A new edition of Grant’s memoir is being published. There is something in Grant
that reminds me of an Oxonian philosopher.
Grant armoured himself, metaphorically, with simplicity.
Grant’s style is strikingly, shall we say, modern in its economy.
Grant’s style, that is, stands out in an age of clambering, winding prose,
with, if I may use a mixed metaphor, shameless sentences like lines of thieves
in a marketplace, grabbing everything in reach and stuffing it all into their
sacks.
On the other hand, Grant clearly adheres to Adams’s instructions to the staff
of The North American Review:
“Strike out all superfluous words, and especially all needless adjectives.”
E.g. ‘the white moon,’ ‘the yellow sun,’ Burns’s ‘the red rose’.
Every expression that Grant ‘utters’ has its purpose.
Yet, and this is why Grant reminds me of this Oxonian philosopher whose surname
also begins with “Gr”: everything seems understated, or shall we say, implied.
Or not, of course.
Cheers,
Speranza
