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“... unfortunate enough to have been appointed private secretary to the bizarre Lord Northcliffe. C.K. Scott-Moncrieff had been keeping up with the books that were being read in Paris, and had been led by the Goncourt prize to Marcel Proust. Indeed, he had already written to J.C. Squire, that hub of the literary journalistic world, to see if he couldn’t now make ...”

“... I met him as a reader’ [he] ‘filled my plate with one delicious fruit and sweet and cake after another’). English Proust emerges from this discourse (a summarising marker might be the recurrence in these essays of the word ‘charm’). Kilmartin’s claim is, in certain respects rightly, that Scott Moncrieff’s translation is complicit with ...”

“... In July​ 1917, shortly after his arrival at Craiglockhart War Hospital for neurasthenic officers on the outskirts of Edinburgh, Wilfred Owen drafted the first of the five poems published during his lifetime. ‘Sing me at dawn,’ it exclaims,                             but only with your laugh:Like sprightly Spring that laugheth into leaf;Like Love, that cannot flute for smiling at Life ...”