V S Pritchett

Gladstone, in his lifetime at any rate, was called The Grand Old Man.

There are many contenders for the title Grand Old Man of Letters: Somerset Maugham, George Orwell, Cyril Connolly and lots of others.

“Given his humble beginnings, VSP was understandably proud of his success, particularly that, once settled to his task, he was able to support himself and his family entirely on the proceeds of his writing. He relished recognition and honours of a more symbolic kind, too: he was made a CBE in 1968, a knight in 1975, a companion of honour in 1993. For the last couple of decades of his life, he was indisputably the Grand Old Man of Letters.” (V S Pritchett, A Working Life by Stefan Collini)

Until this month I had read nothing by VSP and I suspect I am not alone in this lacuna, although his output of short stories, novels, essays and lit crit was prodigious as was the acclaim he garnered as a giant of 20th century literature. He was born (1900) in the reign of Queen Victoria and died in the year Tony Blair became Prime Minister. I fear his biography would be of little interest to me. He spent the larger part of his life writing and there’s not much to say about that. What interests me is his childhood and later life in his own words. He wrote A Cab at the Door in 1968 and Midnight Oil three years later. They reveal of course what the author wants to reveal but I think give a good account of his life, so unconventional to begin with, and culminating in the raft of honours already mentioned and membership of the Savile.

His first book was a travel book describing a walk across Spain: Marching Spain, published in 1928. It is astonishing how many authors have written in this genre and I look forward to another in my Spanish walks and donkey rides collection. A digression: his son is journalist Oliver Pritchett and grandson Matt Pritchett, the cartoonist “Matt” in The Telegraph.