In which we use the bloodhounds to hunt down the children

Reading: I tend to run two or three weeks behind in my New Yorker reading. So just yesterday I read their review of a biography of Jessica Mitford. Ah, the Mitfords. They continue to pop up generations after you think they're gone for good. 

For years now, whenever I've gone to a secondhand bookstore, I've been on the lookout for The Sisters, a joint biography of the 6 daughters of this amazing family. After reading about Jessica yesterday I gave in and grabbed a copy for Amazon for my Kindle.

My attraction to the clan started with Nancy. A few years ago I serendipitously fell into a copy of The Pursuit of Love, and I was lost forever. She may be one of the funniest writers I've ever read. By now I've read all of her novels, and I have a copy of her Frederick the Great biography leering at me from the hypothetical bedside table (although there's probably not a lot of yucks in that one). I'll probably head over to Jessica's Hons and Rebels at some point, assuming that The Sisters doesn't satisfy the biographical craving. 

Normally I don't pursue the private lives of writers I like, but the Mitford clan, reflected in the Radlett clan of Pursuit, takes the cake. Only P. G. Wodehouse, maybe, or real life, could have created them. Each of the daughters' lives unfolded in what can only be described as a dramatic fashion. Bright young things, scandalous affairs, Nazi lovers, fame, fortune, misfortune, dismay, and all that other good stuff that the modern-day reality star dynasties can only dream about. 

If you're interested in Nancy—whom I highly recommend—start with The Pursuit of Love. Turn your back on the various TV series for the time being; they're perfectly good for the plot but the writing is something to be enjoyed on its own. After that, how far you are willing to venture down the Mitford rabbit hole is entirely up to you. 

Listening: Fats Waller is still providing the morning soundtrack, and I realize that there's more than one Fats to contend with. His solo playing is often quite different from his usually more mellow band recordings: very lively and intricate and enough to make any amateur want to hang up his ivories and take up bongos. The man was also a virtuoso on the organ, but I have to admit that these pieces are not among my favorites. And then there's his rendition of "Dinah." To understand two geniuses in one swell foop, I recommend queueing up Fats's Dinah followed by Thelonius Monk's solo Dinah. Monk is one of my other piano gods, and his work on the song, in some respects a bit of an evolution of Waller's, demonstrates beyond a doubt both how jazz evolved over time, and from one man to the other, and how personality can show in one's playing.