The whole section (pp140, 141 in my 1971 Tom Stacey edition) in which The Poet is berated for his tea-drinking activities, which prompt first The Sailor, then the others, to accusations of vegetarianism - clearly an unforgivable state of being for Belloc: That mickey-taking I mentioned: funny? witty? I think so. Small-minded twits convinced of the primacy of their opinions. That passage is immediately followed by the petulance of "Myself", who responds to such grandiose nonsense: "Now you have stopped me in the midst of what I was saying." Each character, so typical of real people, is concerned only to propagate his own ludicrous view. Ever heard Peter Cooke in the "End of the World" sketch? For heaven's sake - he must have read this passage! What on earth does Grizzlebeard have against Hayling Island and Burwash?! And why is Rye spared? We're not told! This is humour. Is this not witty? Was I wrong to laugh long and loud on reading this passage? Peter Cooke might have written it, with its "if I'm not mistaken". Which will fall, if I am not mistaken, upon the whole earth, and strike all round the edges of the county, consuming Tonbridge, and Appledore (but not Rye), and Horley, and Ockley, and Hazelmere, and very certainly Petersfield and Havant, and there shall be an especial woe for Hayling Island but not one hair of the head of Sussex shall be singed, it has been so ordained from the beginning, and that in spite of Burwash and those who dwell therein." "But it is not so with Sussex, for our name is not a name to be used like a label and tied on to common things, seeing that we were the first place to be created when the world was made, and we shall certainly be the last to remain, regal and at ease when all the rest is very miserably perishing on the Day of Judgment by a horrible great rain of fire from Heaven. Here's Grizzlebeard in an early panegyric: The endless superlatives, the absurd dismissals of all things not of Sussex, the exaggerated claims of extraordinary experiences - and the constant mickey-taking and occasional downright invective directed at each other! Are these things not amusing and, well, witty? What surprises me is that, in the direct tradition of Fielding, his affection is communicated so convincingly despite being voiced by four of the most pompous, dogmatic, overblown twerps you could wish to meet. The book is a deeply affectionate paean to the county of Sussex, Belloc's adoptive home. We therefore know that he is by nature not lacking in wit, as encapsulated by both of the above definitions.īut does Belloc bring "wit" to "The Four Men"? Well of course he does. "Wit: a natural aptitude for using words and ideas in a quick and inventive way to create humour"īelloc is the author of the Cautionary Tales. "Wit: the capacity for inventive thought and quick understanding keen intelligence" Wonderful Wonderful WonderfulWonderfulWonderfulWonderfulWonderfulWonderfulWonderfulWonderfulWonderful etcīut wait, what's this! I read that one or two reviewers feel that 'The Four Men' is "a bit like Chesterton, but without the wit". So far, less wanking in Belloc than in Houellebecq. There are some wonderfully human moments tucked in this farrago, though, and Belloc proves to be adept at the sentence level – one of my favorites was: “When I woke it was to the raw world and the sad uncertain beginnings of a little winter day” (156). The book is full of obscure folk tales and songs (with the inclusion of actual musical scores). As you read it, you’re well aware that scores of provincial references, jokes, and adages are being lost on you. Reading it today, the book admittedly feels anachronistic and somewhat opaque. Belloc succeeds in his goal of writing a sort of tribute to the culture of rural, pastoral England which he saw disappearing in the early 1900s with the onset of globalization and impending World War. Loosely, “The Four Men” is a story about four men (shocker) who meet by happenstance and decide to journey together through rural England back to their native Sussex County in the autumn of 1902. One of those authors is Hilaire Belloc (albeit very briefly). When I read Hemingway’s beautiful, evocative “A Moveable Feast,” I made a point to note all of the authors Hemingway bumps elbows with in 1920s Paris, hoping to sample some of their work.
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