Tingles galore
OVER the past few weeks, I have received a goodly number of appreciative letters from readers the length and breadth of the land, all of them troubled by just one aspect of what they term my 'otherwise splendidly iconoclastic and entertaining' pieces. 'You are forever writing generous appreciations of your fascinating entourage — Paul Johnson, Alfie Sherman, Roy Strong, and so on — and these exquisite profiles illuminate their sensitive and com- plex characters as no others can, writes one connoisseur of recriviste Arnold, 'but is it not time to, as it were, unveil the yearnings of your own heart. Wherein, cher maitre, reside your own pleasures and joys?' Very well: I will take a tentative step from what I now admit may be an overly self-effacing stance for a leading essayist to adopt. Let the curtain draw back, and let the Tingles begin!
My greatest Tingle comes, I think, from good writing. A well-rounded phrase from Miss Mary Kenny, an acerbic travelogue from her husband Dick West (unarguably the Nina and Frederick of modern letters), a pithy jest from Perry Worsthorne, a stab at commonsense from Babs Amiel: the pleasures of writing are varied and plenti- ful.
Previous page
