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Plum Pudding by Christopher Morley

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PLUM PUDDING

By CHRISTOPHER MORLEY

"_And merrily embellished by Walter Jack Duncan_"

Thus Mr. Morley entitles his new volume, in which he has occupied
himself with books in particular, but also with divers other
ingredients such as city and suburban incidents, women, dogs,
children, tadpoles, and so on.

_Plum Pudding, $1.75_



THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP

We have just found an advertisement for "The Haunted Bookshop" which
was never released, though it was written before the book was
published. Can you guess the writer of it? We're not at liberty to
tell, for he would never forgive our mentioning his name.

"THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED!"

Such was the sign that met the eyes of those who entered
_Parnassus at Home_, a very unusual bookshop on Gissing Street,
Brooklyn. Roger Mifflin, the eccentric booklover who owned the
shop, only meant that his shop was haunted by the great spirits
of literature, but there were more substantial ghosts about, as
the story tells. Read the curious adventures that befell after
Titania Chapman came to learn the book business in the mellow
atmosphere of the second-hand bookshop of this novel. There was
mystery connected with the elusive copy of Carlyle's _Oliver
Cromwell_, which kept on disappearing from Roger's shelves.
Some readers may remember that Roger Mifflin was the hero of
Mr. Morley's first novel, _Parnassus on Wheels_, though this is
in no sense a sequel, but an independent story.

_The Haunted Bookshop, $1.75_



SHANDYGAFF

This is the book at the beginning of which its author has placed
this bit of explanation:

_SHANDYGAFF_: a very refreshing drink, being a mixture of
bitter ale or beer and ginger-beer, commonly drunk by the lower
classes of England, and by strolling tinkers, low church
parsons, newspaper men, journalists, and prizefighters....
JOHN MISTLETOE:
_Dictionary of Deplorable Facts_

Published in the war period, "Shandygaff" brought this humorous
letter from J. Edgar Park, of Massachusetts, Presbyterian pastor and
author of "The Disadvantages of Being Good":

"This book of Morley's is absolutely useless--mere rot. It has
already cost me not only its price but also two candles for an
all-night seance and an entire degeneration of my most sad and sober
resolutions. Money I needed for shoes, solemnity I needed for my
reputation--all have gone to the winds in this nightmare of love,
laughter, boyishness, and tobacco-smoke!"

_Shandygaff, $1.75_



PIPEFULS

"These sketches gave me pain to write; they will give the judicious
patron pain to read; therefore we are quits. I think, as I look over
their slattern paragraphs, of that most tragic hour--it falls about
4 P.M. in the office of an evening newspaper--when the unhappy
compiler tries to round up the broodings of the day and still get
home in time for supper."
_The Author_

"Envelops in clouds of fragrant English many quaint ideas about
life, living, and literature ... A belated Elizabethan who has
strayed into the twentieth century! These piping little essays are
mellow and leisurely!"--_The Sun_, New York

_Pipefuls, $1.75_



KATHLEEN--_a story_

"Kathleen" is about an Oxford undergraduate prank. Members of a
literary club, _The Scorpions_, agree to write a serial story on
shares. They invent a tale around certain names in an accidentally
found letter signed "Kathleen." Their romantic fervor soon takes
them off together in search of the real author of the letter. One
suspects that Mr. Morley, as a Rhodes scholar at Oxford, might have
been up to just such pranks. Anyway, consider this dedication: "TO
THE REAL KATHLEEN--_With Apologies_." His comedy is as interesting
as his essays, its humor pointed by the rapid flow of action.

_Kathleen, $1.25_




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Copyright (c) 2007. bestextbooks.com. All rights reserved.

Tell us your literary dreams
Articles published by guardian.co.uk Books

John Crace digests A Question of Upbringing by Anthony Powell

My English teacher is wearing a barrister's wig. He turns and points towards me as I sit trembling in the dock. "Members of the jury, I put it to you that this man, Tom Robinson, is innocent," he says, rather lugubriously. I want to protest. I want to shout that no, I am not Tom Robinson, but yes, I am innocent! But the words won't come out.

Then I wake up. It's another literary dream – one that's troubled me ever since I studied Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird for GCSE.

Most of the time I'm disappointed to leave my literary dreams, waking to realise that I'm not really ensconced with with the boozing Welsh pensioners from Kingsley Amis's The Old Devils or haven't really been thrashing Harry Potter's Quidditch team. I remember with fondness a skiing trip with William Shakespeare and the delightful discovery that Don DeLillo was serving drinks behind the bar in my local pub.

It's not all sunshine, though. Tom Wolfe once ruined a trip to New York, shouting at me across Fifth Avenue: "You're not even familiar with my work – get outta town, asshole!" But that's nothing on Howard Jacobson. I spent a summer discovering his novels during my waking hours and bumping into him in my sleep. I'd see him in a local restaurant and tell him how much I was enjoying his novels. "Oh right," he'd snap, "that old chestnut, huh?" When I met him for real last year he was, in fact, charm personified. I didn't tell him about the dreams.

But enough about my subconscious, what about yours? It's Friday: forget about work and tell me all about your literary dreams. Don't hold back – it's not like we'll read anything into it.

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