The Letters of Lady Diana Cooper to Son John Julius Norwich, 1939-1952 Pdf Free
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axiMG (Download) Darling Monster: The Letters of Lady Diana Cooper to Son John Julius Norwich, 1939- 1952 Online [axiMG.ebook] Darling Monster: The Letters of Lady Diana Cooper to Son John Julius Norwich, 1939-1952 Pdf Free Diana Cooper, John Julius Norwich *Download PDF | ePub | DOC | audiobook | ebooks Download Now Free Download Here Download eBook #1038611 in Books 2014-08-14 2014-08-14Original language:EnglishPDF # 1 9.30 x 1.69 x 6.36l, 1.00 #File Name: 1468309226528 pages | File size: 76.Mb Diana Cooper, John Julius Norwich : Darling Monster: The Letters of Lady Diana Cooper to Son John Julius Norwich, 1939-1952 before purchasing it in order to gage whether or not it would be worth my time, and all praised Darling Monster: The Letters of Lady Diana Cooper to Son John Julius Norwich, 1939-1952: 0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. What makes this personal view of history so interesting is that she was also an engrossing and funny writer - urging her young son away at boarding ...By bilbo*5Lady Diana Cooper had a front row seat on the history of the 20th century - a part of the English social and governing establishment and married to a key government official travelling through out the WWII theater. What makes this personal view of history so interesting is that she was also an engrossing and funny writer - urging her young son away at boarding school to keep her letters in lieu of her writing a journal.An added historical footnote of this book is that Lady Diana, as wife of the post-War British ambassador to France, was the model for Nancy Mitford's delightful book "Don't Tell Alfred."0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. Loved It But I Read the Bio FirstBy William J. FallonI enjoyed this but I read her autobiography first so I knew who she was, a lot about her life and times. If you haven't read the bio I'm not sure you'll get all that you should out of it. Kind of listening to a stranger talk on the phone. She writes better than at least 80% of the authors I've read. I'm glad the son admitted that his father cheated on her often.2 of 2 people found the following review helpful. Beautiful and has a good mind!By Beth WilliamsonShe is a delightful correspondent! Lady Diana Cooper was an aristocrat, a socialite, an actress of stage and early screen. When she married rising political star Duff Cooper, they became the golden couple who knew everyone who was anyone; they sat at the very heart of British public life. Diana’s letters to her only son, John Julius Norwich, cover the period 1939 to 1952. They take us from the rumblings of war, through the Blitz, which the Coopers spent holed up in the Dorchester (because it was newer, and therefore less vulnerable, than the Ritz), to rural Sussex where we see Diana blissfully setting up a smallholding as part of the war effort. After a spell with the Free French in Algiers, Duff was appointed British Ambassador to France and the couple settled into the glorious embassy in post-Liberation Paris. Over and beyond all the glitz, Diana emerges in these letters as highly intelligent, funny, fiercely loyal: a woman who disliked extravagance, who was often cripplingly shy, who was happiest in the countryside with her cow and goats and whose greatest love and preoccupation were her husband and son. As a portrait of a time and some of history’s most dramatic and important events, these letters are invaluable. But they also give us a vivid and touching portrait of the love between a mother and son, separated by war, oceans?and the constraints of the time they lived in. “Intriguing . engaging . Cooper is always quick with a turn of phrase, and the collection reminds us of a time, not so long ago, when letters were a natural part of life. “ —Publishers Weekly“Gorgeous, smart, witty, and observant . A personal, detailed view of a hugely changing, frightening, yet always interesting era . Many readers will thrill to details of lunch with the king and queen of England, encounters and adventures with dukes and duchesses.” —Booklist “Gossipy and biting . Diana Cooper was not always serious, but she knew that she lived in serious times. This grave knowledge is what allows these letters to be so much fun.” —The Wall Street JournalAbout the AuthorLady Diana Cooper was born on August 29th, 1892, daughter ostensibly of the son of the 8th Duke of Rutland, in fact of the Hon. Harry Cust. Defying all her mother’s efforts to stop her, she became a nurse at Guy’s Hospital during the First World War and married Alfred Duff Cooper, DSO, son of a surgeon from Norwich, who became one of the Second World War’s key politicians. Her startling beauty resulted in her playing the lead in two silent films and then Max Reinhardt’s The Miracle. For the war effort, Diana converted their seaside cottage in Sussex into a small farm. In 1944, following the Liberation of Paris, the couple moved into the British Embassy, Paris. They then retired to a house at Chantilly just outside the city. After Duff’s death in 1954, Diana remained there until 1960, when she moved back to London. She died in 1986.John Julius Norwich, the only son of Diana and Duff Cooper, is the author of Histories of the Republic of Venice, the Byzantine Empire, the Mediterranean, and, most recently, Absolute Monarchs: A History of the Papacy. He has also written on architecture, music, and the history plays of Shakespeare, and has presented some thirty historical documentaries on BBC Television.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.CopyrightTo my grandchildrenWho would have loved their great-grandmotherAs she would have loved themIntroductionShe was an inveterate letter-writer. I can see her now, sitting bolt upright in bed, cross-legged, a pad of paper balanced on her right knee, a pencil in her hand – always pencil, so as not to get ink on the sheets. Bed was the bridge, the control tower, the centre of operations. On it was the telephone, the writing paper, the addresses, the engagements. Never did I see her sitting at a desk or other table if bed was within range.She always maintained that she could never keep a diary; it was no fun writing to herself. So she wrote to other people instead – to my father if he was away somewhere, to her old friend Conrad Russell, or to me, her son. And she told us everything that happened, writing in a style that was entirely her own – there was no way that any letter of hers could be mistaken for anyone else’s. The writing was effortless; an hour would produce five or six long pages; then she would fold them rather roughly, give the envelope a quick lick, address it – still in pencil – and, as often as not, start on another.Never did she seem remotely conscious of the fact that she was a celebrity; but a celebrity she was. First of all there was the startling beauty; second, she was a member of the high aristocracy – in those days still an advantage – born on Monday 29 August 1892 and brought up in one of England’s most spectacular country houses, Belvoir Castle, as the youngest daughter of the eighth Duke of Rutland. (Her adoring public would have been horrified to learn that she was in fact the result of a long and passionate affair between the Duchess and the Hon. Harry Cust, from the neighbouring estate at Belton.1) But there was more to it than that. Ever since her presentation at court in 1911, she had been the darling of the society and gossip columns; and when she married my father, Duff Cooper – a penniless commoner of whom no one had ever heard – at St Margaret’s, Westminster, a body of mounted police had to be brought in to control the adoring crowds outside.She would have married him in any event; she was to love him to distraction until the day he died. But by then marriageable young men were thin on the ground. At the outbreak of the First World War my father, as a member of the Foreign Service, had been exempt from the call-up – a fact for which I am heartily thankful, since had he not been I should almost certainly not be here today – but most of his friends had not been so lucky. So much has been written of the massacre of that war – particularly of the young officers – that it seems superfluous to add anything further; but I remember my mother telling me that by the end of 1916, with the single exception of my father, every man she had ever danced with was dead.In December 1916 Herbert Asquith resigned as Prime Minister, to be succeeded by David Lloyd George, one of whose first actions – in view of what was becoming a serious shortage of manpower at the front – was to extend conscription to several of the ‘reserved professions’, including the Foreign Service. My father, who had been increasingly embarrassed by what he saw as his enforced inactivity while nearly all his contemporaries were in France, felt nothing but relief.The training, he always maintained, was the worst part. It had been described by his friend Eddie Grant as ‘being stuck in a six-foot bog, trained like an Olympian athlete and buggered about like a mulatto telegraph boy’, and he hated it.