Love-Letters

The cold winds are coming down hard from Alaska and the Yukon. If I have not answered your recent query as quickly as you would have hoped it is because I have been rather busy the last several days compiling a list of autumn reads. These are books for the coming season.

I look forward to it. Like you I have a specific routine for the chilly weather. After a long day at the orifice I light a fire, settle in to a leather chair, pull up a Pendleton tartan wool blanket, open a bottle of whisky, and rip into a book. I typically acquire a pile of titles only to have them sit on the antique Peruvian blackwood tea table in the middle of the room for months on end until I get around to finishing them.

For the coming months I have already identified a few key choices. As usual I consult reviews before purchase to determine suitability; I am an inveterate reader of book reviews. I see one of my favourite authors, V.S. Naipaul, is under intense fire from the usual establishment apologists in the UK media for his study on African belief systems, Masque of Africa. But the gem for me this season is the Bruce Chatwin book, Under The Sun: The Letters of Bruce Chatwin. More on this in a moment. I suspect both books will be ignored or trashed by the provincial Noo Yawk literary establishment in this country. I hope I am wrong. But never mind.

Something about the Chatwin book immediately struck me as unique. And then I understood. How many major authors in recent years wrote actual letters using pen, ink, and paper? Chatwin was probably the last one. As Chatwin's biographer, Nicholas Shakespeare, says: "These constitute possibly the last letters by a contemporary author, from seven years old to shortly before his death, that are written on card and paper and not on Microsoft Word."

And Christian House writes in The Independent: "In her preface to this fascinating volume, [Chatwin's] widow Elizabeth asks whether, by dying at the dry-nib end of the time when writing letters was an everyday act, Chatwin represents the last great writer for whom such a collection will exist."

Good question. I do not know about you, but I used to write letters every week. Hidden away amongst several parcels recently sent to me by my uncle in Connecticut that had been in storage for 15+ years was a small collection of personal correspondence. In the photograph (at left) is a biscuit tin full of letters received by me more than 20 years ago, mainly from girlfriends but also from chums, family, and various school and university officials from England. I was a much greater presence in these peoples' lives then, but over the course of decades they have dropped away and we have become isolated from one another. Not that I mind. A cache of personal love-letters is a reminder that you were once loved. You were loved once, in other words, before you turned into a monster. And that is enough.

Times have changed. Today the bitter-sweet track-record of recent relationships and love affairs can be obliterated simply by pushing a button. And it often is. But can it be removed from one's memory? Not very easily. Unless one consumes consistently vast amounts of wine and codeine. And even then, I can report, it is not so effective. God knows I am trying. With the actual matter in front of you it is harder to get rid of the evidence, at least for a homesick cretin like me. So the love-letters sit in a side drawer or in the back of a changing room closet.

One of the advantages of the anonymity afforded by the electronic newspaper column format is the freedom to be candid. In person, if I were to discuss it, I would probably turn scarlet and mumble something and turn away. So with that in mind I will reveal to you, in an Admiral Cod exclusive, that in one of the piles of letters here is a small lavender envelope containing the last letter written to me by my first love and a lock of her light auburn hair from England in the late 1980s. Silly? Not to a 17-year old. But at my age? I dare not look. In fact I do not plan to read any of these letters ever again. Once or twice is enough, I think.

In a recent review of his friend's book of letters, the French author Paul Theroux said: "But with each passing year I am more convinced that [Chatwin] was the real thing, an original in all his work, and Rimbaudesque in acting on his belief that life is elsewhere."

Yes, indeed, both life and love, Theroux might have added, are elsewhere. It is a belief to which I have adhered for years. The future is provisional.

George Cleverley & Co. Ltd. On Tour 2010

St. Tropez Beach

la vie militaire aux colonies

Reds Don't Surf !

Monsignor Darcy

Monsignor Darcy's house was an ancient, rambling structure set on a hill overlooking the river, and there lived its owner, between his trips to all parts of the Roman-Catholic world, rather like an exiled Stuart king waiting to be called to the rule of his land. Monsignor was forty-four then, and bustling—a trifle too stout for symmetry, with hair the color of spun gold, and a brilliant, enveloping personality. When he came into a room clad in his full purple regalia from thatch to toe, he resembled a Turner sunset, and attracted both admiration and attention. He had written two novels: one of them violently anti-Catholic, just before his conversion, and five years later another, in which he had attempted to turn all his clever jibes against Catholics into even cleverer innuendoes against Episcopalians. He was intensely ritualistic, startlingly dramatic, loved the idea of God enough to be a celibate, and rather liked his neighbor.

Children adored him because he was like a child; youth revelled in his company because he was still a youth, and couldn't be shocked. In the proper land and century he might have been a Richelieu—at present he was a very moral, very religious (if not particularly pious) clergyman, making a great mystery about pulling rusty wires, and appreciating life to the fullest, if not entirely enjoying it.

He and Amory took to each other at first sight—the jovial, impressive prelate who could dazzle an embassy ball, and the green-eyed, intent youth, in his first long trousers, accepted in their own minds a relation of father and son within a half-hour's conversation.

"My dear boy, I've been waiting to see you for years. Take a big chair and we'll have a chat."

"I've just come from school—St. Regis's, you know."

"So your mother says—a remarkable woman; have a cigarette—I'm sure you smoke. Well, if you're like me, you loathe all science and mathematics—"

Amory nodded vehemently.

"Hate 'em all. Like English and history."

"Of course. You'll hate school for a while, too, but I'm glad you're going to St. Regis's."

"Why?"

"Because it's a gentleman's school, and democracy won't hit you so early. You'll find plenty of that in college."

"I want to go to Princeton," said Amory. "I don't know why, but I think of all Harvard men as sissies, like I used to be, and all Yale men as wearing big blue sweaters and smoking pipes."

Monsignor chuckled.

"I'm one, you know."

"Oh, you're different—I think of Princeton as being lazy and good-looking and aristocratic—you know, like a spring day. Harvard seems sort of indoors—"

"And Yale is November, crisp and energetic," finished Monsignor.

"That's it."

They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.

"I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie," announced Amory.

"Of course you were—and for Hannibal—"

"Yes, and for the Southern Confederacy." He was rather sceptical about being an Irish patriot—he suspected that being Irish was being somewhat common—but Monsignor assured him that Ireland was a romantic lost cause and Irish people quite charming, and that it should, by all means, be one of his principal biasses.

After a crowded hour which included several more cigarettes, and during which Monsignor learned, to his surprise but not to his horror, that Amory had not been brought up a Catholic, he announced that he had another guest. This turned out to be the Honorable Thornton Hancock, of Boston, ex-minister to The Hague, author of an erudite history of the Middle Ages and the last of a distinguished, patriotic, and brilliant family.

"He comes here for a rest," said Monsignor confidentially, treating Amory as a contemporary. "I act as an escape from the weariness of agnosticism, and I think I'm the only man who knows how his staid old mind is really at sea and longs for a sturdy spar like the Church to cling to."

This Side of Paradise, Fitzgerald (1920)

J.R.R. Tolkien: In His Own Words (BBC Archives)

British Novelists: In Their Own Words (BBC Archives)

"Great writers have always fascinated their readers. We want to know how they create the characters we love or hate, the evocative settings, and the plots that have us reading late into the night, desperate to know what happens next. Throughout its history, the BBC has aimed to help audiences delve into the imagination of writers. This collection of interviews with some of the 20th Century's most read authors reveals something of those imaginations and the personalities which lie behind some of the greatest modern novels."

Waugh First Edition

Waugh Flower 1960

Morris Quilted Jacket

End of Summer Kit

I am shocked. Can you believe the autumn season is almost here? Summer has slipped away from me faster than a sober 24-year old blonde at a late-night cocktail party. There were loads of things I wanted to show you here. But inevitably I was side-tracked by a series of work-related events where, you might be rather jealous to learn, I had the opportunity to showcase my fogey endowments in the flesh so to speak rather than in this column. The fact of the matter is I wear a suit most of the time and my collection is quite dull, I can tell you. A solid line-up of greys and charcoals in diverse configurations. Summer is a great opportunity to add some flash and step out in prep style. In the photograph (above) are two summer acquisitions: a pair of flat-front Vineyard Vines trousers and a sky-blue Brooks Brothers linen shirt. Do you know what would go well with this ensemble? A pair of white bucks, that's what. But genuine delight is to be found in what is not revealed, so I suppose we will have to wait until next summer. The cycle continues.

Eton Cricket Spectator

Old San Francisco

I am requesting a favour. Don’t worry, this won’t hurt. Just put yourself in my Gucci loafers for a brief moment. Indulge me. That’s all I ask.

And now imagine you are attending an investor conference at a posh resort overlooking the ocean just south of Laguna Beach. Inside the enormous banquet halls there are thousands of people milling about, many of whom, you notice, are awkward-looking Asian businessmen in ill-fitting Armani, Boss, and Prada.

At the bar topless female bartenders serve unlimited cocktails. Mingling with the guests are groups of beautiful dancing girls in tight blouses and womb-gripping miniskirts. After careful analysis and some field research, you conclude that most of these young women are escorts, an observation that shocks your colleagues when you communicate it to them. But it shouldn’t. It is a well known fact that you can spot hired totty from a thousand paces. Experience has its benefits.

In one corner of the conference room sits a bored-looking tiger inside a small black iron cage. His presence at the conference, you realise, is meant to impress the Asiatic contingent. Small primitive-looking men gather around the enclosure to point and stare and snap photographs. You just hope they don’t eat him.

On the other side of the room the English pop star Billy Idol is on stage singing his greatest hits. You quietly lament the fact he ever left Generation X. Later that night after his set is long finished you have a quick bloke-to-bloke chat with him at the bar and compliment him on the early punk material. You give him your card.

Bored with the chit-chat you activate your personal GPS tracking device and target a tall older forty-something woman talking to a group of colleagues near the verandah. You notice she’s wearing a pair of classic black Christian Louboutins. She smiles at you. She’s a slim, fit, 6-ft. vision of pure candy-goodness with long blonde hair, an explosive smile, and shiny blue eyes. You learn a bit about her. She comes from an old San Francisco family, went to Stanford University, and works in investor relations in New York. Never married and no children. You establish rapport almost immediately.

Past midnight she accompanies you to her room. You nail her to the bed, sofa, wall, and expensively-tiled bathroom sink. But one thing bothers you. You notice that even during the height of the erotic shenanigans you can’t stop thinking about that bored tiger in his cage surrounded by grunting humanoids. The next morning, after tea and pastries on the balcony, while you get dressed to leave, she kisses you. You promise to stay in touch if only for networking purposes. Because, as they say, you’re a playa and that’s how you roll.

Reverse rewind to today. It is only several months later, in talking with a family friend, a Swiss real estate investor, that you learn a few additional details about your lady-friend. According to your old chum, not only does this young lady own investment properties in the area and makes several trips here every year, but she also once worked for your late father on Wall Street in the 1980s-1990s. Finally, and what is worse, she knows your WASP mother and her circle, and, in fact, inhabits the inner ring.

Strictly English: The Correct Way to Write...and Why it Matters (Simon Heffer)

"Be in no doubt: the beer was drunk but the man drank the beer." "We must avoid vulgarities like 'front up'. If someone is 'fronting up' a television show, then he is presenting it." Simon Heffer's incisive and amusingly despairing emails to colleagues at the The Daily Telegraph about grammatical mistakes and stylistic slips have found their way on to the internet and have attracted a growing band of ardent fans over recent years. Now, in his new book Strictly English, he makes an impassioned case for an end to the sloppiness that has become such a hallmark of everyday speech and writing, and shows how accuracy and clarity are within the grasp of anyone who is prepared to take the time to master a few simple rules. If you wince when you see "different than" in print, or are offended by people who think that "infer" and "imply" mean the same thing, then this book will provide reassurance that you are not alone. If you have a suspicion that it is wrong to say "the car collided with the tree" but are not quite sure why, then it will set you straight. And if you believe that precise and elegant English really does matter, then it will prove required reading.

Vicomte Arthur Style

Death to the World: The Last True Rebellion (Freedom From the Tyranny of Fashion)

coro a bocca chiusa--Madama Butterfly (Puccini)

tintinnabuli

"I have discovered that it is enough when a single note is beautifully played. This one note, or a silent beat, or a moment of silence, comforts me. I work with very few elements—with one voice, two voices. I build with primitive materials—with the triad, with one specific tonality. The three notes of a triad are like bells and that is why I call it tintinnabulation."

- Arvo Pärt

Païenne Hermès

Morris of Stockholm

A Sailor of Austria: The Adventures of Otto Prohaska, Hero of the Habsburg Empire

Brazil (Official Trailer)

Gaziano & Girling TG73

The 15th (Wire)

Black Sails

Passala nave mia con vele nere,
Con vele nere pe'l selvaggio mare.
Ho in petto una ferita di dolore,
Tu ti diverti a farla sanguinare.

There goes my ship with black sails,
With black sails over the wild seas.
My heart is wounded with a wound of pain,
And you love to make it bleed.

Young Fogey: Jacob Rees-Mogg

California Poolside

Young Fogey À La Mode

Polo World Cup 1969