Barbara Pym chronicled the non-special, the unheroic, the humble, the steady, the meek; and that is just the beginning of her glory. I’ve re-read her novels every year since I was in my early twenties, and of whichever book I’m reading, I always think, “This one is my favorite.” Yet I often wonder if I ever had the chance to meet Barbara, through some temporal mechanics nonsense, whether we would have much to say to each other. Barbara was so very English; would she find she had little in common with me, slangy-mouthed, Latin-poor American that I am? How would she have felt about me referring to her by her Christian name? Would she have considered it, to use her characters’ most withering epithet, unsuitable?
Friday, July 01, 2016
… A small simple stone: looking for Barbara Pym in Oxfordshire | Books | The Guardian. (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)