by I think I’ll get a manicure … In 1936, Keynes sat next to the British playwright W.H. Auden at a dinner and paid close attention to his fingers. Auden, wrote Keynes, was most charming, intelligent, straightforward, youthful, a sort of senior undergraduate; altogether delightful, but but but — his finger nails are eaten to the bones with dirt and wet, one of the worst cases ever, like a preparatory schoolboy. So the infantilism is not altogether put on. It was most disconcerting. For all other impressions so favourable. But those horrid fingers cannot lie. They must be believed.
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I think I’ll get a manicure …
In 1936, Keynes sat next to the British playwright W.H. Auden at a dinner and paid close attention to his fingers. Auden, wrote Keynes,
was most charming, intelligent, straightforward, youthful, a sort of senior undergraduate; altogether delightful, but but but — his finger nails are eaten to the bones with dirt and wet, one of the worst cases ever, like a preparatory schoolboy.
So the infantilism is not altogether put on. It was most disconcerting.
For all other impressions so favourable.
But those horrid fingers cannot lie. They must be believed.