Literary Review

Except in an occasional, jokey, ironic fashion, nobody fights duels any more. Of all the various ways in which European and American manhood has sought, over the centuries, to validate itself, this must be one of the most absurd. A so-called affair of honour, its ritual demanding a choice of weapons, the assistance of seconds and the presence of a doctor to perform the necessary headshaking should injury result in death, a duel satisfies nothing except the inflated amour-propre of the surviving challenger. Whatever the allure of this kind of pseudo-gallantry might once have been, nowadays the crack of pistols at dawn or the clatter of unbuttoned fencing sabres constitutes a retro step too far. With all its attitudinising, self-righteousness and snobbery, the duel has been a gift for writers ever since the 16th century, when reputation-conscious Spanish noblemen began working out an appropriate etiquette for stabbing one other (shooting was a later sophistication) in the best possible taste.