Word: pritchett
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...Castile," says British Author V. S. Pritchett, "is a landscape of hidden villages, suddenly come upon, like crocks of earthenware in the soil, crumbling in the summer heat, sodden in the torrential rains of winter; it is a place of sunsets in the haze of dust and of short twilights when the sky at the last moment goes green over the sharp, violet mountains, which seem to have been cut out by a knife . . . The landscape of Castile, Unamuno said, is for monotheism, not pantheism. God is a precise thing like a stone, the Christ is a real man bleeding...
...major critic made a major evaluation in any area, but Briton V. S. Pritchett's shrewd and readable literary essays in Books in General could serve as a lesson in the appreciation of books for today's academicians...
Perhaps best of all is V. S. Pritchett's thoroughly lighthearted, thoroughly post-Freud A Story of Don Juan, which tells how Don Juan once visited Quintero, a man whose wife had died on their wedding night. To punish Juan for his sins, Quintero tucks him into the haunted nuptial bed. Next morning Don Juan goes off jaunty as ever. Poor Quintero wonders how his scheme has misfired, spends the next night in the haunted bed himself. The ghost is still there, and her arms are "of ice no more [but] of fire...
...Chameleon. Britain's best contemporary critic, V. S. Pritchett, who likes more delicately flavored cups of tea than the ones Joyce Cary pours, nevertheless admits Gary's sturdy authenticity. Pritchett calls him "the chameleon among contemporary novelists. Put him down in any environment or any class, rich, middling or poor, English, Irish or foreign, and he changes color and becomes whatever his subject is, from an English cook to an African delinquent, from a ten-year-old Irish hoyden to an English army wife or an evangelical lawyer. The assimilation is quick, delectable, sometimes profound. Many novelists have...
...rascally painter, an immoral man of character. Jimson is the only one who has ever been a real match for Sara: at times, in his roaring picaresque progress downhill, he seems an even bigger figure. The really last word, however, is an echo of Sara-as Pritchett calls her, this "genial, boozing, humbugging and thieving old tart, lost in the raucous mythology of her memories and affections...