gence picked up along the way comes inrnhandy.rnPerry is not, of course, a vain man,rnbut I had the impression that hernrather resented the expression ofrnopinions other than his own on thernpage which now belonged to him.rnHis first action on becoming editorrnwas to announce that he was movingrnthe column off the leader page.rnI resigned. Perry would probablyrnnot have minded in the least tornlose me, but other counsels prevailed.rn. . . What in fact had happenedrnwas that his dear wife,rnClaudie, had told him that if hernlost my column, she was going torncancel the Sunday Telegraph.rnBear in mind that Perry Worsthorne isrnby no means one of the villains of therndecade. In fact, he is a kind and in manyrnways gifted man, with the shortcomingsrnand weaknesses—apart from his colossalrnvanity—of just about anybody else inrnhighbrow journalism. But to be Bron,rnthe “vituperative artist” of his own definition,rnis to have no easy friends and norncorporate loyalties, to accept the face ofrnno man unless, perhaps, he likes the lookrnof his wife. As is the case, for instance,rnwith the late Charles Douglas-Home —rnLIBERAL ARTSrn^:i f^^rn•<“‘-.^Hrn’ ^JFI^Srn- . = ^ ^ ^rn^”^^^rn”WMrnm*^rnWrnf^” -s^frn”,-• S^–rnt/^.rn^ “1^..rny’.. m^^:-.rnVICTIMHOODrn”‘Look,’ I countered, ‘chardonnayrnis a victim. A fewrnmoms and dads get to mopingrnabout how chard is fatrnand passe and all of the suddenrnit’s squaresville. Wernoughta get down on ourrnknees every day and thankrnthe wine gods that we’re livingrnin the ‘Time of the GoldenrnChardonnay.'”rn—from Wine X Magazinernundoubtedly the last great editor of thernTimes—to whom he had taken a ratherrngroundless dislike which he later hopedrnwould be mitigated by his fulsome praisernof Jessica.rnWith the feigned naivete that is anotherrntrademark of Waugh’s journalism, thisrnbook is divided into two sections, somern200 pages for “Youth” and a mere 80rnpages for “Maturity.” It does not surprisernme in the least that the first section, morernclassically “autobiographical” in that itrncovers Waugh’s relationship with his fatherrnand the many branches of a becominglyrncomplex family tree, is actuallyrnquite dull. This is because, deep down,rnWaugh does not fully appreciate his ownrnuniqueness and cannot entirely acceptrnhis role in the modern world as the greatrnprogenitor he is, rather than a mere descendantrnof a world that is no more.rnBron Waugh modest?! In this sense he isrnexcruciatingly so, to the detriment of hisrnwriting. He simply cannot write —notrnwith a straight face, at any rate —in arngenre that he has not himself at least inrnpart invented. Perhaps for this very reason,rnthough it may also be just so muchrnperverse coquetry, he is very firm aboutrndissuading us from reading any of his fivernpublished novels.rnThe second, ridiculously brief, sectionrnwhere he finally comes into his own asrnEngland’s favorite venomous viper is itselfrnworth the price of the book. Here,rnfor instance, is how Waugh describes thernbirth of a great British institution, thern”Diary” in Private Eye:rnThe essence of the ‘Diary’, as itrnemerged, was that it was a work ofrnpure fantasy, except the charactersrnin it were real. If ever some presidentrnor head of state paid an officialrnvisit, I was there to greet him.rnIf ever the Queen gave a ball orrnluncheon party, I was there torndance with her or help her survivernthe terrible bores who had in factrnbeen invited—their names werernoften available in the court circularrnor gossip columns. The technique,rnwhenever possible, was tornfind someone who had been presentrnand could give an amusing accountrnof what had happened, andrnthen stretch and distort it, insertingrnmyself in whichever role seemedrnappropriate—the sexual opportunist,rnthe millionaire patron of thernarts and learning, the M.I.5 or CIArnagent, the drunk, the Thomist theologian,rnthe confidential adviser tornprinces and presidents. It workedrnvery well indeed, and I began tornthink I might have created a newrnart form.rnNotice the meek “might” in the last sentence.rnI swear, to his dying day BronrnWaugh will continue befieving that hisrnfather’s novels are the loftier achievement.rnI leave the reader with a similarrnthought from the author, one of the fewrnoccasions in this book when his tonerntiirns overfly philosophical:rnIt was many years before I couldrnbreak the habit of viewing everyrnevent with half an eye to the bulletinrnI would send to my father.rnEven now, I find that when I hearrna funny story about someone inrnwhom he would have been interestedrn—the child of a friend, perhaps,rnor some grandee—I mentallyrnstore it away to repeat to him.rnThere always follows a pang of bereavementrnwhen I remember thatrnhe is no longer around to hear it.rnBut the strain of living two lives,rnone on my own, and the otherrnthrough his eyes, was greatly relievedrnby his sudden death. Perhapsrnnobody is completely grownrnup until both his parents are dead.rnAndrei Navrozov, formerly Chronicles’rnpoetry editor and London correspondent,rnis now Chronicles’ Europeanrncorrespondent.rnBeyond thernCrossingrnby William MillsrnCities of the Plainrnby Cormac McCarthyrnNew York: Knopf;rn293 pp., $25.00rnIn Cities of the Plain, the final volumernof McCarthy’s The Border Trilogy,rnJohn Grady Cole, principal character ofrnAll the Pretty Horses, joins Billy ParhamrnoiThe Crossing in the West Texas-Juarezrn30/CHRONICLESrnrnrn