From time to time I find myself pursuing particular writers, reading one work after another, until I have exhausted their literary output. Such is the case with V.S. Pritchett, perhaps the premier English writer of the past century. I mean, the guy was even "knighted" by the queen, and we all know what that means!
A few days back I found a first-edition copy of V.S. Pritchett: The Collected Stories. I grabbed it and have designs to finish it before I die. It's a massive book, with a near-lifetime of output between the covers, so this book is not for the faint of heart.
Although Pritchett was an old-world writer with the proper English charm and fancies, for some reason I can't shake the image of him walking around the streets of London saying, "Yeah, Baby, Yeah!" or "Shagadelick, Baby!" or "Oh, Behave!" I picture him with a profusion of chest hair, like an Eagle's nest, and very bad teeth, but I'm sure his wife loved him, nonetheless.
Last night I asked my daughter if she had met anyone in England (during her stay last summer) who reminded her of Austin Powers. I was the only one who came to mind.
And I don't even have a British accent. Yeah, Baby, Yeah!
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