14 jan

How did I ever allow myself to get distracted to a book about Evelyn Waugh? I read and saw Brideshead Revisited, liked it, but could not get through any of his other books, not even Scoop, about journalism.
But then, being distracted comes as natural to me as breathing. It is part of being me.
The book – Evelyn Waugh, portrait of a country neighbour; by Frances Donaldson – is in the lovely library of Chassenat. I picked it up, because I knew my great colleague Patrick van IJzendoorn – if you live in Holland, and do not read De Volkskrant yet, start doing it because of the wonderful contributions by Patrick from London – is a fan of him. He also introduced me to the Mitford sisters, whose family history gives a fascinating look into European history from the 30’s onwards.
I became very much interested in the Mitfords, and adore, Deborah, the former duchess of Devonshire, but think Waugh is a major pain and as flawed a character as Unity Mitford, the Mitford sister who adored nazism.
To Waugh, the only thing that matters is social standing. He was a mysochondruous character that tyrannized his environment. Most of the book from Donaldson is trying to explain, and failing so, why Waugh accepted her and her husband as friends. The most obvious explanation, I think, was that Frances’ husband Jack had the right social background, although she never writes about that.
There is a photograph in the book of Waugh and his family. As a ‘good’ catholic Waugh and his wife had a whole bunch of kids, but every single one looks miserable on the photo, including Waugh and wife. What a dreadful family and dreadful book.
But even dreadful books have their own attraction, sometimes, and it helped here that it was only 120 pages long, so that the distraction wasn’t endless, and there were lots of photographs, where I was particularly interested in the suits Evelyn Waugh wore, terribly old fashioned with a good houndstooth design; and one chapter of the book was dedicated to PG Wodehouse, that other masterful British writer whose personal life is as dull as an overcast day, with a cold wind and the slightest amount of rain, in the Perigord, like we had today, although the clouds disappeared at the end of the day and the sunset surprised us with its splendid marvel.
I have an explanation for this lethargic reading, though. Sometimes a battery is charged by resting it, although I think the mechanic analogy of this sentence is debatable. Eight chapters about capitalism, eight about Bernard & Co, eight about travelling, what do they all have to do with sins? That question is churning in the back of my head. Better go and rake some leaves again.