The Last Waltz...

...Today, possibly, I have bought the last book I ever shall. Does that seem strange? Well, naturally there never could be a point - outside of a novel by dear Jorge Luis Borges - at which one could announce one possessed every book in the known universe, when one would have no choice but to cease. So what then drives this peculiar thought?

'Tis the arrival of the final three volumes of the Folio Society's edition of Anthony Powell's 'Dance to the Music of Time' series. Not entirely sure I share their choice of division of the twelve original volumes into a set of four seasonal triplets, though I can see the commercial sense. Nonetheless what could be more perfect than a perfect set of the finest sequence of English novels? Where could indeed one go from here but backwards and down?

In truth my intention has already been overturned by my action of purchasing but a few hours ago a faded yet first edition - was there one wonders ever a second? - of a volume of photographs of England in the early 1970s with an introduction - this was the selling point - by that other great English writer of that time Angus Wilson.

There is then no literal truth in the above assertion - books will continue to be shepherded in somehow - yet if there were ever to be a final last waltz then 'Dance' would be it.

All one needs now is the time to disappear for some weeks back into that sublime, touching, hilarious and often deeply sad world of Moreland, X Trapnel, Widmerpool, Erridge, Quiggin, Pamela Flitton, the Tollands et al., and - for me - above all poor, lost Charles Stringham.

Now there was a man who could dance.