I should like to assert flatly that detective fiction and science fiction are akin

Without attempting to rival the complexity of my comparative analysis of jazz and science fiction, I should like to assert flatly that detective fiction and science fiction are akin. There is a closely similar exaltation of idea or plot over characterisation, and some modern science fiction, like most detective fiction, but unlike the thriller, invites the reader to solve a puzzle. It is no coincidence—how could it be?—that from Poe through Conan Doyle to Fredric Brown (the Midas expert) the writer of the one will often have some sort of concern with the other.

K. Amis, new maps of  hell (1960), 16

Fortunately he had not understood, owing to the Berkshire accent they already affected, that what they were calling him was bugger-shit.

The house, Crux Easton, was exactly right and I bought it on the spot. We got our Wootton furniture from store and moved in at once. We bought a cow, Max named her Wellson; from then on we lived well and she gave us butter and milk and cream in abundance. In the yard there was a gardener’s cottage with a crowd of children; they became bosom friends with Alexander and Max and in a matter of days had taught them every swear word in the calendar. They quickly discovered the electric effect these words had upon Nanny and they used them freely. Our new detective, Mr. Buswell, a nice and helpful man, told us one day: ‘The boys always say here comes that battleship Buswell when they see me.’ Fortunately he had not understood, owing to the Berkshire accent they already affected, that what they were calling him was bugger-shit.

D. Mosley, A life of contrasts (1978), loc. 3,219

Reception, for example, which in the ordinary world means a rather dull and formal sort of party

The prison words never ceased to amuse. Reception, for example, which in the ordinary world means a rather dull and formal sort of party, was the broom cupboard already described. Court was a police court, not Buckingham Palace. Wing, such a beautiful word, meant a section of the vile prison. 

D. Mosley, A life of contrasts (1978), loc. 2,936

This is not how I think of any of these words.

How do people expect a church to keep going for 3 occasions in a lifetime?

It set me thinking how strange it is that a man who had never set foot in his village church should wish to have his funeral service there. Churches are used 3 times it seems, wedding, christening & funeral. At the first two, solemn vows are made which people have no intention of keeping-at the last trump I suppose there’s a glimmer of hope of everlasting life in a sort of heaven. Can you explain it? How do people expect a church to keep going for 3 occasions in a lifetime? A sort of superstition, a leftover from childhood? It soon won’t be that as few children are taken to church in the way that our generation was.

Deborah to Diana, 3 September 1999, ed. C. Mosley, The Mitfords: Letters between Six Sisters (2007), 876

She was mad of course

How strange it is, this adoration & beatification of the princess. If only they knew. It just shows how humans must have an icon and there she was, beautiful, elegant and charming & quite extraordinary with ill or old people – I’ve seen her at work & it was a case of touching the hem, almost unbelievable. BUT ‘they’ have no idea of the other side. She was mad of course.

Deborah to Diana, 2 September 1997, ed. C. Mosley, The Mitfords: Letters between Six Sisters (2007), 868

Not a real church like Swinbrook, more a hall with kitchen food

Dink/Terry are coming here from June 11 to 21, I’m so excited for their visit. She/Benj are planning a 50th wedding anniversary for Bob/me on 20 June – you’ll be getting an invite. It’s to be at what Benj calls the ‘FUCK’, i.e. First Unitarian Church, Kensington. No Hen not a real church like Swinbrook, more a hall with kitchen food. 

Jessica to Deborah, 14 May 1993, ed. C. Mosley, The Mitfords: Letters between Six Sisters (2007), 812

I suppose he did it to force me to buy a wig

My hair was cut in London by what I thought was a faithful hairdresser. I was writing to you & Honks & Woman & not watching him & lo & behold I am an active Lesbian, Irma Grese, a prison wardress, a Great Dane breeder, anything but an ordinary English woman. I suppose he did it to force me to buy a wig.

Deborah to Nancy, 14 October 1968, ed. C. Mosley, The Mitfords: Letters between Six Sisters (2007), 607