Occasionally I try to understand that puzzling and bitter man, Richard Aldington.
For the Reading 1900-1950 group at Sheffield I’ve been reading his Seven Against Reeves (1938), and my review of it is online here.
It’s quite a funny book, and less distasteful than Stepping Heavenward, but still pretty rancorous.
What made him that way? His war experiences? His lack of success as a writer? His love-life? Or a toxic mixture of all three?