(no subject)
Дочитала роман Джулиана Феллоуза (видимо, теперь он будет известен главным образом как сценарист "Даунтонского аббатства") "Past Imperfect". Сначала, конечно, все эти рассуждения о потере идентичности у английских аристократов второй половины ХХ века вызывают мысли в стиле "мне бы ваши проблемы, господин учитель", но потом проникаешься, понимаешь, что да, и они тоже люди. Вот парочка отрывков:
Before the first war, among the upper classes, five or six changes a day, for walking, shooting, breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner, were de rigueur at any house party and three at least were necessary for a day in London. They observed these tiresome rituals of dress for the simple reason that they knew once they stopped looking like a ruling class they would soon cease to be a ruling class. Our politicians have only just learned what the toffs have known for a thousand years: Appearance is all.
Why, then, did it die so suddenly? Because they stopped believing in themselves. It was not just the loss of the valet that was to prove fatal to the costume; it was a loss of nerve that gripped the Establishment in 1945, and would continue to undermine their confidence until, by the end of the Seventies, for all but a few their role in our National life, and with it the point of their white tie, was gone.
At last, his anger spent, he returned to his topic. ‘I want you to come down and see me. There are some things we ought to talk about.’ In fact, he lived above London on the map, on the border of Gloucestershire and Shropshire, but my father was of that generation where London was the highest point in Britain. So he went ‘up’ to London and ‘down’ to everywhere else. I rather loved him for it. I suppose he went down to Inverness, but I don’t remember trying him on this.
И там много ещё любопытного про Лондон 60-х без пробок, смокинги и dinner jackets (правда, я так и не поняла разницу между этими двумя), а также про агонию светского сезона.
Before the first war, among the upper classes, five or six changes a day, for walking, shooting, breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner, were de rigueur at any house party and three at least were necessary for a day in London. They observed these tiresome rituals of dress for the simple reason that they knew once they stopped looking like a ruling class they would soon cease to be a ruling class. Our politicians have only just learned what the toffs have known for a thousand years: Appearance is all.
Why, then, did it die so suddenly? Because they stopped believing in themselves. It was not just the loss of the valet that was to prove fatal to the costume; it was a loss of nerve that gripped the Establishment in 1945, and would continue to undermine their confidence until, by the end of the Seventies, for all but a few their role in our National life, and with it the point of their white tie, was gone.
At last, his anger spent, he returned to his topic. ‘I want you to come down and see me. There are some things we ought to talk about.’ In fact, he lived above London on the map, on the border of Gloucestershire and Shropshire, but my father was of that generation where London was the highest point in Britain. So he went ‘up’ to London and ‘down’ to everywhere else. I rather loved him for it. I suppose he went down to Inverness, but I don’t remember trying him on this.
И там много ещё любопытного про Лондон 60-х без пробок, смокинги и dinner jackets (правда, я так и не поняла разницу между этими двумя), а также про агонию светского сезона.