Tory, class apologist, snob, born-again Catholic, anti-Semite, admirer of Mussolini and Franco, employer in the mid-1960s of a Victorian ear trumpet, and general Pooterish misanthrope, Arthur Evelyn (“Eve-” like “Christmas Eve”) St. John (“Sin-jin,” like in “Mad Men”) Waugh (“waw,” as a British person might say “war”) is a difficult man to love.
And yet his novels — with one notable exception — have never been out of print.
