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'' There was this cocksparrow, my father, now a commercial traveler, dressy and expansive with optimism, walking in and out of jobs with the bumptiousness of a god,'' he wrote in '' A Cab at the Door'' (1968), the first volume of his memoirs.'' There was our sulky, moody mother, either laughing or in tears.'' Victor's Micawber-like father was a boundlessly optimistic but chronically unsuccessful businessman whose myriad failed ventures necessitated frequent and sudden departures in the cab that attended at the door.The world's largest bibliographic database presents bibliographic records for books, serials (journals), and all other formats.
He had an ear for dialogue and an eye for detail.'' How compassionately, but not emotionally, he deals with all the complicated domestic politics of the respectable poor, the martyred or termagant wives, the feckless or drunken husbands, and that terror that walketh by noonday, the mother-in-law,'' Robertson Davies wrote in The Washington Post.At 20, he moved to Paris with very little money in his pocket, vowing to himself never to return.A Salesman in Paris, A Journalist in Spain The trip turned out to be relatively short, just two years, but the young writer thrived in the city's culture and ambience.(When he discussed that book, Sir Victor was as hard on himself as any literary critic.'' Though I have tenderness for the book and think some pages rather good,'' he wrote, '' I am glad it has been out of print for 40 years.'')His career as a foreign correspondent was coming to an end.The characters that fill them -- erratic, unsure, unsafe, devious, stubborn, restless and desirous, absurd and passionate, all peculiar unto themselves -- hold a claim on us that is not to be denied.They demand and get our rapt attention, for in their revelation of their lives, the secrets of our own lives come into view.He also began a lifelong habit of passionate, voracious reading, tearing his way at an early age through Dickens, Ruskin, Thomas Hardy, the complete works of Shakespeare -- anything he could lay his hands on.'' That I understood very little of what I read did not matter much to me,'' he wrote.How much the eccentric has to tell us of what is central!'' Victor Sawdon Pritchett, the son of Walter and Beatrice Martin Pritchett, was born to genteel lower-middle-class poverty in Ipswich, Suffolk, in 1900, at the tail end of the reign of Queen Victoria, for whom he was named.