Not really a very festive book, and indeed I've been dipping into it through the year. Christmas was just when John Julius Norwich sent his friends these collections of oddments which had caught his eye through the preceding year, with this collection covering the 1970s. A sort of shared commonplace book, but one whose appeal comes from its compiler, his wide reading and his wit, his ability to spot something worth sharing. Some of the sources may seem obvious, but even when Norwich quotes the likes of Austen's Emma, the passage he chooses is not one of the bits one always sees quoted from Emma, and is worth the holding up for individual consideration. More often he ranges into far odder corners, dictionaries and letters and all the furniture of a superlatively well-stocked library and mind. Many are beautiful, some are just strange (such as Leigh Hunt's sonnet to a fish, and its equally disobliging reply), and a fair few (not least the Paris Opera's mistranslated synopsis for Carmen) are outright hilarious. It is a book full of unknown unknowns, like which Biblical patriarchs Queen Victoria would not deign to meet in the next life. Elsewhere he offers his suggestion for literature's most boring anecdote - which is quite poor, though I'd disqualify it from the title on grounds of its welcome brevity, and most of the selections here are a page or less, so it's a grand loo book.
My one complaint is that, in the lack of translations furnished, Norwich assumes a familiarity with French and Latin in their literary modes which my own skills don't quite merit – the gist I follow, the nuances less so, and these selections are often all about the nuance. Still, that's one grumble set against a heap of delights (and inevitably, I was particularly pleased to find him familiar with Dunsany's work). You might think it a stretch to count it as an authored work, but his personality comes through so strongly on every page, not just in the annotations, but simply through the picture the collection forms of a mind (I'm reminded of the Senegalese expression for death, where they say that the deceased's library has burned). And there are odd longer pieces of his own writing, not least the collaborative sonnet, improvised back and forth with 'Paddy' Leigh-Fermor over lunch at Chantilly (imagine being a fly on the wall for that meal!). But above all it cements the sense, always there when I read his work, that it must have been an utter delight to know John Julius Norwich. I think my favourite of all the excerpts here might be Burne-Jones' description of his own work: "I mean by picture a beautiful romantic dream of something that never was, never will be – in a light better than any light that ever shone – in a land no one can define or remember, only desire – and from the forms divinely beautiful." Which all the same sums up the Christmas scenes in which I picture Norwich and those lucky enough to have been in his circle and receiving these.