Janet Maslin has a couple of great lines in her review in today's New York Times about Cecil Beaton's last volume of his diary:
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an acid-tongued, note-taking gay man in proximity to great fortunes and great beauties must be in want of a publisher.He liked to complain about imaginary illnesses, too.
The troubles with this book are that a) Beaton's acid-free observations are by no means as interesting as his snide ones, and that b) he spent an awful lot of time describing menu items and extolling the joys of gardening.
If you are getting on a plane, would you mind sitting next to a person who is full of gossip, likes to garden and is a bit of a hypocondriac?
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