It is puzzling that David Pryce-Jones’s memoirs have not found an English publisher and have been limited to a paperback edition issued by an American magazine. Perhaps they seemed too privileged for these populist days. The oddity and poignancy of his story, the spry elegance of his prose, the angular and implacable cleverness of his ideas and the brusque Etonian confidence of his dealings with people make for a strange and haunting book. 

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