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“Mon dieu! — George Mallory! When that’s been written, what more need be said? My hand trembles, my heart palpitates, my whole being swoons away at the words — oh heavens! heavens! I found of course that he’d been absurdly maligned — he’s six foot high, with the body of an athlete by Praxiteles, and a face — ah, incredible — the mystery of Botticelli, the refinement and delicacy of a Chinese print, the youth and piquancy of an unimaginable English boy . . . . For the rest, he’s going to be a schoolmaster, and his intelligence is not remarkable. What’s the need?” — Lytton Strachey
Mon dieu! — George Mallory! When that’s been written, what more need be said? My hand trembles, my heart palpitates, my whole being swoons away at the words — oh heavens! heavens! I found of course that he’d been absurdly maligned — he’s six foot high, with the body of an athlete by Praxiteles, and a face — ah, incredible — the mystery of Botticelli, the refinement and delicacy of a Chinese print, the youth and piquancy of an unimaginable English boy . . . . For the rest, he’s going to be a schoolmaster, and his intelligence is not remarkable. What’s the need?