My wife has taken to constantly rereading Barbara Pym, and sometimes when I grab the Kindle I tool read a few pages. When I did so a few minutes ago, I was struck, again, by Pym's rather sardonic relationship with the English canon. Here is an alter ego of sorts -- a pragmatic, unassuming writer of fiction and nonfiction for women's magazines, pausing over a pinch of high Victorian sentiment:
She imagined women under the drier at the hairdresser’s, turning the pages lazily and coming to ‘The Rose Garden’ by Catherine Oliphant. They would read the first page, the one that had the drawing of a girl standing with a rose in her hand and a man, handsomer than any real man could possibly be, standing behind her with an anguished expression on his face: but would they turn to the back of the magazine, where the continuation and ending were to be found? Catherine wondered gloomily. Dear as remembered kisses after death, she typed idly, but was it likely that her hero would have read Tennyson or quoted the line aloud like that? Not very, she thought, getting up and walking about the room (Less than Angels, Chapter 2).
