Here is a typical quotation from your favourite "poet", whom, by the way, Benjamin Beaconsfield disliked as much as I do:
"Out of the wreck I rise, past Zeus to the P(sic)otency o'er him."
Nice and typical, isn't it? But you mustn't use it, as the first six words form the title of a novel by Beatrice Harraden which I have been driven to read down here by the dearth of books.
My last two purchases have just arrived; series i and ii of the New Decameron. Shall I enjoy them?. . .
You will want something to read in the train, he writes on 10. 7. 20. Read this Muddiman's Men of the Nineties. But please return it to me; it will serve to keep the child quiet when she next comes down. And it served to make me feel very young again (seven years younger than you are now) to read of all those remarkable men with whom I foregathered in the nineties.
They would probably have accepted Squire and Siegfried Sassoon.[1] None of the other poets; none of the prose-writers, painters, "blasters" or blighters. . . .
In acknowledging the book, I objected to
what I considered the excessive importance
- ↑ They would have gone quite mad over the Russian Ballet.
