We always found ourselves in Magdalena, a quaint, abandoned town nestled far in the western reaches, Lya and I, as we ventured into the Spree. I didn’t know why. And I had never really thought about it. Until now…
Great, loving essay on Samuel Johnson by Henry Oliver, thank you for the link.
Oliver is right, there isn't one special book that defines Johnson, each of his works somehow feels a little unremarkable in isolation. It's Johnson's tone, the reflective posture, that make him.
And Oliver callling Johnson the JS Bach of English prose is ingenious. Jup, Johnson is the Bach of English prose.