When most people say "God bless the clowns" they could hardly think of Jerome, and yet...
In this book are some of the funniest things I think that have ever been written at all, ever. I encountered this book in my Dad's collection when I was eleven and I am sure that I spent that summer long ago utterly entranced. There is nothing here that is an obscurity of a hundred years ago, it's all fresh and invigorating, though there are many strange things, almost forgotten; luminescent memories of aunties and uncles who were old fashioned and gracious, walks in the park and net curtains and butterfly cakes and all those things that have long since passed away.
I think that ... perhaps I modelled myself on Jerome. There was something splendid and sorrowful about a piece by Vaughan Williams that I heard recently in the Proms, and I thought of this book, and how perhaps time play tricks with us, not repeating those wonderful things of so ago, but the odd resonance still appears, apparitions of all our prehistories.
This book IS funny and very clever - but I must warn you, gentle reader, that it contains some of the most poignant and lovely imagery that I have ever encountered, you will never be the same afterwards, and nothing at all compares with his evocations of lost days, the gentle ghosts of boys he knew playing in the fields, saucers of milk for beloved pets, the haunted look of infants gazing into the infinite distance on house steps on villages whose names have been consigned to forgetfulnesss.
It is profoundly beautiful, quite ridiculous in parts, very moving, often quite melancholy, and shows evidence of a very lively, gentle and very compassionate man.
In these arid and dusty days? Oh, don't even ask!
Absolutely and totally recommended.
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