ABSTRACT
Kingsley Arms's death at seventy-three leaves one with old images and the need to sort through them. Though blacks and Asians were non grata to Britain's "yabboes" on the right— this word of Kingsley's meaning rednecks, wherever found— he turned a blind eye on color. Like any genuine writer, in his deepest place he was a career-to-the-talents man. Causes did not engage him. Beneath the picture on the wall, Kingsley and Jane Howard shared a writing surface, chuckling over their work. A professional who never stopped writing, he never surpassed his first novel, Lucky Jim. A poet-friend of Kingsley's, judging his second novel, almost up to his first, gives its flavor. Academics, keeping abreast, read the Times Literary Supplement (TLS), Kingsley opting for The News of the World. Lord David Cecil, whose idiot-savant face Kingsley liked putting on, worshiped "filthy Mozart".
