More on Raymond Asquith, sort of

31 May

Previously I posted a short meditation from Raymond Asquith on his erstwhile colleague Julian Grenfell, one of the war’s more militant poets.  Both men died in the war, much to the detriment of English letters, but I haven’t had much to say about Asquith himself just yet.  I hope to in time (he’s no end of interesting), but for the moment here’s another short snippet in the same spirit as the earlier post.

Maurice Baring (who thankfully did NOT die in the war), in a letter to Dame Ethel Smyth, Sept. 20th, 1916:

“Life is a strain now, isn’t it? Scaffolding falls about one daily, one’s old friends and one’s new friends are killed or disappear like flies; the floor of life seems to have gone, and one seems to live in a permanent eclipse and a seasonless world – a world with no summer and no winter, only a long, grey, neutral-tinted Limbo. Raymond Asquith is the latest. I was certain he would be killed. I dined with him the night before he went back to his regiment after a spell at G.H.Q. – I felt I would never see him again…”

This sense of loss was one that was felt keenly throughout all the world as the war continued to expand and consume, expand and consume.

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