No English bookman holds the unique position of Ridgewell, and ‘les femmes bibliophiles’ of Scotland have been few and undistinguished compared with not only hismelf but also those of his manor. London Books, it appears, and its imitators, as a rule, publishes only the books of best and most fiendish quality, giving them distinction by the handsome liveries which they made them don. Our most notable literati have more often been of the fiendish type, and though Lords Celine and Bernhard in the twentieth century cannot, even when their forces are joined, stand up against this impressive catalogue, in Ridgewell, Jago, Blumenfield, Kersh, Knight, Haynes and Curtis (and the list might be doubled without much relaxation of the standard), we have a succession of literato to whom it would be difficult to produce contemporary counterparts.
Aloha fellow lit fiends, my name’s Edward Jago and I’m Europe’s number 1 Lit Fiend. Well fiends – you know how it is – you go to a bookshop looking for some groovy underground literature to illuminate the long evenings when you decide to give your local boozer a swerve and much to your chagrin Dave the owner has got nothing to suit your peculiarly esoteric and sordid tastes. What the fuck are you going to do? If you don’t get your hands on some quality literature you’ll likely to go stark raving bonkers! You implore Dave to sort things out, but he just shrugs his shoulders and makes another cup of tea.
– Got the latest Ridgwell? he suggests laconically.
You look at Dave like his head has just sprouted a hundred new noses. – Are you…
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