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Lives, however picaresque, matter less to posterity than works

I love the British. As an English Lit major and the daughter of an avid British poetry fan, it’s only natural that I suffer from significant Anglophilia. And here, yet another reason to love those loony limeys.

I mean, seriously. Who else can be so catty and so well-spoken at the same time as a bitter, old Brit?:

“How utterly pitiable to be some old bachelor in a Hiram’s Hospital, smock-clad like a pauper in the reign of Henry VIII, dripping resentment like the dottle from a smelly churchwarden’s pipe….”

Brilliant. Simply brilliant.

London literary hoax is its own whodunit

This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 5th, 2006 at 8:56 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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