News at Eleven: Judy Lewis, an energetic housewife of

fiftysomething with four children, used to read to the hospital patients. On one occasion, she told her class that "we're going to read a poem [from The Oxford Book of English Verse] by David Gascoyne". The tall, sad-looking man who sat next to her touched her on the arm and said: "I wrote that poem. I'm David Gascoyne." Judy replied: "I'm sure you are, dear." Two years later, they were married.

Their mutual inscriptions to each other on the fly leaves of the books in this library are immensely touching, a proof that late-flowering love can be just as romantic as youthful passion.

from The Observer: A fitting eulogy for the lost surrealist

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