I’m reading Evelyn Underhill’s Letters at the moment, having come to her very late. I’ve been vaguely aware of her for years, of course, though not, until recently, quite sure even whether she was a She- or a He-Evelyn (as Waugh and his first wife were known). I bought this book principally because it was edited and introduced by Charles Williams, who has been an enthusiasm of mine since I was a teenager, but am now immersed in it in its own right. She was so wise and holy, but at the same time quite irreverently (about things it is permitted to be irreverent towards) funny. Writing to her fiance from, I think Siena, on the subject of crass tourists she wonders why the pictures don’t leap out of their frames to administer a swift kick…