Duddla duddla duddla da. Ner ner ner. No more heroes anymooooore

I never thought of myself as a being who possessed heroes. But I suppose I am. At any rate, there are certainly a number of individuals, iconoclasts, and supermen who have shaped "my thinking".
Naturally, all these people are long dead, alas. And although their flesh has shrivelled from these heroic bones and disintegrated back into the Earth from whence it came, or been consumed as if on Viking Pyre by the devouring flames of the crematorium, let one last Oratorio ring out for ...get on with it, Baldwin
Yes, well, anyway. In no particular order, my heroes are:

Anthony Powell: Surely the greatest English novelist, memoirist and diarist of the twentieth century. Mr Outer Life may have collected an entire Alexandrian library's worth of distinguished tomes during his inner life, but did he ever own a copy of Iron Aspidistra by Mark Members?
No, of course not. But I do. And it wasn't even written by Powell.

Auberon Waugh: Surely the greatest English novelist, memoirist and diarist of the twentieth century. Enoch Soames may disagree and claim the title for Auberon's father, Evelyn. But that's a girl's name and consequently, by the laws of gender, cannot correctly be called a hero. QED.

Peter Cook: Surely the greatest English comedian, magazine publisher, and talk show interviewee of the twentieth century. "I hope you've brought a toothbrush", etc. Read

Vivian Stanshall: Surely the greatest English Sir Henry Rawlinson, Ginger Geezer, and lead singer of the Bonzo Dog Band of the twentieth century. Owner of the world's fruitiest voice. Lived on a boat. Read

Fairfield Porter: Surely the greatest American painter of the twentieth century. If only because I borrowed the picture which illustrates this page from him. No doubt James Panero would argue against my conclusion, but I prefer Porter's pictures to those of any other artist. Even Homer and Hopper's.

The Earl of Sandwich: Surely the greatest English earl and innovative bread thinker of the ... whenever he was alive. The controversial dietician Stefan Beck may disagree, but personally I like a nice vegetarian sandwich.

S.J Perelman: Surely the greatest American wit and ... sorry, I mean Robert Benchley ... surely the greatest American wit, etc.

Field Marshall Lord Alanbrooke: Surely the greatest English CIGS and diarist of the twentieth century. Read

Benjamin Disraeli: Surely the greatest novelist of the nineteenth century. Did a spot of political work too. Read

Dwight D. Eisenhower: Surely the greatest American President of the twentieth century. Especially since I am beginning to look like him in my old age. Read. I imagine the the crack young staff of the hatemonger's quarterly believe that I have stumbled into the wrong bronze bust in the wrong wing of The White House. But I must admit, like Ike.

Michael Powell: Surely the greatest English film maker of the twentieth century. Read

Emeric Pressburger: Surely the greatest Hungarian film maker of the twentieth century. Read

Preston Sturges: Surely the greatest American film maker of the twentieth century. Read

Ernst Lubitsch: Surely the greatest German film maker of the twentieth century. Read

Comments

[Mike]

A most excellent list. Many familiar names grace that page. Selecting from thousands of possible candidates must have been difficult.

I do notice, though, that the list of possible candidates thins out rather drastically after about 1950.

[stephenesque]

Every thins out after the 1950's - except people's waist lines. However, the title of this piece was inspired by 70s/80s rockers The Stranglers, who, although they are not heroes of mine, did make an impact on my Hi-Fi back in my younger days.

[The Misspent One]

Whatever it is worth, I heartily agree with your placement of A. Powell on your list. I've been reading his series, one volume per year (on trips to London) for the past two years. I am always telling my friends to read him (and Flashman). They say they've read Proust so they're done with "those kind of books". I am only halfway done with Powell and plan on reading Proust after Powell, so what can I say to get them to start now other than how much I've enjoyed the first two volumes?

Oh, another thing: Why isn't dear Pelham Grenville on your list?

[Outer Life]

Alas, my copy of Mark Members's Iron Aspidastra vanished with the rest of my once mighty collection. I don't think my copy was that valuable, though. Some dunderhead named Roy Fuller stuck his book plate inside the front cover and, adding insult to injury, wrote all over the margins, filling them with notes and asides and even editing the poem in a few places. Made it really hard to read.

I was keeping this copy as a placeholder until I could find a cleaner one.

[David]

Of course the list thins out after 1950. I have often said (only about 30% in jest) that the decline of Western civilization can be traced to January 1961 when John F. Kennedy went bare-headed to be sworn-in as President, breaking with past Presidents who worn top hats (or in the case of Eisenhower, a Homberg). A direct line can, I believe, be drawn from the falling off of hat-wearing to the shootings at Columbine High School. My friend in Cambridge, Edward, says he agrees with my methodology, but places the beginning of the decline earlier --to the time that men stopped wearing periwigs.

[ES]

Evelyn was his middle name, his first name was Arthur...So, you had better amend your list and get your Waughs in the right order. Auberon, indeed...

[ES]

What about Field Marshall Slim?