I’m afraid that the words here of late have not been my own. However, eager victims of the sweet, sharp blade of perfect syntax rejoice! For more perfect prose has been discovered! This time in the form of a compilation of letters, from Sylvia Townsend Warner to William Maxwell, a volume called “The Element of Lavishness”. They write beautifully, eloquently and admiringly to each other, their letters often interlaced with sly wit and the most wonderfully expressed humour. Here, an exerpt from the Brit to the American on politics:
Personally, I cannot endure Eisenhower; the man is perpetually in tears; even for a military man, he cries too easily. Whichever way the election goes, I suppose he will cry on Stevenson’s bosom, and that must be a disagreeable thought for Stevenson. I think I am giving way to national prejudice, though. Public characters in this country are not supposed to weep in public, except about cricket.
On reading in the bath:
The other day I said to a clergyman I met that though I always read in my bath, as all sensible people do, I disliked the moment when one has to decide whether to wash one’s hands or go on reading and respecting the binding. He said that if I were to content myself with the burial and baptismal service, this problem would be overcome, as both of them are issued by some Church of England publishing house with waterproof bindings. Did you know this?
Lately, I think I read less for plot than for observations and sentence structure and these two styles of prose: letters and essays – hitherto untraversed – have yielded such a rich literary harvest that I am rather overcome with the discovery of it. But in this gluttony there is plenty glee.
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