“When I think of all the books still left to read, I am certain of continuing happiness.”
I might amend that to “reread.”
Trollope wrote forty-seven novels, I’ve read three or four, and the only one I
want to (re-)read is The Way We Live Now. This is perverse, even lazy.
“I am intimately
acquainted with my laziness. I could write a treatise on the subject, were it
not such a monumental bore.”
Who are the bores? The
humorless, earnest, reductive-minded. Those who have figured things out. They
have all the answers. Questioners make better company.
“You do not understand
life any more at 40 than you did at 20, but you are aware of the fact, and you
admit it. And to admit it is to remain young.”
I know a young man less
than one third my age who is older than me. He is tired, not so much bored as indifferent,
which may amount to the same thing. His talk is formulaic. He never seems
surprised or pleased.
“I spend my days like an
old man. I read the papers a little, read a passage from this or that book, set
down a few thoughts, keep warm – and, much of the time, doze.”
Me too, except for the
part about dozing. And the part about reading the newspapers.
“It is fine writing, ‘beautiful’
descriptions, that give me a taste for terseness, for three words in a row.”
Beware of loquacity.
“At the end of the evening
I could not find my hat, because it was already on my head, so I calmly walked
off with someone else’s hat in my hand.”
[All the quoted passages
are from Jules Renard’s Journal 1887-1910 (trans. Theo Cuffe, riverrun,
2020). That final passage recalls a Laurel and Hardy routine. Or a bit in Godot.
In a January 1, 1957, letter to Richard Roud, Beckett writes: “Glad you like
the Renard. For me it’s as inexhaustible as Boswell.” (The Letters of Samuel
Beckett, Vol. III: 1957-1965, Cambridge University Press, 2014).]
2 comments:
Ah, Trollope. I read my fist of his novels (The Warden) eight years ago and knew immediately that I had found a lifelong friend. He is the most civilized writer imaginable; he ushers you into a tastefully furnished parlor, sits next to you on a delightfully comfortable sofa, puts his hand on your shoulder, and with the utmost good humor proceeds to tell you exactly what you want to know.
I've read greater writers, but none who have given me more sheer pleasure.
Amen to what Thomas Parker wrote, above. Trollope is a better and more subtle writer than Dickens, with a much dryer and wittier sense of humor. I love his novels. Dickens is more famous (the masses, and all that) and always has been. But, as I said, Trollope is the better writer.
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