Two Learned Men; Six Volumes
I only have the single volume "Section," but it's enjoyable
Today’s dispatch? The letters of George Lyttelton and Rupert Hart-Davis, two names that might as well be scrawled on the back of a dusty pub coaster for all the recognition they get in our lobotomized age.
Lyttelton’s name flickered faintly in my mind, like a half-remembered tavern sign, but I hadn’t a clue why anyone would bother printing his private scribblings with a friend. My first guess? Maybe they were a pair of buttoned-up Anglican conservatives, penning coded love notes in a clandestine romp that would’ve made the vicar blush.
Wrong.
These weren’t star-crossed gay lovers or political firebrands. They were just men of letters: Lyttelton, an Eton professor steeped in classics and English lit, and Hart-Davis, a publisher with ink in his veins.
In these letters, they scratch out their thoughts in mid-twentieth-century England, back when erudite gents with a knack for words were as common as pigeons in Trafalgar Square.
Politics? They gave it a wide berth, proving Russell Kirk’s point that only the quarter-educated bother with that circus. Religion? Not their bag. Marriage? Lyttelton was content with his wife, while Hart-Davis juggled.
These two were the kind of blokes you’d kill to share a pint with. Their letters crackle with wit sharp enough to slice through the fog of our current idiocy.
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Eric Scheske
