Lives, however picaresque, matter less to posterity than works
I love the British. As an English Lit major and the daughter of an avid British poetry fan, it’s only natural that I suffer from significant Anglophilia. And here, yet another reason to love those loony limeys.
I mean, seriously. Who else can be so catty and so well-spoken at the same time as a bitter, old Brit?:
“How utterly pitiable to be some old bachelor in a Hiram’s Hospital, smock-clad like a pauper in the reign of Henry VIII, dripping resentment like the dottle from a smelly churchwarden’s pipe….”
Brilliant. Simply brilliant.