Unsurprisingly, I’m not the only fellow to recommend Henry Green after watching Downton Abbey. Yes, there’s a country house, petty intrigues, upstairs-downstairs, and war. And, yes, there is love. Green isn’t the easiest of authors, but if you can manage a bit of avant-garde, you should give him a try. Updike thought him one of the great stylists of modern English prose (I confess I am sometimes more affected by Green’s sentences than his books). More recently, James Wood has championed him (besides Wood’s discussion of Flaubert, it was his praise for Green that confirmed for me Wood’s quality as a critic).
♥ 1993 Review of Henry Green in The New Criterion
♥ One of my favourite passages from Green’s autobiography Pack My Bag:
On Saturday parents brought daughters down to see their brothers and, as this was a fashionable school and many of these girls if they were old enough had their photos in the weekly papers, one knew them by sight before one was faced by what to me was beginning to be the glory of their flesh. It was time that I should begin to notice and, as I had had no contact, almost no conversation even with any but servants, and maids I did not seem to take for girls, I started at the extreme and put them on thrones, more particularly because I had been reading Keats. Nobody who has sisters can tell how remote they are to those who have none and, their appearance now being exactly what I admired, I went down the street finding angels dressed like crown princesses in every little judy visiting her brother.
…
It was their skin got me which I had never touched except on hands and which I thought to be softer than I afterwards found, that skin down from the neck coming out of flowering summer dresses which sent me back to my room to read Spenser. It was their eyes I never looked into I was too modest and too modest by far to fall in love, their arms which I thought were cold and which I could not think they ever used to help them kiss, their lightness I did not know the weight of, the different way they moved and literally then it seemed as though they were walking in water up over their heads along the glaring street, all this bemused me although I had been reading Herrick. For I did not believe what was written in books and when I saw there how women enjoyed making love I could not, it was too much to believe.