A FEW weeks ago Frank Pacy, on receiving an arm‐chair as a farewell gift, said he would take it home, sit in it, and write a book, “Fifty Years as a Librarian.” So I am told; but after that he was not granted fifty days; and as he cared nothing for leisure, and hated the prospect of it, on that score we can congratulate him. Most of us in using phrases to describe an ordinary man do so merely to cover our inability to comprehend such a complexity; but Pacy was not an ordinary man; he was a personality distinct, but multiple, of extraordinary charm, unusual ability, remarkable elusiveness. In writing a note to his memory I am conscious of short‐comings; I was never his intimate; he very frequently disapproved of me, and said so; but I had, like many other men, constant touch with him for over twenty years.
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