My Friend’s Book

Abstract

One opens a friend’s book with dread, every trick of style has its associations, we wonder perpetually—such hatred is in friendship—how a man we have buckled to our heart can have so little sense. Admiration can but feed hatred, and if we have known the man for five-and-forty years and met him once a week for the last ten, and must write about his book —and what else can be so interesting?—it may seem best to touch upon some one aspect and ignore the rest. Yet, in writing about A.E.’s Song and its Fountains I cannot do so; I must face all my associations, merely stating at the outset that my hatred has won the right to call itself friendship.

Song and its Fountains, by A.E. (George W. Russell). (Macmillan. 1932.)