Decline And Fall
Evelyn Waugh and I went to the same school. And even though I showed up 40 years after him, the ethos- anglo-catholic, dandyish, decadent- hadn't changed a great deal. It shaped him, it shaped me- and when I read him- especially the early books- I feel like he's winking at me- that we're co-conspirators in a plot against teachers, parents, prefects, chaplains and- well- everything there is.
There's a joke in Decline and Fall which only an Old Lanconian could possibly get.
Decline and Fall is his first novel- also his purest and funniest. His attitudes hadn't hardened, he hadn't been nobbled by the Catholics- the irreverence is broadcast far and wide and no-one escapes.
There's a joke in Decline and Fall which only an Old Lanconian could possibly get.
Decline and Fall is his first novel- also his purest and funniest. His attitudes hadn't hardened, he hadn't been nobbled by the Catholics- the irreverence is broadcast far and wide and no-one escapes.
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http://www.hrc.utexas.edu/enews/2009/february/bloodbook.html
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A boy called Clutterbuck features largely in Lancing folklore. He had drowned in the river Adur whilst trying to rescue a friend. In my time- possibly in Waugh's as well- his ghost was supposed (without a shred of evidence) to haunt the school.
An issue of the school magazine in the mid-sixties featured a comical picture of the "ghost of Clutterbuck" on its front cover. This drew letters from aged old boys protesting at a cruel slur on the memory of an heroic individual.
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Until now, the name has always meant a visiting Stave who taught Elocution at a well-known girls' school. She was built like an opera star (as in "It isn't over until - ") and her rendering of "Who will guard the briddge with me?" is an abiding memory both of sight and sound to several generations of schoolgirls.
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I can't do more than a phrase or three now.
"Then out spake brave Horatio .."
"The (something) hordes of Tuscany could scarce forebear to cheer"
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"And the great Lord of Luna
Reeled at that deadly stroke-
As falls on Mount Avernus
a thunder-smitten oak.
Wide o'er the crashing forest
The mighty arms lie spread
And the pale augurs, muttering low,
Gaze on the blasted head."