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[epershand]

naraht is doing a series of reviews on e-books, and her most recent one is for Christopher Isherwood's Lions and Shadows, which I am almost certainly going to nominate for Yuletide.

Naraht goes into the beauty of the book; I'll mention here its absurdity. It's an example of that thing that is catnip to me, the self-aware elitist mocking hi own elitism by playing it out to an ironic degree. For example, from the stretch of time when Isherwood worked as a secretary to a well-known violinist:

And not merely was I now a humble member of the enormous musical community ; I had my colleagues, my equals. Over the telephone, at any rate, one secretary was as good as another. We knew each others' names; we said good morning and chatted politely for a few moments before stating our business.

True, I could hardly echo the words of Miss Gibson, of the B.B.C., whose invariable formula was: "I'll just call down to the porter's lodge and find out if Mr. So-and-So's still in the building." But I did try to convey the illusion that Cheuret had to be hunted for through a whole suite of rooms; and, even when he was sitting in the opposite chair, I liked to keep the enquirer waiting for at least a couple of minutes. My particular friend was Mr. Hardy, of the Gramophone Society. We had never me, but our politeness was excessive. Picturing a dynamic middle-aged man seated amidst a sub- servient staff of stenographers, I was, nevertheless, determined not to be outdone. " Very well, Mr. Hardy," I would rattle briskly into the mouthpiece, " I'll have that typed out and sent round to you to-night . . . oh, splendid, thanks . . . Rather busy, you know . . . Yes, certainly, Mr. Hardy; I'll take the matter up with Monsieur Cheuret at once . . . Good morning. ..." Nearly a year later, we met at a concert and were introduced. Mr. Hardy proved to be a mild, agreeable, literary young man of my own age. He told me that he had always supposed me to be forty, at least.