Yesterday I found in a cupboard an old, small, battered portmanteau which, by the initials on it, I recognised as my own property. The lock appeared to have been forced. I dimly remembered having forced it myself, with a poker, in my hot youth, after some
Max’s first collection of essays and articles was titled The Works of Max Beerbohm, which is just wonderful. This collection, published when he was middle-aged, is often considered his best. It is very good. Less biting, perhaps, than some of his earlier writing, it is still frequently hilarious while also being light-handedly thoughtful in the way that only a certain earned maturity can allow. I don’t know who to compare mid-career Max to, honestly, unless it’s to Charles Lamb. We enjoy in the music of Max’s language the same incredible fluency. We feel for his voice the same kind of personal attachment. Max is generally remembered as a caricaturist, a dandy, and (sometimes) a theater critic. He was also one of the best essay writers in English.
Something different for me, a collection of essays. Max Beerbohm was soothing in his writing even though there was a biting quality at times. The essays were set in the first decade of 1900 England; there were many fresh observations, clever quips and insights into humanity.