Commonplace

I was thankful for mel’s push to finally read Parade’s End, because I knew I would love it, and within less than a page I did. By the time I reached this passage I was mad for it. Macmaster is going over the proofs of his first book:

He had expected a wallowing of pleasure—almost the only sensuous pleasure he had allowed himself for many months. Keeping up the appearance of an English gentleman on an exiguous income was no mean task. But to wallow in your own phrases, to be rejoiced by the savour of your own shrewd pawkinesses, to feel your rhythm balanced and yet sober—that is a pleasure beyond most, and an inexpensive one at that. He had had it from mere ‘articles’—on the philosophies and domestic lives of such great figures as Carlyle and Mill, or on the expansion of inter-colonial trade. This was a book.

Pawkinesses!