A FRAGILE, discordant thread runs through the unexpurgated diaries of Henry “Chips” Channon, the first volume of which will be reviewed soon in The Tablet by Denis MacShane.

They begin in 1918, which Chicago-born Channon – a stupendous snob and agile social climber – mostly spends in Paris, staying at the Ritz. He has tea with duchesses and dinner with Proust and Cocteau. Then, a few days after his 21st birthday (he treats himself to a wristwatch from Cartier’s), he meets the society priest Abbé Mugnier. “I became a Roman Catholic in heart at least and realise I will continue to be so all my life. But to be admitted to the Church of Rome would bring too much unhappiness to my family, too much disaster to myself, at least for the present.”