Not the sort of thing most readers would be interested in. Nary an intellectual thought passes between these two self-satisfied English snobs in the numerous correspondences. Certainly not the sort of book one can take in anything other than in small doses. Essentially, the letters contain almost nothing more than gossip, which they ironically insist bores them. The two of them have little curiosity about the world and letters written twenty years after they started their correspondence indicate a sort of arrested development as thinkers. But read on if you want the sordid details.

Most of these letters consist of gossip about other English upper-class snobs, which sometimes becomes malicious. In particular, they (mostly Waugh) revel in tormenting Cyril Connelly. The two letter writers think themselves witty and superior; they are such a perfect match that one wonders why they didn’t just divorce their spouses and get it on.

Were they always this way, or was it the success of Brideshead Revisited and The Pursuit of Love that bloated their egos so? How much further can I read before I have had enough?

Especially Waugh. It’s almost as if he converted to Catholicism as a stunt that would peeve all those Church of England stalwarts. His letters make clear that he is not a particularly devout Christian, and his heart-on-his-sleeve misanthropist rantings, lack of love for his children, annoyance at Christmas, etc. makes one wonder if his Catholicism is theoretical rather than one that is actually practiced.

Nancy, however, comes across as essentially and cheerfully Godless. She tends toward socialism, whereas Waugh leans just to the left of outright fascism. But they aren’t that political, deep down. One suspects it’s just another accessory that one dons that keeps them interesting to others in those rarified social gatherings.

Ms. Mitford, for her part, is perhaps the better person. Still, she doesn’t get off the hook with her references to gay friends as “pansies.” She had an irrational hatred of Americans (not having visited the US, by the way). Mitford as cinema critic: “It [Brief Encounter] is both dreary & unrealistic, unlike our books.” For someone who lived in Paris for decades and called herself a Francophile, is it not unseemly to refer to various French as “frogs” in her letters?

Waugh is your I-hate-everyone-sort, and can’t seem to resist pointing out that someone who annoyed him is a “jew” (I use his lower-case). I kept wondering if it wasn’t fatiguing to be so relentlessly “superior”? Elsewhere he says that only jews and lunatics buy the paintings of Cubists.

These letters have been excised of potentially libelous statements (even the oldest from the mid-1940’s). The two of them have strong opinions about artists (perhaps more than the art itself). Both Picasso and Matisse are dissed, for instance. Waugh cannot stand the French (especially everything they have been for the last two hundred years). Rule, Britannia!

I longed to hear something catty about the Royals. What did they think of them? ( )

This collection of letters has converted me to reading books of letters, especially if the writers are as witty and talented as Nancy Mitford and Evelyn Waugh. A brief appendix describing people most often referred to in the correspondence helps keep the names and nicknames in mind. The biographical information on Mitford and Waugh is also helpful. I read a few letters at a time before bed each night and enjoyed them tremendously, even though Waugh was something of a sourpuss. ( )

A really good correspondence between two writers...every one interesting. ( )

I hate Waugh but I love Mitford...oh what to do? I've also never read an epistolatory collection; I don't know if I should start with one where I hate half the writers.

"I want to write a sad story of a man who gave up drink and hated all his chums. It is me." -- Evelyn Waugh, 12 November 1944.

Nancy Mitford and Evelyn Waugh were two of the most popular and respected authors of the early and mid-20th century; they were also lifelong friends who kept up a correspondence lasting more than two decades. This book is a collection of their letters to each other, which are full of jokes, literary allusions, and most of all gossip. They each had a very pointed, satirical sense of humor that was frequently directed at members of their own social set -- and quite often at each other. In many ways they couldn't be more different: Waugh was very conservative, old-fashioned, and staunchly Roman Catholic, while Mitford was a spiritually indifferent socialist living as an expatriate in Paris. But their correspondence reveals that they understood one another and shared a deep, affectionate friendship. Through their discussions of current events, important people, and of course books (both their own and other people's), Mitford and Waugh's letters provide a unique window into their age.

It's taken me a long time to write this review, because how can one "review" a collection of letters that weren't (necessarily) meant to be public? All I can say is that I enjoyed reading them. I've read a few books by each of these authors -- Mitford's The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate, Waugh's Brideshead Revisited and A Handful of Dust -- but otherwise I didn't know much about either of them. I do think some level of familiarity with their work is helpful, but you definitely don't have to be an expert in order to enjoy these letters. They're often hilarious (how I shrieked, as Nancy would say) and also have some interesting discussions about literature. I want to read more of their books now! Of course, their chatter about mutual friends and acquaintances was hard to follow, although the editor did a fairly good job of identifying people in footnotes; but I still enjoyed this collection overall. If you're interested in early- and mid-20th-century literature, this might be a good book to seek out.