Desperate characters

I've hesitated a long time before writing this letter to you, but the fact is things are absolutely desperate with us: in fact we've been living for the last few days selling books, pawning clothes, and only getting a limited number of shillings in the process of these activities. Now my laundry has been impounded because I couldn't raise the requisite number of shillings, and the hotel bill itself impends. —From Julian Maclaren-Ross's Selected Letters, in The Independent

(Via Jenny D)

Sentence of the day

"I come from up North and I can always recognize anyone by their feet."
—Julian Maclaren-Ross, "Edward: A Detective Story"

Realization

I'm a sucker for dialogue on the first page of a novel.

From Julian Maclaren-Ross's Bitten by the Tarantula:

When Armstrong suggested this trip I accepted at once. The idea of staying a month in the mountains appealed to me tremendously. No worries. Nothing complicated. The simple life. That suited me fine.
"Where shall we stay?" I asked him.
Armstrong said, "There's a choice of two hotels. The Royal is the best."
"You've been there before, then?"
"Last year. It was very restful."
"That's just what I need, a good rest."
"You never have anything else."
"Nonsense. My life is a turmoil. I often think of entering a monastery."
"Or a convent," Armstrong said. "Have you never thought about that?"
"A convent would be too complicated."
"Yvonne was brought up in a convent wasn't she?"
"I believe she was."
"How is that progressing?"
"She's away in Geneva."
Which was another reason for leaving.

From Christopher Isherwood's Prater Violet:

"Mr. Isherwood?"
"Speaking."
"Mr. Christopher Isherwood?"
"That's me."
"You know, we've been trying to contact you ever since yesterday afternoon." The voice at the end of the wire was a bit reproachful.
"I was out."
"You were out?"
"Yes."
"Oh...I see..." (A pause, to consider this. Then, suddenly suspicious.) "That's funny, though...Your number was always engaged. All the time."
"Who are you?" I asked, my tone getting an edge on it.
"Imperial Bulldog."
"I beg your pardon?"
[It keeps going in this vein for a while, very funny...]

Not enough people are named Edna these days

No time to blog! Except to say Julian Maclaren-Ross is my new favorite writer. Well, maybe he's tied with Dizzyhead Mollie, whose most recent post at Restricted View considers a pungent edition of Show Boat:

I can't attest to the handsomeness of the new edition firsthand, but it has to be better than the edition on my shelf. When I was researching that piece, I worked from a beat-up Fawcett paperback printed in 1971 or shortly thereafter. It had tiny print, a musty smell, and a torn front cover -- which unfortunately did not do much to obscure the cover illustration, a hideous, borderline-psychedelic collage of playing cards, women in large hats, riverboats and other plot elements. A Google search has turned up nothing, but when I get my hands on a digital camera I will have to show you what it looks like, because trust me, this cover puts the "mar" in "mass-market paperback." (Did you like that? Should I have gone with "ass" instead? I was torn.)