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A carregar... Rupert Hart-Davis: Man of Letterspor Philip Ziegler
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Adira ao LibraryThing para descobrir se irá gostar deste livro. Ainda não há conversas na Discussão sobre este livro. This text has no introduction, and no stated intent (curiously, it is prefaced by an explanation of 1969’s decimalization). Its form is that of a conventional biographical account of the publisher’s life, from his birth in 1907 to his death in 1999. As the picture of Rupert Hart-Davis develops he becomes less and less likeable, and it becomes harder to believe in him as the “man of letters” of the title. Anti-intellectual, incurious and jingoistic, Hart-Davis believed that “Wogs began at Calais: they had done so when he was at Balliol and would continue to do so until any travel was beyond him.” What is perhaps more unpleasant is the author’s apparent sympathy for these sentiments; his lack of acknowledgement that some readers might find this xenophobia unattractive. Less prominent but equally unappealing is the submerged strand of misogyny that runs below the surface of the narrative, from the blame accrued by his mother Sibbie for Hart-Davis’ childhood illness through the later accounts of his four marriages and various other liaisons with women. Likeability aside, this is a perfectly competent and readable biography of a man who made a handful of significant contributions to publishing in his time, and who had some famous friends. In the final passage of the book, Ziegler reflects on Hart-Davis’ legacy. He complains that the Times obituary, in calling Hart-Davis’ tastes “strikingly middle-brow”, has missed the point: Rupert was “neither an intellectual nor a daring innovator”, says Ziegler, “nor would he have wished to be remembered as such.” On the whole, the same could be said of this book. sem críticas | adicionar uma crítica
Rupert Hart-Davis (born 1907, died 1999) not only founded a prestigious publishing company; he also involved himself vigorously in literary politics. His story is the story of literary life in the 20th century. He worked for William Heinemann and Jonathan Cape (who sacked him), and numbered among his close friends Duff and Diana Cooper, Peter and Ian Fleming, Arthur Ransome, John Betjeman, Eric Linklater and Joyce Grenfell. His mother - to whom he was obsessively devoted - died when he was at Oxford. Desolated, he left without a degree, to try his hand at acting. He played alongside Richardson, Geilgud and Olivier - and found himself having to chose between two attractive young actresses: Celia Johnson and Peggy Ashcroft. When he told Celia he was marrying Peggy, she broke down in tears. The marriage didn't last, and Rupert went on to marry 3 more times. Before marrying his colleague, Ruth Simon, he lived for some years with his wife, Comfort, in the country at weekends, and with Ruth in London during the working week. After Ruth's death, he married his secretary June, with whom he lived in retirement in his beloved Yorkshire dales. Não foram encontradas descrições de bibliotecas. |
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This text has no introduction, and no stated intent (curiously, it is prefaced by an explanation of 1969’s decimalization). Its form is that of a conventional biographical account of the publisher’s life, from his birth in 1907 to his death in 1999. As the picture of Rupert Hart-Davis develops he becomes less and less likeable, and it becomes harder to believe in him as the “man of letters” of the title. Anti-intellectual, incurious and jingoistic, Hart-Davis believed that “Wogs began at Calais: they had done so when he was at Balliol and would continue to do so until any travel was beyond him.” What is perhaps more unpleasant is the author’s apparent sympathy for these sentiments; his lack of acknowledgement that some readers might find this xenophobia unattractive. Less prominent but equally unappealing is the submerged strand of misogyny that runs below the surface of the narrative, from the blame accrued by his mother Sibbie for Hart-Davis’ childhood illness through the later accounts of his four marriages and various other liaisons with women. Likeability aside, this is a perfectly competent and readable biography of a man who made a handful of significant contributions to publishing in his time, and who had some famous friends. In the final passage of the book, Ziegler reflects on Hart-Davis’ legacy. He complains that the Times obituary, in calling Hart-Davis’ tastes “strikingly middle-brow”, has missed the point: Rupert was “neither an intellectual nor a daring innovator”, says Ziegler, “nor would he have wished to be remembered as such.” On the whole, the same could be said of this book. ( )