Brideshead Revisited: The Sacred and Profane Memories of Captain Charles Byder
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The wellsprings of desire and the impediments to love come brilliantly into focus in Evelyn Waugh's masterpiece-a novel that immerses us in the glittering and seductive world of English aristocracy in the waning days of the empire.
Through the story of Charles Ryder's entanglement with the Flytes, a great Catholic family, Evelyn Waugh charts the passing of the privileged world he knew in his own youth and vividly recalls the sensuous pleasures denied him by wartime austerities. At once romantic, sensuous, comic, and somber, Brideshead Revisited transcends Waugh's early satiric explorations and reveals him to be an elegiac, lyrical novelist of the utmost feeling and lucidity.
Rimbaud in German. We had a sad little festival yesterday when the partisans made the people observe St. Blaise’s Day with all of its ceremonies—no tourists, no peasants in from the villages, the inhabitants too weak from hunger to stand and too scared of the secret police to sneeze. Why cannot you send Prod here to help civilian relief.23 He would be very welcome to yours truly. Bless him you never mention him now. The Savile Club I suppose. Thank you very much for Love on the Supertax which
fretwork, from the Pompeian parlor to the great tapestry-hung hall which stood unchanged, as it had been designed two hundred and fifty years before; to sit, hour after hour, in the shade looking out on the terrace. This terrace was the final consummation of the house’s plan; it stood on massive stone ramparts above the lakes, so that from the hall steps it seemed to overhang them, as though, standing by the balustrade, one could have dropped a pebble into the first of them immediately below
one’s feet. It was embraced by the two arms of the colonnade; beyond the pavilions groves of lime led to the wooded hillsides. Part of the terrace was paved, part planted with flower-beds and arabesques of dwarf box; taller box grew in a dense hedge, making a wide oval, cut into niches and interspersed with statuary, and, in the center, dominating the whole splendid space rose the fountain; such a fountain as one might expect to find in a piazza of southern Italy; such a fountain as was, indeed,
the mud of Flanders and the flies of Mesopotamia. Then we landed and met the old routine of the customs-sheds, the punctual boat-train, the porters lining the platform at Victoria and converging on the first-class carriages; the long line of waiting taxis. “We’ll separate,” we said, “and see what’s happening. We’ll meet and compare notes at dinner,” but we knew already in our hearts that nothing was happening; nothing, at any rate, which needed our presence. “Oh dear,” said my father, meeting
the sly are not really done at all. Presently she said: “Looking forward to getting home?” (My father gave me as a wedding present the price of a house, and I bought an old rectory in my wife’s part of the country.) “I’ve got a surprise for you.” “Yes?” “I’ve turned the old barn into a studio for you, so that you needn’t be disturbed by the children or when we have people to stay. I got Emden to do it. Everyone thinks it a great success. There was an article on it in Country Life; I bought it