The nearest thing I ever saw to Winkley's moving (hor'd) oeuvre (move oeuvre, laureates) was John Pudney's "Slug": Slugs, soft upon damp
carpets of rich food The world is in your debt for the discovery, and I hope you may unearth many more. Winkley's wit and rhythms, his sudden assaults on our bowels, are a priceless purgative to our modern anemia; and the complex philosophical underpinnings of his life and work are effectively obfuscated in the magnificently crapulous introduction. Christmas feasting seemed to gain (or lose, hard to decide which) in significance this year to the accompaniment of H.W.'s grunts and squeals. Many, many thanks.
Cyril Birch |
Author |
Book |
Contents |
Reviews |