Remembering Evelyn Waugh

April 10th was the sixtieth anniversary of the death, on Easter Day 1966, of Evelyn Waugh.

I recall the news at the time and from what little I knew of him had a vague sense of loss of a figure in the landscape. Over succeeding years and decades I came to know his works by reading and viewing adaptations, and to appreciate his literary skill, his brilliant humour and his Catholic insight. Apart from the obvious and easily accessible ones, his is the only literary grave I have sought out and visited. In my opinion, for what it is worth, he is not only a master craftsman of the language but also the greatest English novelist of the twentieth century.

Most writers of fiction go, to some extent, out of fashion very soon after their deaths. Waugh however, who had been seen as unfashionable in his last years, was suddenly rediscovered and his reputation and popularity have continued to grow. This has been aided by the publication of his letters and diaries, by television and to a lesser extent film, but also by 

an awareness of his consummate literary skills on the printed page.

The Daily Telegraph has had two quite short articles about Waugh and his place as a Catholic literary figure which can be seen at Sixty years on, it’s time to revive Evelyn Waugh’s lost Catholic civilisation

and To understand the world today, read books from 100 years ago

Finally an impish, but also serious suggestion. I have referred before to my, shall we say, lack of appreciation of G.K.Chesterton and his extensive literary outpourings. I cannot see why anyone would want him canonised, good Catholic that he doubtless was.

Now, if people want an English man of letters who came to a deep devotion to the Catholic faith, wrote about it, and continues to provide great entertainment in his novels, as a canonised saint, then in Evelyn Waugh there is indeed a candidate. 

Never mind about youthful follies ( ask St Augustine, de Rancé, Charles de Foucauld and many others about those), scoffing the children’s bananas, the sharp tongue, but remember the loyal friend, the loving father whose own father had probably made him inhibited in expressing paternal affection, and the author of prose in the service of Catholicism. There you have a real candidate for raising to the altars. Think about it, pray about it.