Let’s pretend that we know no more of Nancy Mitford than we do of Shakespeare, that we have a tempting outline of her life with one or two intriguing details, but no family notoriety, no volumes of letters, no newspaper articles or gossip. In fact, let’s pretend that Nancy Mitford’s novels weren’t written by the famous Nancy Mitford but by some entirely obscure Mary Smith, who happened to be a middle-class daughter of a greengrocer, possessed of ambition, eloquence, and extraordinary powers of observation. If we did so, how would the novels hold up?
I locked myself out almost three months ago in an attempt to study for exams. I just realized that my last post prior to this unannounced hiatus was vaguely stroppy. Despite my ill tempered post this blog as gained a huge amount of followers in my absence. I never had a regular posting schedule before, but I will resume posting semi-regularly.