Hello Ducky. I can recommend for you the writings of Thomas De Quincy. He was English, and wrote two hundred years ago. Not a novelist, he was an essayist. I first got into him when I was in the local bookshop, and I was looking amongst the classics, which only cost £1.50, and I saw a book which caught my eye, and as it seemed cheap enough to give it a go, I bought it: 'The Confessions of an English Opium Eater'.
At first I found his language difficult, as the sentences were long, and contained many clauses, some of which went off in a different direction, and then when the sentence returned from its wandering I had forgotten how it had started. I kept putting the book down and then picking it up again. Eventually I got into his rhythm and style. In fact, so powerful did I find this style that it has affected the way I write and even speak!
The thing I like about De Quincy is a) that it is an essay, like he's writing a letter to me personally, which is about real things, not made up; b) that he has a good sense of fun and joy; c) that his writing conveys his insight into everyday happenings, which I myself would never consider.
After 'Confessions' I went to visit the cottage where he lived in the English Lake District which has been kept as a museum, and I bought another of his books from its book shop, 'Mailcoach', which i also found to be just as good as 'Confessions'. Recently, I have bought another of his books from Amazon (I think), called 'Autobiographical Sketches', which I have begun, and am just about to take away on holiday, and I'm very excited about getting into it.
He writes in a sort of 'very English' way, which is, to me, a sort of silly wit. For instance, he was telling about a French emperor (Napoleon I suppose) in the middle of a big battle, stood near to an artilery gunner, and after about 15 shots each missing the target, the emperor goes up to the gunner and congratulates him on his excellent talent and skill to be able to consistantly miss the target.
Another bit was about some big wedding planned at some English Lord's stately home, and the day arrives when the very special wedding dress arrives, and everyone is in the drawing-room wanting to see the bride try it on:.......'The lady, when the dress arrived, was, to all appearance, in good health; but by one of those unaccountable misgivings which are on record in so many well-attested cases, she said, after gazing for a minute or two at the beautiful dress, firmly and pointedly, "So, then, that is my wedding dress; and it is expected that I shall wear it on the 17th; but I shall not; I shall never wear it. On Thursday the 17th I shall be dressed in a shroud!" All present were shocked at such a declaration, which the solemnity of the lady's manner made it impossible to receive as a jest. The countess, her mother, even reproved her with some severity for the words, as an expression of distrust in the goodness of God. The bride elect made no answer but by sighing heavily. Within a fortnight, all happened, to the letter, as she had predicted. She was taken suddenly ill; she died about three days before the marriage day, and was finally dressed in her shroud, according to the natural course of funeral arrangements, on the morning that was to have been the wedding festival.'
I mean, Ducky, it was just a silly story for fun which would have been going around at the time, I suppose. but that's a taste of it. So that is my recommendation: Thomas De Quincy's 'Confessions of an English Opium Eater'. Apology for the lenght of this, but have a bit of time to kill. Cheers, and let me know if you read it.
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