reply.

Dear Garry: It was kind of you to send me the Xenophon Socrates, which I have enjoyed.
It was new to me. The Plato is very noble, indeed great, but a little cold in corners. I wish
I did not read. Rather bad for one: one should think. But I don't know any good thoughts. Should one write? Oh, yes -- but -- one has to think first. Horrified you are seeing William Douglas Home. Amazing, he seems quite cheerful about it!

By this time he is back working in "Early Days," which has been revived in the West End
and then goes on tour. So he has abandoned thoughts of writing his own book. What a
relief! I continue writing my book.

In February I go to see him at Richmond in "Early Days" but he misses an appointment
we have. "Dear Garry," he explains later in a note, "some difficulty, some storm, stopped
my car to meet you."

March 26, 1981

A difference between Olivier and Richardson: Olivier tells the same stories about himself
again and again, not conscious of what has been told before. Richardson has a more acute sense of self-presentation, never repeats himself, always comes out with a new story, or
a new piece of material.

When I started this book, I wrote to Olivier but he refused to see me, replying that "I feel
I would prefer to keep what you undoubtedly want from me for my own purposes." He
went on that, selfishly, he would keep his history, anecdotes and feelings for his own
book in which, as he said, "Sir Ralph will figure prominently.

" Both Olivier's "Confessions of an Actor" and my book, "Ralph Richardson: An Actor's Life," were published in the autumn of 1982. Both were reviewed at the same time, sometimes together. Olivier's book headed the best-seller list for many months. Gielgud,
in a letter to me, described it as "of doubtful taste ... surely an example of the danger of intimate confessions." As in the film of "Richard III," and the casting of plays during
Olivier's reign as director of the National Theater, Richardson was on the whole left out
rather than included.

Jan. 15, 1982

During a very cold spell at the beginning of the year, when temperatures in Oxford are
among the coldest recorded in the country, I send Richardson the typescript of the
finished book. Before I do this, I give him a ring. "Cold up there?" he asks me. "Have
you got any form of heating?" "Yes," I say, "an Aga." "They're very good," he replies.
"I've never had one but they're very good." About the typscript he adds: "I don't know
if I'll want to say anything. Perhaps I'll just keep quiet."

Only 36 hours later, however, when we have just had a run of burst pipes and water is literally running down three walls of our main living room where I sit, the telephone rings.
It is Richardson. Quaking with terror at what he might say, I babble about the pipes and
the water. When I have finished, he says quite calmly, "I have read the book.

" There is a terribly long pause. "It's fine," he goes on -- said in the tone of "Not too bad"
or "It doesn't hurt too much" or "Not quite as bad as I thought it was going to be." He
then says, "There are just several little points where I think you could improve the
stories."

May 11, 1982

I send him the encouraging pre-publicity for the book, which consists of praise from
friends of his such as Peggy Ashcroft and other notables. He replies and encloses in his
letter a "saying something," as he calls it. He has entitled it "Portrait Painting":

Sometimes a sitter does not recognize their own portrait. At the time when I was young,
about 10, I failed to recognize a photograph that had been taken of me. My mother's
birthday was coming up. I chanced to see some mounted portraits in sepia in a
photographer's window in Brighton. A card said, "We can take you like this for three
shillings and sixpence." I thought, Mother might like one of me for her birthday. I know
she is fond of me, perhaps it is because I look nice.

I asked to be taken and paid a deposit of a shilling. A few days later I went back with
the receipt and was handed an envelope; I took out the print.

It looked to me to be the picture of a fat, pale-faced pig, looking nowhere, with a white
collar round its neck.

I said, "This is not me, you've made a mistake."

"That is you, young man, and you owe me two shillings and sixpence."

I took another look. "Yes, you're quite right. I recognize the collar."

I paid up. I gave it to my mother. She thanked me very much.

Now I would like to thank Garry very much and I would like to wish him the best of
luck for all the work that he has done on his portrait.