October 31 2015 / The Financial Times
In Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (1974) the aged spymaster George Smiley is recalled from retirement to investigate whether there is a double agent, or “mole”, operating at the highest level of the intelligence service, which John le Carré calls the Circus. Melancholy and unhappily married, Smiley is drawn back reluctantly into a crepuscular world of secrets and subterfuge, where nothing is quite as it seems and even long-time friends cannot be trusted.
Making slow progress in his investigation, Smiley returns to Oxford — his “spiritual home” — to see a former colleague, Connie Sachs, who is an expert in Soviet counter-intelligence and renowned for her prodigious memory. In the BBC adaptation of Tinker Tailor, the first episode of which was broadcast in 1979, a few months after the election of Margaret Thatcher, Connie is played by Beryl Reid and Smiley with fastidious, low-toned deliberation by Alec Guinness, in one of his most celebrated roles. Their conversation takes place in near darkness, in a room lit as if by candles, like the setting for some venerable college feast.
Connie has lived through the postwar decline of Britain, which Mrs Thatcher came to power determined to arrest. She tells Smiley that her “boys”, as she calls the public school, Oxbridge-educated group with whom she used to work at the Circus, have lost their way: “Trained to Empire, trained to rule the waves. All gone. All taken away.”
In many ways, le Carré is an elegist, and the espionage novels he wrote in the 1960s and 1970s have a peculiarly sad English music — all long shadows and recessionals. His protagonists seem deeply ambivalent. They have been prepared for a world that no longer exists, and many of them are stumbling. They remain loyal to their school, college, class and, ultimately, their Queen (if seldom their wives), yet the country they serve disappoints them.
Inside the Circus, there is a feeling among the best that the institutions they are fighting to preserve might not be worth the struggle after all. And there are traitors in their ranks, those prepared to cross over to the other side — reading le Carré’s spy novels one thinks often of the shabby final years of the Cambridge spy Guy Burgess, who wore his Eton tie long after defecting to the Soviet Union.
Themes of conflicted loyalty and spoiled idealism recur again and again in le Carré’s novels and contribute to their ambiguity and fascination. Often dismissed as a mere genre writer — by Salman Rushdie, Clive James and others — le Carré is, in fact, one of Britain’s most accomplished postwar novelists, whose fiction has chronicled and continues to chronicle the great movements of contemporary history.
Apart from Tinker Tailor, his best novel is, I think, A Perfect Spy (1986), which is also his most personal book. It’s wonderfully labyrinthine, and can be read on several levels — as a detective novel, a metaphysical thriller, an anguished confession and as an experiment in forms. Le Carré uses abrupt shifts in time, as Joseph Conrad did in The Secret Agent (1907), and perspective to tell the story of Magnus Pym, an English double agent who has gone on the run after betraying secrets to the Czechs. Intelligence officers are searching for Pym, who, in turn, is searching for answers to the fundamental questions of his life: who exactly is he and what led him to betray his country?
On first impressions David Cornwell (le Carré was a pseudonym to preserve his diplomatic cover) seems like a typical member of the English establishment. Tall and patrician, he was educated at Sherborne and Oxford, and taught at Eton, which he called the “spiritual home” (that phrase again) of the English upper classes.
After leaving Eton, he worked for MI5 and MI6 and, because he spoke fluent German, was posted to the British embassy in Bonn. One learns from Adam Sisman in his authorised biography that Cornwell is a brilliant raconteur and mimic, and has been fabulously wealthy for decades because of the bestselling success and film adaptations of the novels. But first impressions are never entirely reliable, as any spy would know.
As Sisman tells it, David Cornwell nurtures deep resentments and class insecurities, going back to childhood. His father, Ronnie Cornwell (1906-75), was a freewheeling chancer, conman and recidivist who went to prison on several occasions. Ann, David’s first wife, called Ronnie “the only really evil person I ever met”. He had monstrous appetites — for money, women, cars, houses, always living beyond his means, never settling in one job or house for long. He hosted extravagant parties, stayed at the finest hotels (bills were mostly left unpaid), and socialised with sports stars, actors, politicians, gangsters and aristocrats. He moved from one hare-brained scheme to another, sometimes lucking out, before the inevitable fall.
He is of the establishment but simultaneously estranged from it. A patriot who put country before friends, he has refused all official honours
One morning, when David was only five, his mother left the family home and never returned. He did not see her again until he was an adult and remained distant from her until her death. “We were frozen children, & will always remain so,” he wrote to his elder brother decades later.
At his prep school, where he boarded and encountered the usual sadistic and perverted masters, David was still wearing a nappy at the age of seven because of an inability to control his bladder. “He became especially sensitive to social nuance, noticing details to which boys from more secure backgrounds might be oblivious,” Sisman writes.
As a boarder at Sherborne David felt awkward and isolated. He was embarrassed by Ronnie, who defaulted on the fees, and by his humble relatives. He has since complained about “the indelible scars that a neo-fascist regime of corporal punishment and single-sex confinement inflicts upon its wards”. Yet, when the time came, he sent his sons away to fee-paying boarding schools, a decision he regards now as a “tragic mistake”.
After leaving Sherborne prematurely (he was 16), David went to live in Bern, Switzerland. There he dreamily read Goethe, studied German and made tentative contact with the British security services. He completed his national service and, assisted by a contact from Sherborne (the old boy network doing its thing), won a place to study modern languages at Oxford, where he socialised with the sons of inherited wealth.
But before long he was also serving as an informer for MI5, betraying the confidences of many leftwing university associates. “He had chosen loyalty to his country over loyalty to his friends,” writes Sisman. Secrecy would become a compelling preoccupation, secrecy as a way of life and as a means by which to understand character and motivation.
Sisman has written an admirable but curious biography. It’s at its best when recounting the grotesque behaviour of Ronnie Cornwell as well as his son David’s struggles to escape from his father’s malign influence and find purpose in life, which he did when the worldwide success of his third novel, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (1963), liberated him to write full-time.
As the author of first-rate biographies of historians AJP Taylor and Hugh Trevor-Roper, Sisman knows well the mores and machinations of the establishment. He understands the interconnections that existed (and still exist) between the great schools, Oxbridge, Whitehall, Westminster, Fleet Street and the City. He knows the codes and can speak the language — all of which has helped in his appreciation of the textures and intricacies of what le Carré calls the “clandestine world”.
There is, however, something missing. It’s as if Sisman is, or feels, constrained: he seems unwilling to pass judgment on le Carré as he follows him on his journey through life or properly evaluate the novels. When his research contradicts something le Carré has written or told him, he simply puts it down to an instance of “false memory” and moves on. In his introduction Sisman says that his subject read the manuscript in advance of publication and that it will be revised, presumably when he is dead.
But in the book we have now, as it stands, Sisman does not really come close to capturing the inner life of the man we know as John le Carré, always the hardest task for any biographer, especially when his subject is alive. Le Carré is a man and writer of multiple contradictions. He is of and for the establishment but simultaneously estranged from it. A patriot who put country before friends, he has refused all official honours, including a knighthood. He has had close friendships with strident rightwingers such as Alan Clark and William Shawcross but claims to have been a long-time Labour voter. He has certainly become angrier with age, raging against Tony Blair’s foreign misadventures and condemning the iniquities of “extraordinary rendition” and the rapacity of the big pharmaceutical companies.
Le Carré has been accused of being anti-American and anti-Israeli, and has feuded publicly with Rushdie, Christopher Hitchens and Tina Brown (when she was editor of the New Yorker). He frequently changes agent, as if always restlessly seeking a better deal, and refuses to allow his novels to be entered for literary prizes such as Britain’s Man Booker, perhaps because he fears the humiliation of rejection by the bien pensant literary crowd he despises.
Sisman hints that le Carré has considered suicide but does not elaborate or explain how close he came. Similarly, we know that his marriage to Ann was destroyed by his long absences and affairs, and that his second wife has tolerated his adulteries. In particular, Ann, who had literary ambitions of her own, emerges from the book as a wounded, pleading woman. How does David feel about her upset and failures and how does Sisman feel about how she was treated? We are not told.
An outstanding absence — especially curious in a book about a major writer — is literary criticism. Sisman writes at length about the business of books: about the rights deals, agents, royalty cheques, publishers, reviews and so on. But when it comes to the novels he offers little beyond scant plot summaries. He tells us repeatedly that le Carré is a great novelist but does not attempt to explain how he achieves his effects. Who are le Carré’s precursors? What are his stylistic and technical innovations? Is he a conventional realist or a more experimental novelist? How did the spy genre evolve? What of the influence of novels such as Conrad’s The Secret Agent and Under Western Eyes (1911)? Again, Sisman has nothing to say.
Le Carré is expected finally to publish a memoir next year. Perhaps only then will we have a fuller understanding of the psychology and motivations of a writer who, you suspect, remains a mystery even to himself. But whatever his private turmoil, le Carré’s considerable public achievement has been to chronicle and interrogate the big political themes of the age while also inventing his own lexicon of espionage — the Circus, tradecraft, lamplighters, moles, scalphunters, pavement artists, the honey trap — that will endure as a permanent part of the language.
John le Carre: The Biography, by Adam Sisman, Bloomsbury, RRP£25 / Harper, RRP$28.99, 672 pages
April 30 2015 / New Statesman
Seeing Things As They Are: Selected Journalism and Other Writings, by George Orwell, Harvill Secker, RRP£25, 496 pages
December 6 2014 / Financial Times
The title of this book is especially apposite. George Orwell’s luminous gift was for seeing things, for noticing what others missed, took for granted or simply found uninteresting, for discovering meaning and wonder in the familiarity of the everyday. In Culture and Anarchy (1869) Matthew Arnold defined culture as “the best which has been thought and said”. But for Orwell, though he was prodigiously well read and deeply learned, culture meant something quite different — “the life most people lead”, as John Carey has put it. Orwell never distinguished between high and low culture: all things were not of equal value to him but they were of equal interest. Nothing escaped or seemed beneath his notice, which was what made him such a good reporter.
There is a scene in Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) in which Winston Smith watches a propaganda news film depicting images of war. Amid the slaughter and brutality Winston notices something: a woman attempting to protect a child from the artillery fire that will kill them both. She puts her arm around the boy “before the helicopter blew them both to pieces”. The gesture is futile. What can she really do for the boy? Yet, for Winston, the “enveloping, protective” gesture of the woman’s arm comes to symbolise something fundamental, an act of human dignity and selflessness, and an expression of unconditional love in an unforgiving world.
Repeatedly in Orwell’s fiction and essays, one encounters moments of clarity such as this, when the reader is startled by something small but significant that Orwell has seen. One thinks in particular of the essay “A Hanging”, set during his years as an imperial policeman in Burma, in which the writer looks on as a condemned man steps to avoid a puddle as he is being led to the gallows. Why should he care about getting his feet wet when he is about to die? But, Orwell writes: “When I saw the prisoner step aside to avoid the puddle, I saw the mystery, the unspeakable wrongness, of cutting a life short when it is in full tide. This man was not dying, he was alive just as we are alive.”
One thinks too of the essay “Shooting an Elephant”, in which Orwell recalls the day he shot a rogue elephant and left it to die in agony, not because he wanted to or felt the act was just but because he feared the derision of the villagers who were watching if he did not.
Seeing Things As They Are, selected and edited by the veteran Orwell scholar Peter Davison, features none of the most celebrated essays. It is intended to be a collection first and foremost of his journalism, with preference given to lesser-known pieces and reviews as well as some of the poems he wrote. It is full of interest and curiosities, such as the inclusion of “Awake! Young Men of England”, a jingoistic poem about the start of the first world war published in 1914 when Orwell was 11, in the Henley and South Oxfordshire Standard.
Orwell did not have a private income, unlike his old friend Cyril Connolly, and his early career was characterised by struggle and poverty. From the mid-1930s until his death in 1950, he wrote compulsively and was published anywhere and everywhere. Davison includes an appendix that estimates Orwell’s earnings from 1922-45; when he died his estate was valued at less than £10,000. Of his books only Animal Farm (1945) could be considered a success, after which he complained: “Everyone keeps coming at me, wanting me to lecture, to write commissioned booklets, to join this and that, etc — you don’t know how I pine to be free of it all and have time to think again.”
For much of the time Orwell lived by what he wrote in little magazines and weeklies: the short book or theatre review, the personal column (many of his “As I Please” columns, in which he explored the rituals of English life and his varied enthusiasms for the leftwing Labour paper Tribune are collected here), the political essay, the eyewitness report, the BBC talk.
Orwell could see things but he could also see ahead because he had such an acute interest in and understanding of the present, informed by deep knowledge of the past and of the canon of English literature. The limpidity of his prose — he said that he wished to “make political writing into an art” — could be explained by his desire to be understood, especially by the general reader.
He did not wish to obfuscate, intimidate or obscure. He despised jargon. In his great essay “Politics and the English Language” he warned against the dangers of the “inflated style” — against excessive stylistic ornamentation, long words, redundant or strained metaphor, ready-made formulation and use of the passive voice. He wanted to illuminate the times in which he lived — to show as well as tell, to report and discover rather than merely pontificate.
Both left and right have claimed him. The right because of his vigorous anti-totalitarianism, popularised in the late novels Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, and because in his essays and journalism he never ceased challenging leftist conformity, the actions of those he contemptuously called the “orthodoxy-sniffers”. In a 1941 review of Malcolm Muggeridge’s The Thirties, he writes of the “shallow self-righteousness of the leftwing intelligentsia”.
Throughout this book, in reviews, essays, “London letters” for the American readership of Partisan Review and occasional pieces, he similarly rails against the false pieties of the left and against those who, as he put it in an essay on Arthur Koestler not included here, “have always wanted to be anti-Fascist without being anti-totalitarian”. Yet, I think, in spite of his ultimate sense of disappointment, gloom about the future and hatred of the all-powerful state, Orwell remained of the left, even if he was also profoundly conservative in his reverence for the traditions, codes and character of English life. As a young man he was in his own self-description a “Tory anarchist”; later he called himself a democratic socialist.
But he was too uncompromising, too committed to uncovering the truth to be an ideologue. Just as he rebelled against the expectations of his “lower-upper-middle class” background — St Cyprian’s prep school, Eton, the absurdities and cruelties of imperial life in Burma — so he refused to submit to the rigidities of any one doctrine. No Guru, No Method, No Teacher is the title of a Van Morrison album. It could have been the title of the autobiography that Orwell never wrote. Except that it would surely have been too grandiose for his taste.
. . .
One of Orwell’s finest passages occurs at the very end of Homage to Catalonia (1938), his book about Spain and the betrayals he witnessed there during the civil war when, like many other idealistic socialists, he joined the international resistance to Franco’s fascists, only to be shot in the throat while in combat. During his months in Spain, Orwell was outraged by what he considered to be the treachery of the Soviet-backed communist government, which was persecuting and killing anarchists and members of the Marxist POUM militia, for whom he fought.
In 1937 Orwell wrote an indictment of the communist government, which he denounced as a totalitarian, “antirevolutionary” force. He called it “Eye-witness in Barcelona” and sent it to Kingsley Martin, editor of the New Statesman, from whom he’d received encouragement. It was rejected (but eventually published in New English Weekly as “Spilling the Spanish Beans”, which is reproduced here).
As a committed socialist, Martin was concerned that Orwell’s report could have “caused trouble” for the left: a case of you are either with us or you are not. “As a sop”, says Davison, Orwell was asked to review a book about the civil war, The Spanish Cockpit by Franz Borkenau. Martin promptly spiked it against the judgment of his literary editor, Raymond Mortimer. Orwell never forgave Martin, whom he accused of censorship and cowardice.
Homage to Catalonia, which sold fewer than 1,000 copies in his lifetime, ends with Orwell’s return to England. Disillusioned by his experiences in Spain, he finds his home country to be reassuringly, seductively becalmed. The book’s wonderful long final paragraph — one of the best Orwell wrote — begins, “And then England — southern England, probably the sleekest landscape in the world.”
The author discovers that “down here” it was “still the England” he had known in his childhood — “the railway-cuttings smothered in wild flowers, the deep meadows where the great shining horses browse and meditate”, “men in bowler hats and posters telling of cricket matches and Royal weddings”, and so he goes on in characteristic style. However, something isn’t quite right. The people are “sleeping the deep, deep sleep of England”, yet Orwell knows that war is coming, that it’s going to happen, and that soon everyone will be “jerked” awake by “the roar of bombs”.
It’s often said the left seeks traitors and the right converts. In 1949, sick with pulmonary tuberculosis and with his judgment becoming increasingly erratic, Orwell compiled a list of “crypto-communists and fellow travellers” for the International Research Department of the Foreign Office. Some of his acquaintances never forgave this small act of betrayal. On the list were two New Statesman editors, Martin, whose mostly brilliant editorship lasted from 1930-60, and Norman Mackenzie, who worked on the paper for 20 years from 1943 and used to lunch with Orwell. (Also included was the superpatriot J.B. Priestley, author of English Journey.)
In a letter to a friend written on the day of Orwell’s funeral, Frederic Warburg, who published Animal Farm after it had been repeatedly rejected as well as Nineteen Eighty-Four, described it as one of the “most melancholy occasions of my life”. He felt that “English literature had suffered an irreparable loss”. Warburg’s judgment has proved prescient: many have since aspired to write in the Orwellian tradition, most notably Christopher Hitchens, but no one has come close to matching his authority or his mastery of so many different forms. His loss was indeed irreparable.
“The great enemy of clear language is insincerity,” Orwell wrote. Few have written pellucid, plain English prose better than he did. As a novelist perhaps his style can be too plain and his realism too simple and even sentimental. As a journalist, when he was not reporting, he could be priggish. He was not always right — it was foolish to have drawn up his list of crypto-communists and fellow travellers, for instance — but he was always sincere in his commitment to truth-telling, even at the expense of making enemies of former friends, as he did of HG Wells.
Orwell was a radical and a conservative, an English rebel who hated imperialism and all forms of tyranny, from the boarding school bully to the Stalinist apparatchik. He was a moralist who wrote of the world as he found it not as he wished it to be. He celebrated the English character as something worth conserving. And he never ceased writing well or loving his country. Dead at the age of 46, his influence and example grow more radiant with each passing year.
September 13 2014 / New Statesman
July 28 2014 / New Statesman
June 20 2014 / Financial Times
In autumn 2011 Marina Keegan, a precociously gifted English major at Yale who was being mentored by the eminent academic and literary critic Harold Bloom, published an essay in the college newspaper. “Even Artichokes Have Doubts” (the whimsical title suggests the influence of David Foster Wallace) was about the career choices of elite Ivy League graduates. Keegan, who also wrote and acted in plays, lamented how many of her peers – a quarter at Yale, she calculated – would soon be pursuing high-paying careers on Wall Street or in consultancy.
This troubled and saddened Keegan, who was an activist in the Occupy movement and served as president of the Yale College Democrats. It told her something important about her generation and what they wanted, or were coerced into wanting, that she did not like.
The essay reached a readership far beyond her student peers and, after a version of it was republished in The New York Times, it inspired, Marina’s mother Tracy told me, a wide-ranging discussion about what America’s cleverest young people should be doing with their lives in the wake of the 2008 financial crisis and the subsequent Great Recession.
Just before she graduated in May 2012, Keegan wrote the cover piece for a special graduation edition of the Yale Daily News. “The Opposite of Loneliness” would be her farewell to a brilliant student career at Yale. It was also a plea to her fellow graduates not to waste time and to “make something happen to this world”. Keegan wrote often in the first person plural, as if she were speaking not only for herself but a generation. “What we have to remember is that we can still do anything,” she wrote in “The Opposite of Loneliness”. “We can change our minds. We can start over . . . The notion that it’s too late to do anything is comical. It’s hilarious. We’re graduating from college. We’re so young. We can’t, we MUST not lose this sense of possibility because in the end, it’s all we have.”
The essay was a viral hit and seemed to confirm what everyone who knew Keegan already thought about her: that she was a young person of tremendous promise. One of her creative writing professors, Anne Fadiman, called her a “self-starting cornucopia”. You sense that Keegan knew she was good, perhaps the best of her year group. “Vaguely, quietly, we know we’ll be famous,” she wrote in one piece at Yale.
Within a few days of graduating, Marina Keegan, who was preparing to take up a staff job on The New Yorker magazine after impressing there as an intern, was killed in a road accident. She and her boyfriend, Michael Gocksch, had been on their way to Marina’s father’s 55th birthday party in Cape Cod when the car hit a guardrail and overturned. An inquest revealed that Gocksch had fallen asleep at the wheel. He was unhurt in the crash but Keegan was declared dead at the scene. She was just 22.
When he was told what had happened, Harold Bloom said the young woman’s death was “beyond human comprehension”. He added: “It is 60 years since I first came to Yale. I can think of only a few other women and men I have taught whose presence always will be with me.”
. . .
Keegan’s smashed-up laptop was found in the crashed car; from the hard drive her mother retrieved her unpublished writings. These, together with short stories and pieces from the Yale Daily News, have been collected in a book, The Opposite of Loneliness. Edited by Anne Fadiman, it has been a small sensation in the US, where it has been widely and mostly generously reviewed. Keegan has, indeed, become famous but not in a way that she or anyone could have imagined or would have wished.
Many of the book’s themes – the confusions of romantic love, your first car, college jealousies and rivalries, the strangeness of returning home to your parents after a long period away – are juvenile: after all, Keegan was only 22 when she died. Yet there is a preoccupation, too, with death and mutability and this gives the book depth and a kind of macabre retrospective fascination.
Milan Kundera has written about what he calls “the mathematical paradox in nostalgia: that it is most powerful in early youth, when the volume of the life gone by is quite small”. Keegan seems to have had a keen sense of this paradox: even as she prepared to leave Yale and was excited by her future prospects, she seemed to have been mourning something she understood could never be recaptured. “We don’t have a word for the opposite of loneliness,” she wrote in her final piece, “but if we did, I could say that’s what I want in life. What I’m grateful and thankful to have found at Yale, and what I’m scared of losing when we wake up tomorrow and leave this place.”
Tracy Keegan told me when we spoke on an indistinct phone line (she was on a train to New York), that her daughter was extraordinarily driven. “She grabbed life and ran with it,” she said. “Compassion, humanism and humour – these are the three strongest ingredients of our family. Marina was driven by her passions but also by a sense of urgency.” Why such urgency in one so young, I asked. “Perhaps she had a sense of things to come . . . ” Her voice faded, and then there was silence.
. . .
There is not much footage of Marina Keegan on YouTube, apart from some recordings of poetry recitals she gave at Yale. In one performance she recites from memory a long poem she wrote called “Bygones”, the last line of which is “And I cry because everything is so beautiful and so short.” As she speaks you can see how she is drawing confidence from the audience and the pleasure their enthusiasm gives her.
It’s moving to watch this young woman speaking about everything being “so beautiful and so short”, knowing what happened to her soon afterwards. “High on their posthumous pedestals, the dead become hard to see,” writes Anne Fadiman in her introduction to The Opposite of Loneliness. “[But] Marina wouldn’t want to be remembered because she’s dead. She would want to be remembered because she’s good.”
As an undergraduate I had a special fascination with several writers who died very young, notably Keats, Wilfred Owen and Alain-Fournier, who wrote one enchanting novel, Le Grand Meaulnes (1913), before he was killed shortly after enlisting to fight in the first world war. I loved them for what they had written but also for what they might have written had they lived even just a few more years.
It’s something like this with Keegan’s first and last book. Her voice is so fresh, her enthusiasm so appealing, her ambition so great that you cannot help but wonder what she might have achieved with more life experience and once she was freed from the hothouse environment of an Ivy League school. “When we encounter a natural style we are always surprised and delighted,” wrote the 17th-century polymath Blaise Pascal. Keegan had her own surprising and delightful natural style. She persuades by sweetness, not authority. She also had a very American sincerity but was never solemn or worthy. She performed in plays and was active in politics; her friends speak of her wit and warmth. For Fadiman, “Every aspect of her life was a way of answering that question, ‘How do you find meaning in your life?’”
I asked Tracy Keegan whether she felt any anxiety about exposing her daughter’s juvenilia to the world. “Marina would have been mortified,” she said, half joking, “but this is all we had to choose from. What has given me sparks of light in the darkness is the way people from all over the world have responded to [her graduation essay] “The Opposite of Loneliness”. So many have contacted us to say its message has changed their lives. This encouraged us to push through this whole thing and get more of her words out there in the world.”
Marina, she said, “was willing to put on paper her fears, hopes, insecurities, foibles, jealousies. She had courage. My daughter had courage in her writing.” And now she has many readers too.
June 13 2014 / New Statesman
May 8 2013 / New Statesman
April 19 2013 / Financial Times
On the evening of Margaret Thatcher’s death, BBC2 broadcast a special edition of Newsnight. The novelist chosen to participate, via satellite from New York, was Martin Amis. With his absurdly suave voice, celebrity, frown and pout and his fondness for a fine phrase, Amis was an obvious choice to be literary London’s representative on the big night (even if he now lives on the other side of the Atlantic in Brooklyn).
Like Thatcher, his career-defining work was done in the 1980s, and on Newsnight he recycled old jokes and riffed on the names of some of those who served under Thatcher – “the Keiths, Normans and Cecils”. It was an amusing cameo but no more than that: it was striking that Amis, once such a perceptive cultural critic, had nothing original or notable to contribute, as no doubt his old friend Christopher Hitchens would had he been alive.
At moments such as the Thatcher death, one misses Hitchens. His Manicheanism and absolutism could irritate but, even as you disagreed with him, you admired the superb fluency with which he defended his positions. He was never afraid of stridency. And he continually addressed the most divisive issues of the age: the rise of Islamism, the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, the limits of western power, religion and its role in the world.
With Hitchens dead and Amis becalmed, what is missing from the literary-political landscape is a figure with the significance and commitment of George Orwell or HG Wells, someone who writes novels as well as political essays and popular journalism, and to whom we can turn and learn from at moments of national consequence or crisis, and around whom others can gather, as today they still gather around Orwell.
We are fortunate, of course, to have Ian McEwan, whose novels are animated by the dilemmas of the day. But he is a very different writer from Orwell or Wells, less explicitly political, more a novelist who also happens to be a nuanced journalistic commentator when the occasion arises than a controversialist and participant in the commanding political battles. Orwell and Wells, to borrow Matthew Arnold’s phrase from Culture and Anarchy, helped us “to see things as they really are”. They wrote in plain language and when they talked about literature they talked about politics and vice versa.
Unlike so many novelists today, they excelled in various forms – fiction and non-fiction, criticism and journalism – and they sought to interrogate the world as they found it as well as conjuring dystopian visions. Wells was enthralled by science and The Time Machine and The Island of Dr Moreau are radiant with the excitement and possibility of technological change. Orwell, who might best be described as a Tory anarchist, was fearful of change and of the future; Wells rushed to embrace both.
The American writer Barbara Kingsolver has said literature “doesn’t tell you what you think. It asks what you think.” But perhaps it is not a question of either/or. Perhaps a better definition of the engaged political novelist is one who simultaneously asks questions of the society in which they live and tells important truths about it.
After the London bombings of July 2005, I wrote a profile of Ian McEwan in the New Statesman, the magazine I now edit. I described him as being the closest thing Britain has to a national novelist, which is now how others describe him too. What I continue to like about McEwan, even if his excessively schematic novels can disappoint, is that he is interested in politics, in the broadest sense.
He published some of the finest pieces of all in the immediate aftermath of the September 11 2001 attacks and again in the run-up to the Iraq war and it was no surprise that he should write one of the more thoughtful reflections about Margaret Thatcher after her death.
In the 1980s McEwan was one of a group of literary writers in London — others included Salman Rushdie, Angela Carter, Harold Pinter and Hanif Kureishi — who were radicalised by Thatcherism. They loathed and scorned the woman who won three general elections while, I believe, never really attempting to understand what she represented or the consensus-breaking forces she unleashed. In Rushdie’s Satanic Verses (1988), she is caricatured as “Mrs Torture”. In McEwan’s The Child in Time (1987), she is not named but the novel’s repulsive, domineering female prime minister, whose voice is “pitched somewhere between a tenor’s and an alto’s”, is clearly based on her.
But now, in late middle age and after her death, McEwan could write more reflectively about Thatcher: “She forced us to decide what was truly important ... Her effect was to force a deeper consideration of priorities.”
The same could not be said of David Cameron or Ed Miliband and that is part of the problem as well as the challenge for contemporary novelists with political preoccupations for whom the Westminster jamboree has become such a great turn-off, as it has for much of the population.
Ours is a resolutely post-ideological age. Beyond the west, Islamism long ago replaced communism and secular liberation movements as an ideology of rebellion and revolt. There are no compelling, world-historic clashes of secular ideas as there were even in the 1980s, when Margaret Thatcher was fighting the cold war and Francis Fukuyama proclaimed the end of history. This partly explains why some of today’s most intellectually stimulating writing is now about climate change (John Gray, Elizabeth Kolbert), religion (Daniel Dennett, Sam Harris, Alain de Botton), science (Steven Pinker, Richard Dawkins) and nature (Robert Macfarlane) rather than ideology or class.
When the New Statesman was founded 100 years ago it was intended to be a “weekly review of politics and literature”. Note those two words, “politics” and “literature”. Beatrice and Sidney Webb, who also co-founded the Fabian Society and the London School of Economics, wanted their “paper” to be a vehicle for their ideas and for it to play a leading role in what they hoped would be a “scientific” transformation of society and the “world movement towards collectivism”. Theirs was a socialism of experts: technocratic, statist, bureaucratic.
Among those closely associated with the Webbs were Wells and the Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw, who provided £1,000 of the initial £5,000 required to set up and fund the NS. Both Wells and Shaw wrote regularly for the paper on politics and then later, in the early 1920s, after the NS broke free from the Webbs’ influence, the novelist Arnold Bennett became chairman and one of the chief benefactors. In 1931, after a merger with the Nation, the old voice of social liberalism, John Maynard Keynes became chairman and the paper’s cultural pages were imbued with the spirit of Bloomsbury.
Yet from the beginning, there was a separation between the politics and the literature, between what was published in the front and back halves of the paper. The NS became known as a “pantomime horse”, with the “political” front and “cultural” back defined by different sensibilities and aspirations. There seemed to be no connecting bridge between the two “halves”, or worlds, of the paper. The understanding was that the front half was rigidly political in mission and intent while the back was more plural and open. It was as if the demands of politics and literature were in some way antagonistic; that to concentrate too much on the political would be to neglect the literary and to be too literary would be to misunderstand or to be insufficiently serious about politics.
When Amis worked on the Statesman as literary editor in the late 1970s, he was baffled by and found comical the political commitment of his friends and fellow staffers Hitchens and James Fenton, both then on the hard Trotskyite left. He has written of how Hitchens improved as a writer, his prose gaining in “burnish and authority”, only after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, as if before then he had been constrained by a self-imposed demand to hold a fixed ideological line and this had affected his literary style.
Today the pantomime horse has been slain. No such division exists between politics and culture. As a former NS literary editor myself, I have presided over what Jonathan Derbyshire, the magazine’s present culture editor, describes as integration from back to front: “An intrusion into the political part of the magazine of a temperament and cast of mind – sceptical, ecumenical, liberal – that has always reigned at the back.” But we are still searching for the contemporary equivalent of George Orwell, let alone Christopher Hitchens, for the writer who works in multiple forms and who seeks in his or her work to unite truth, literature and politics.
Will the culture ever throw up another Orwell? Perhaps the answer is that the culture and the way we define “political” have changed too much. It’s not that we do not have novelists of considerable political ambition. There is John Lanchester, who writes with extraordinary lucidity about the financial crisis and the internet. There is James Meek, whose narrative journalism, in long, rigorously researched reports published in the London Review of Books, has won him a place on the 2013 Orwell Prize longlist. And there is Will Self, a prolific novelist and journalist whose scabrous wit and satire compare with the best of Jonathan Swift.
But none of them is politically engaged or committed as Orwell or Wells were. Politics is incidental to rather than the core of who they are. They are political rather than Political. For Orwell, Wells and other great New Statesman writers such as J.B. Priestley (who produced a 1957 article that led to the formation of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament) and Arthur Koestler, whose Darkness at Noon (1940), was a parable of leftist disaffection, the besetting moral problems of the age were ideological. How should the pacifist left, appalled by the carnage of the first world war, respond to the rise of Mussolini and Hitler? Should a socialist support or reject the Soviet Union? How to respond to the nuclear threat? What attitude to adopt towards communism?
For Orwell there was only one answer to that last question. What mattered was truth-telling, no matter what it revealed about your own side and positions. He was especially outraged when Kingsley Martin, editor of the New Statesman from 1930-1960, refused to publish his “Eyewitness in Barcelona”, a 1937 dispatch from the Aragon front that implicated the Soviet-backed government forces in atrocities against the non-Stalinist Poum militia. For Orwell, Martin’s action was unforgivable because he had allowed ideological sympathies to influence his editorial independence: Martin’s was the “corrupt face” of censorship.
Orwell wrote political essays and explicitly ideological fiction as well as gentle, nostalgic novels about Englishness such as Coming Up for Air and Keep the Aspidistra Flying. He was a reporter as well as a commentator. Little about English cultural life escaped his notice, from comics to the rituals of hop-picking.
Wells was also a satirist, essayist and parabolist. His greatest novel, Tono-Bungay (1909), takes its young hero on an adventure through an England that is hierarchical, class-bound, uneasy and riven but also full of possibilities. It’s an exuberant state of the nation study of a kind beyond the reach of most contemporary British novelists.
Wells was fascinated by the Soviet experiment. In the 1930s, for the New Statesman, he visited Moscow where he deferentially interviewed Stalin and sent back reports on life there (he liked what he saw, sadly). Both Orwell and Wells were radicals who, as with Koestler and many others for whom the god of communism failed, slowly became more sceptical about the threat the authoritarian state posed to individual liberty. Their scepticism was ultimately in conflict with their political commitment and the former triumphed.
Today, in Britain, one can read any number of good political novels from Jonathan Coe’s What a Carve Up!, a satire of the worst excesses of Thatcherism, to the best of the Booker Prize-winning, Scottish vernacular stylist James Kelman, for whom alternative verbal idioms serve as a form both of cultural resistance and self-definition. But are these writers political in the way Orwell was? I’d say no.
Our most consistently interesting political novelist is, I would argue, John le Carré. He is foolishly dismissed as a mere genre writer – Rushdie once mocked what he considered to be his literary pretensions – but his longevity and resilience are remarkable. Le Carré has long had a grand subject – English imperial decline and institutional corruption – and his consuming preoccupation is betrayal, personal and political. Indeed, for Le Carré the personal and the political are inseparable.
In the acknowledgments section of his new novel, A Delicate Truth, Le Carré thanks Anthony Barnett, the founder of the openDemocracy website, for “educating me in the manners of New Labour in its dying days”. I asked Barnett about Le Carré and he said: “Behind the thriller, there is both a penetrating assessment of the state of our world, a Britain in decline especially – but not only, as the cold war made him a world writer from the start – [and] also a careful, profoundly moral investigation of good and evil, corruption and weakness, integrity and striving, inheritance and sheer badness and greed.”
Yet Le Carré works more in the pessimistic tradition of Joseph Conrad and Graham Greene. As good and vital as he is, he’s no Orwell or Wells. Would that we had one, a writer today who could explore – as they did theirs and in as comparably various ways – the complexities of our age, stricken by crises and caught in the headlong rush of change.
March 16 2013 / Financial Times
In 2011 Philip Roth was awarded the Man Booker International Prize for lifetime achievement. In the lead-up to an intimate celebratory dinner that he was due to attend with Roth in New York, Rick Gekoski, chairman of the judges, asked around to see if there was anything he shouldn’t raise in conversation with the thin-skinned and easily irritated novelist. The answer was the Nobel Prize in Literature.
The Nobel has become for Roth, who turns 80 on March 19, what the second world war was for Basil Fawlty: the great unmentionable. No one who knows him would doubt that this brilliant, proud, ultra-competitive and astoundingly self-absorbed writer wants to win the prize that no American novelist has won since Toni Morrison in 1993, and which his friend and mentor Saul Bellow won, at the age of 61, in 1976.
In a BBC interview in 2007, Roth, who lives alone in rural Connecticut but also keeps a flat in Manhattan, loftily dismissed prizes as “childish”. And yet the biographical note on every book he has published over recent years is little more than an inventory of prizes: “In 1997 Philip Roth won the Pulitzer Prize for American Pastoral. In 1998 he received the National Medal of Arts at the White House ... “
He has won everything worth winning, it seems, except the Big One, about which he must not be asked.
Philip Roth was born in Newark, New Jersey, the second son of a lower-middle-class Jewish family. He attended Bucknell and Chicago universities. As a writer, he first came to prominence in the early 1960s, a time of heightened ambition and profile for the American novel. His early influences included Joseph Conrad, Henry James, Bernard Malamud, Isaac Bashevis Singer and, of course, Bellow, who had found a new way of writing about the tumultuous challenges of American modernity in a voice uniquely his own. For Roth, as for the likes of Bellow and Norman Mailer, writing was a kind of heroic activity, an art of public engagement and performance.
“When success happens to an English writer,” Martin Amis wrote in the early 1980s in an essay on Kurt Vonnegut, “he acquires a new typewriter. When success happens to an American writer, he acquires a new life.”
Roth’s life changed, irreversibly, with the publication of his third novel Portnoy’s Complaint (1969). Wildly comic and wilfully outrageous, it made him famous and it made him rich. It also made him many enemies, especially in Jewish America – he was accused of self-hatred – and among social conservatives, who were appalled by the novel’s sexual explicitness and indecency (Portnoy is a furious masturbator), by its exuberant excesses and irreverence. This, after all, was the late 1960s and Roth was a man of his times, thrilled by the possibilities opening up around him.
Alexander Portnoy is a clever, disturbed young fellow and he’s sickened by his own American reality. He is in open revolt against the conventions and expectations of his petit bourgeois Jewish family. His mother swaddles him in love and he dislikes his father. What shocked readers most about Portnoy, Roth said in 2005, was not the sex, but “the revelation of brutality – brutality of feeling, brutality of attitude, brutality of anger. ‘You say all this takes place in a Jewish family?’ That’s what was shocking.”
Portnoy was the precursor to and archetype of all the Roth men who were to follow, from Nathan Zuckerman, Roth’s fictional alter-ego, and David Kepesh to Mickey Sabbath, the anti-hero of Sabbath’s Theater (1995), which is generally considered to be one of his three best novels. (The others are 1986’s The Counterlife and 1997’s American Pastoral.) Roth Man, as Amis once called him, is sex-obsessed, narcissistic, garrulous, often raging. He knows no bounds. He is wary of commitment. He relentlessly asserts his individuality. But he is also isolated and often deeply, hilariously confused – many of Roth’s novels are existential comedies of misunderstanding.
In The Ghost Writer (1979), the first of the Zuckerman novels, Nathan is staying at the house of his literary hero, an aged and reclusive writer named EI Lonoff. An attractive young literary groupie is also staying in the house. Zuckerman convinces himself that she’s having an affair with the married Lonoff and, absurdly, that she is none other than Anne Frank.
Roth Man understands, indeed insists, that in our singularity and isolation we are mysteries ultimately even to ourselves, and that life can be a kind of black farce – Kepesh, in the late novella The Dying Animal (2001), speaks of the “stupidity of being oneself”, of the “unavoidable comedy of being anyone at all”.
To Roth, for whom sex and death are inextricably linked, women can seem unknowable. There is very little romantic love in his fiction. He writes very well about the love between a parent and a child – especially in Patrimony (1991), American Pastoral and Indignation (2008) – or between siblings, but seldom, if ever, between a man and a woman, a husband and a wife. For Roth, marriage is a kind of cage in which couples are locked in mutual recrimination and loathing.
“Did Roth hate women?” asks the Russian-American novelist Keith Gessen, as part of a caucus organised by New York magazine to mark the author’s 80th birthday. He suggests that a man who spends so much of his time thinking about having sex with women cannot possibly hate them: misogyny is the accusation most often and most damagingly made against Roth. “Still,” Gessen continues, “it might be said that Roth is slightly less useful in a world that is slightly more equal than the world he knew; where men and women do not stand on opposite sides of the question of sex but arranged, together, sometimes helplessly, against it; where sex is less of a battlefield and more of a tragedy.”
Roth has been married twice and has no children. His second marriage, to the English actress Claire Bloom, ended notably unhappily. Roth fictionalised aspects of his life with Bloom and this wounded her. In 1996, she published a memoir, Leaving a Doll’s House, in which she denounced her former husband, accusing him of misogyny and adultery. She wrote of his “deep and irrepressible rage: anger at being trapped in marriage; fear of giving up autonomy; and a profound distrust of the sexual power of women”.
Roth himself has said: “Making fake biography, false history, concocting a half-imaginary existence out of the actual drama of my life is my life.” He is fascinated by doubleness and deception, hence all those metafictional tricks he plays and the alter-egos through whom he speaks. They invariably share much of his own early biography – the Newark boyhood, the conflicted Jewish identity, the troubles with women – as well as his preferences and prejudices. Several of his novels feature characters named Philip Roth – the best of them being Operation Shylock (1993), set partly in Israel and exploring the period when Roth was recovering from depression and a breakdown after heart surgery. He simultaneously asserts the veracity of the stories he tells while seeking to undermine them by drawing attention to their artificiality. Roth’s strategy is one of complete disclosure interwoven with complete disavowal. He’s only too happy to show the strings from which his creations dangle.
In November last year, Roth declared that he would write no more novels. “I’m done,” he said. Can it really be that this most prolific and prodigiously gifted novelist, this writer who, after his divorce from Bloom and retreat to rural Connecticut, began publishing a series of masterpieces in his sixties and seventies, will write no more? There has, I think, been nothing comparable to his late flourishing in the history of Anglo-American letters. It is difficult to accept that this has now come to an end, when as recently as 2010 Roth published one of his most poignant and tender novels, Nemesis , set during a polio epidemic in wartime Newark.
Many of the novels of Roth’s late period are preoccupied with illness and death, as is Nemesis. The scabrous comedy and laughter disappeared from his work around the time of Sabbath’s Theater. The old rage was replaced by something approaching resignation. Even Zuckerman withdrew from centre stage and became, in Roth’s great political-historical trilogy comprising American Pastoral, I Married a Communist (1998) and The Human Stain (2000), the narrator no longer of his own, but of other people’s stories, a benign facilitator.
In Exit Ghost (2007), a belated follow-up to The Ghost Writer, an ageing and sick Zuckerman (he now wears nappies because of incontinence following prostate surgery) encounters a cocky, smart-talking literary academic in Central Park. The young man is described, in a jewelled phrase, as being “savage with health, and armed to the teeth with time”.
Philip Roth knows he is running out of time. He speaks now of the end – certainly of the end of his writing life. He ought to have won the Nobel Prize long ago, but perhaps his work is simply too American for the august Swedes of the Nobel committee, who have grumbled about the parochialism of the American novel, of how it looks inward rather than out to the rest of the world. That is nonsense, of course. The greatest living American writers – Cormac McCarthy, Don DeLillo and, preeminently, Roth – are universalists who in radiant prose ask, again and again: what does it mean to be human and how should we act in a world that is as mysterious as it is indifferent to our fate?
At the end of The Tempest, as he prepares to take his leave, Prospero, a magician of words, hints that “the story of my life” is ending, and now “Every third thought shall be my grave”. Roth has told the story of his life many times and in many different ways, and now he is done.
“At the end of his life,” Roth said in an interview last year, “the boxer Joe Louis said, ‘I did the best I could with what I had.’ It’s exactly what I would say of my work: I did the best I could with what I had.” We can ask no more.
November 22 2012 / New Statesman
October 25 2012 / New Statesman
July 4 2012 / New Statesman
January 21 2012 / Financial Times
In the summer of 2006, I spent six weeks in Germany on assignment to write about the World Cup for a British Sunday newspaper. Those were long, settled days of warmth and sunshine and I had very little work to do - perhaps one essay to write each week.
I rented a small flat in central Berlin that overlooked Peter Eisenman’s austere Holocaust Memorial and was situated opposite the Adlon Hotel, from a high, open window of which the disturbed pop icon Michael Jackson once dangled one of his babies in a moment of manic exuberance. Accredited journalists were given a complimentary first-class rail pass for the duration of the tournament and I spent my days travelling on trains and reading or rereading novels and stories with sporting themes, just to get in the mood.
It seems strange now to recall that all of these books were by American men: Philip Roth, John Updike, Don DeLillo, Richard Ford, David Foster Wallace ... I also read Thom Jones’s stories about luckless boxers; Tom Coyne’s 2001 novel about a golf caddy, A Gentlemen’s Game; and, as I do every year, The Great Gatsby, which uses golf to expose the dishonesty of the narrator Nick Carraway’s girlfriend. In most of what I read, sport was portrayed as being central rather than marginal to American life, as well as being a way to test and explore moral character: resilience, courage, toughness, loyalty.
There was an implicit understanding in these books that most of us live, as Ford puts it in his 1986 novel The Sportswriter, “applauseless” lives, none more so than Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom, the everyman “hero” of Updike’s great tetralogy, written between 1960 and 1990, that comprises Rabbit Run; Rabbit Redux; Rabbit Is Rich; and Rabbit At Rest.
Rabbit is a sportsman of sorts - he was once a “first-rate” basketball player. But as a mature adult, he is restlessly second-rate. We first encounter him as a young man on the basketball court, where he is nimble and commanding. Then, at the end of Rabbit at Rest, we look on as he dies in bloated and complacent late middle-age - on a basketball court, completing the circle of his life. Rabbit’s is an emblematically American death. He has joined in with a group of kids who are playing in a park, and he collapses, “bursts from within”, as he rises to shoot a basket, the ball hitting the ground just after he does. “Harry,” wrote Updike in an introduction to the collected Rabbit novels in 1995, “was for me a way in - a ticket to the America all around me.”
The narrator of Ford’s The Sportswriter is, like Rabbit, a would-be man of action and sportsman who has lost his way in life but who never stops believing in the redemptive capacity of sport. The novel begins with a resounding declaration: “My name is Frank Bascombe. I am a sportswriter.” Written with terse lyricism in a flat, confessional style, it’s essentially about ennui and drift, and the failure of a certain kind of American man to become emotionally literate.
Bascombe’s young son has died, his marriage is over and, though he once wrote an acclaimed book of stories, he no longer has the ambition to write anything more demanding than sports features. But he is good company: cynical, laconic, yet capable of moments of wonder.
I first read The Sportswriter not long after it was published - it was a gift from my father - and it seemed entirely new and fresh, so unlike the English novels I’d read. I couldn’t imagine that the English writers I was being encouraged to read at that time - William Golding, Graham Greene, John Fowles - would begin a novel as Ford did or write with the same idiomatic freedom and confidence about the centrality of sport in our lives. I used to think that a choice had to be made between sport and literature; that you couldn’t be both a sportsman and a book man. They represented two separate and distinct cultures, the life of the mind and the life of action, and there was no connecting bridge between them.
I was wrong, of course, but it took me many years and the emergence of the new memoir-writing about sport, inspired by Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch and Pete Davies’s All Played Out in the early 1990s, to understand why. I realise now that my misunderstanding was bound up with class anxieties about what was an appropriate subject for serious and considered study and reflection, the failures of English education (mine, at least) and, above all, with the absence of a literary tradition.
Even today, there’s still scarcely any tradition of British fiction about sport, as there is about war, class, politics or crime. Nor is there much fiction that moves in and around the subject of sport as David Foster Wallace does in Infinite Jest (1996), which is set partly in a tennis academy. There are good English novels in which sportsmen have a walk-on part or in which sport features tangentially (such as the comedies of PG Wodehouse or LP Hartley’s The Go-Between (1953), with its portrayal of a village cricket match) or pejoratively and sarcastically, as in the work of Martin Amis. London Fields (1989), perhaps Amis’s best novel, has a low-life character named Keith Talent. He’s a wife-beater, small-time crook and darts player, and the object of much hilarity and scorn (Keith - he has no talent at all, get it?).
Amis, as was Foster Wallace, is a tennis fan, and even plays recreationally. But when he writes about the game in a novel such as The Information (1995) or in his journalism, it’s always with an eye on the next gag; it’s always as a vehicle for grotesque humour or satire. It’s as if, in common with so many English novelists of his generation, he’s incapable of taking such a non-intellectual pursuit seriously as a worthy subject of fiction: far better to go head to head with nuclear war, Islamism and the Holocaust. Or could it be that as a subject for fiction sport is simply too tricky to represent - the on-field action sequences, I mean? Also, how to represent the consciousness of those who excel at sports when they themselves are mostly incapable of describing how and why they do what they do so well?
Amis once said perceptively of Updike that “his fascination with the observable world is utterly promiscuous”. The same could be said of most of the major male American novelists of the postwar period, for whom no subject, however superficially trivial or banal, seems to escape their notice. American reality, Roth wrote in a 1960 essay, “stupefies, it sickens, it infuriates, and finally it is even a kind of embarrassment to one’s own meagre imagination. The actuality is continually outdoing our talents, and culture tosses up figures almost daily that are the envy of any novelist.”
As well as writing a novel about baseball, The Great American Novel (1973), Roth creates, again and again, characters whose youthful sporting brilliance and athleticism is rapturously described, so as to make their subsequent struggles and decline seem all the more poignant. And always the bookish, cerebral Roth delights in humbling his sportsmen, as if to punish them for being so physically strong and naturally gifted. I’m thinking here of Swede Levov in American Pastoral (1997), of Coleman Silk in The Human Stain (2000) and, most recently, of Bucky Cantor in Nemesis (2010).
In June last year, Roth was awarded the Man Booker International Prize. He did not attend the dinner in London, but those of us who were there watched a recording of him reading from Nemesis , set during a polio epidemic in Newark during the hot summer of 1944. The central character is a physical education teacher at a boys’ playground. Because of poor eyesight, Bucky has been exempted from the draft but he is immensely strong and throws a javelin prodigious distances. He’s something of a hero to the boys he teaches.
The novel is narrated in a long retrospective by one of Bucky’s former pupils and the story he tells has the terrible inexorability of Greek tragedy. Late on, we learn what became of the proud and stubborn Bucky, of how he was an unwitting carrier of the polio virus that was killing and maiming the boys in his care and of how he himself was eventually struck down and crippled by the disease.
Yet the book ends not on a single note of despair but rather in ironic glory as we encounter Bucky once more as a young man. It’s a summer afternoon and he’s out with the boys in a big dirt field, demonstrating how to throw the javelin. “It’s not magic,” he tells them. But for the boys, what they witness is a kind of magic - the magic of high sporting dedication and accomplishment, of the mysterious naturalness and grace of it all. To the boys, Bucky seemed “invincible”.
It was this radiant passage, when he had the pick of all of his work, that Roth chose to read for guests at the dinner. As he described Bucky’s exploits with the javelin, sitting at his desk at home in north-west Connecticut, Roth lifted and then stretched back his throwing arm, fully inhabiting the moment now, as if he was engaged in the act of becoming Bucky, or had become him. It was a lovely thing to behold.
Perhaps the most acclaimed American novel of recent months is Chad Harbach’s debut, The Art of Fielding, just published in Britain. Written from many different points of view, it is broadly the story of a young college baseball prodigy who suffers a catastrophic loss of nerve - the “yips”, in the vernacular - after a fielding accident. Harbach is a cultural critic and one of the founding editors of the smart, Brooklyn-based literary magazine N+1. He worked on the novel for more than a decade and says he was influenced by Don DeLillo, especially by his early work about American football, End Zone (1972), and by Foster Wallace, whom he describes as “one of the few novelists who have really thought about the relationship of sport to larger society”.
It’s this willingness to think about sport and its role in, and relationship to, larger society that separates American writers from their British counterparts. There has been no equivalent in British fiction of the long, opening set piece of DeLillo’s epic 1997 novel Underworld, in which he thrillingly recreates a famous 1951 baseball match between the New York Giants and the Brooklyn Dodgers and sets it in the turbulent context of the early stirrings of the cold war and of American paranoia about the communist threat. The best sporting set piece in a British novel I can think of, by contrast, is the golf match between James Bond and Goldfinger at Royal St George’s, Kent - it’s entertaining and well written but scarcely serves as a statement about English society, in the grand DeLillo and American style.
The publication of Fever Pitch in 1992, which borrowed from the American writer Frederick Exley’s “fictional memoir” A Fan’s Notes (1968), inspired a whole series of British sports memoirs from the early 1990s onwards. These were less about the sport itself than about the psychological condition of fandom. For a new generation of writers, after Hornby, sport became the means through which to write about the particularities of their own lives, their loves and losses, aspirations and failures.
American novelists such as Harbach, and those who came before him such as Roth, Foster Wallace and DeLillo, are doing something much more imaginatively difficult when they dare to write fiction about sport, because they aren’t merely rubbing up against, or seeking to recast, the actuality of events already known and familiar. Or to tell us what they were thinking about or how they were affected by them. Rather, they are creating entire fictional sporting worlds - something from nothing, as it were - populated by characters who can seem as real to us as Wayne Rooney or Lionel Messi. In fact, they seem more real - more complex, more human even, because the novel, at its best, is the one art form that offers privileged access to consciousness and interiority, to the inner torments, excitements, contradictions and indeed boredom of the human story.
“You loved it,” Harbach writes of baseball in The Art of Fielding, “because you considered it an art: an apparently pointless affair, undertaken by people with a special aptitude, which sidestepped attempts to paraphrase its value yet somehow seemed to communicate something true or even crucial about the Human Condition.” And that something crucial is that: “We’re alive and have access to beauty, can even erratically create it, but will someday be dead and will not.”
So for Harbach, the secret of the appeal of sport to the American novelist is this: that, like art, it is a potential gateway to beauty, and can make us feel fully alive. Foster Wallace said something similar in a 2006 essay on the Swiss tennis genius Roger Federer: “Beauty is not the goal of competitive sports, but high-level sports are a prime venue for the expression of human beauty.”
Can we ever expect an equivalent of The Art of Fielding on this side of the Atlantic? The portents at last seem promising. In March, John Lanchester publishes Capital, a sprawling, panoramic state-of-the nation novel in the realist tradition of Mrs Gaskell’s North and South or HG Wells’s Tonay-Bungay. Its setting is one London street and, through the lives of those who live on it, seeks to dramatise the larger story of the English nation at a time of soaring inequalities and profound economic crisis. Lanchester is a clever fellow who knows a lot of stuff - including a lot about football and one of the main characters is a young African Premier League player.
Lanchester understands how football, in the age of the globalised Premier League with its clubs owned by Gulf oil theocracies and international plutocrats, has become the dominant cultural form of our times and that no novel that seriously wants to take the temperature of modern England, to hold up a mirror up to how we live today, can ignore sport.
What I like is that Lanchester is not content with merely describing the African’s life away from the pitch but follows him on to it, describing his debut in an extended scene that savours what Blake called “the holiness of minute particulars”. It’s worthy of Updike at his most promiscuous and, I hope, signals a new, more ambitious direction in English fiction.
January 2 2012 / New Statesman
December 16 2011 / The Daily Beast
September 22 2011 / New Statesman
From The Good of the Novel, edited by Liam McIlvanney and Ray Ryan, Faber & Faber, April 2011
April 2011 / From The Good of the Novel, Faber & Faber
In 1992 Martin Amis published an amusing short story about male narcissism and rivalry called ‘Career Move’. Its turbocharged engines were, for Amis, the familiar ones of ironic inversion and paradox: two writers, a poet and a screenwriter, experience a remarkable reversal in fortune when the poet finds himself being flown first-class to Hollywood, where he is feted by agents and directors competing extravagantly to make a major movie of one of his poems, ‘Sonnet’; meanwhile, the screenwriter is condemned, as most poets usually are, to submitting his work, wearily and with increasing desperation, to an impecunious, low-circulation arts magazine as he seeks publication in any format, anywhere. The two writers, once friends, become ever more anguished rivals, especially when the movie of Sonnet opens in 437 theatres and ‘does seventeen million in its first weekend’.
Male rivalry – especially between writers – is a recurrent theme in Amis’s fiction. ‘All writers,’ he once said, ‘if they mean business, if they’re ambitious, have got to think they’re the best. You haven’t got a chance of being the best unless you think you’re best.’
As the son of a famous novelist, the late Kingsley Amis, and an ardent reader of Saul Bellow, with whom he became close friends, as well as Nabokov, Amis was from the beginning unusually interested in style, in what it means to write fiction in a style that is ostentatiously your own. ‘I don’t want to write a sentence that any guy could have written,’ he told an interviewer, staking out territory, issuing a challenge. No, he wasn’t here to make up the numbers and, like his father, he would write comedy, but with a twist of nastiness.
His first novel, The Rachel Papers, published in 1973 when he was twenty-four, was a work of aggressive exhibitionism. The fancily-writing, smart-talking narrator, Charles Highway, is a kind of amalgam of Holden Caulfield and Patrick Bateman, the nihilistic anti-hero of Brett Easton Ellis’s American Psycho. Highway, who is nineteen, and preparing to go up to Oxford, is willfully cruel in the way he seduces and then spurns young women. He keeps fastidious records – his papers – of his conquests and couplings. He is an auditor of the carnal. The novel has a young man’s dread of and disgust for the middle-aged, for what time does to us all. ‘The skin had shrunken over her skull,’ Highway writes of his mother, ‘to accentuate her jaw and commodious collerage for the gloomy pools that were her eyes; her breasts had long forsaken their natural home and now flanked her navel; and her buttocks, when she wore stretch slacks, would dance behind her knees, like punch balls.’
This much-quoted sentence – so showy yet funny and inventive, too – was like a declaration. Everything that would define Amis as a novelist and stylist was here in microcosm: the grotesque humour and revolt against pulchritude (‘her breasts had long forsaken their natural home’), the cruelty (who really would talk of their mother in this way?), the ironic knowingness and allusions (‘the . . . pools that were her eyes’ – Shakespeare, innit?), the baroque phrase-making. Young Martin was on his way; if he stayed fit, away from the booze and off the drugs, if he kept reading and writing, there would be little to stop him, because he had talent (a key word in the Amis lexicon) as well as the required tenacity, and evidently knew exactly what he wanted to say and how to go about saying it.
In The Moronic Inferno and other visits to America, a collection of his journalism and essays published in 1986, Amis argued that Saul Bellow wrote in a style fit for heroes, the High Style.
‘To evolve an exalted voice appropriate to the twentieth century has been the self-imposed challenge of his work . . . The High Style attempts to speak for the whole of mankind . . . to remind us of what we once knew and have since forgotten.’ Amis, too, wanted to write in the High Style, to develop his own exalted voice, and, on the whole, he achieved just that: working both as a novelist and literary journalist he continued to publish prolifically throughout his twenties and thirties, his novels all the time deepening and hardening in their preoccupation with decay and disaster. He wrote comic novels but without the usual consolations of comedy. He was drawn again and again to the defining crises of our modernity – to the corruptions of capitalism and Thatcherite excess (Money, 1984), to the nuclear threat (Einstein’s Monsters, 1987, a book of stories about the uneasy tensions of the Cold War), to the anxieties of millenarianism and visions of apocalypse (London Fields, 1989), to the Nazi catastrophe and the Holocaust of the Jews (Time’s Arrow, 1991), to the loneliness of a godless world (The Information, 1995).
Amis is, wrote John Updike, an ‘atrocity-minded author who demands we look directly at things we would rather overlook’. It was as if in his restlessness and ambition he were seeking subjects worthy of the grandeur of his exalted style and of the seriousness of his intent, the big subjects of our time: genocide, nuclear war, environmental degradation. He wanted to write about the whole of society, not only a small part of it. ‘The 19th-century British novel was, if you like, a superpower novel,’ he told the New York Times in 1990. ‘It was 800 pages long, about the whole of society. With [British] decline, the novel has shrunk in confidence, in scope. In its current form, the typical English novel is 225 sanitized pages about the middle classes.
You know, “well-made” with the nice color scheme and decor, and matching imagery. I almost try and avoid form. What I’minterested in is trying to get more truthful about what it’s like to be alive now.’
Whether or not he was succeeding in this, he was being read. People were listening. His ‘stuff ’, as he likes to refer to his work, was news. He was becoming a literary celebrity in the American model: watched, gossiped about, well rewarded, admired. His mastery of different registers and modes of address, his blokeish banter and sardonic fascination with the tawdry excesses of contemporary popular and street culture – with porn, and booze, and drugs, and easy women – soon meant that, for better or worse, he became the novelist most widely imitated in style and voice by any number of younger British writers, from Richard Raynor to D. J.Taylor to Will Self to Tibor Fischer. Even now you can detect the influence of Amis’s urgent, rhetorical, insistently comic style, his riffs and repetitions, his improbable reversals and playful paradoxes, his inner-city locations, in the first two novels of the Booker-shortlisted author Zadie Smith.
Yet in the early 90s something happened to Martin Amis. It was as if he had made a wrong turn. Attitudes hardened against him; reviewers traduced him; diarists and columnists eviscerated him. He was still the most influential writer of his generation, in the argot, but this influence was perceived increasingly as baleful. How did this happen? The answer can be given in two words: The Information. This was no ordinary novel. This was his superpower novel. Five years in the writing, it was marketed as The Amis Novel, a work of the highest verbal ambition, comparable in reach and achievement to the very best of Bellow or Updike or Philip Roth, something that would show us the truth of how it was to be alive in Britain at the end of empire and of the most violent century in human history. Amis certainly gave the impression, before publication, that he had produced something very fine indeed. His best novel? He had long been preoccupied by how good he was and by his place in the literary scheme of things. ‘People kept saying that I was the most influential novelist of my generation or whatever, and so I wanted to see what I was worth,’ he said at the time. So he instructed his agent Pat Kavanagh, the now sadly deceased wife of his long-time friend and fellow novelist Julian Barnes, to extract an advance of £500,000 from Jonathan Cape, the onceindependent imprint that had published him for more than twenty years. The amount was considered unreasonable even for an author as esteemed as Amis; though widely admired, his books were never bestsellers and he was seldom a contender for the main literary prizes, such as the Booker, which have an exponential impact on sales. Following much anguish and vilification, Amis found himself a new agent, and a new publisher prepared to pay the desired advance, HarperCollins, part of the Rupert Murdoch media empire. By the time it was published, in April 1995, The Information was as much a journalistic as a literary event – and was received as such; Amis, perhaps unfairly, found himself under review both as a man and as a writer. His moral character became part of the wider discourse; this was literary criticism as hatchet biography. The book was a commercial and critical failure; Amis would soon afterwards return to Jonathan Cape, his reputation diminished.
I read The Information shortly after publication, and recall being exhilarated and frustrated in about equal measure. I had long admired Amis as a writer, especially the journalism. His profiles of American writers collected in The Moronic Inferno were one of the main reasons why, in my early twenties, I had wanted to be a journalist; those essays delighted me with their disciplined intelligence, their empathy, reach and invention, as much as if not more so than his fiction. I always thought something important was missing from the fiction, especially the early novels: heart, love, fellow feeling. I enjoyed some of the phrase-making, as well as the manic comedy, but seldom felt the urge to return to these books. It was the journalism that mattered most to me, when Amis was writing well to deadline, and within strict word limits, and about any number of subjects from literature to sport to pornography to celebrity. It is not that he has no hierarchy of taste: he is an unashamed elitist, dedicated to the great works of the Western canon. Rather, what made him such a good journalist is his curiosity and ability to consider all things, not of equal value, but of equal interest. He is no relativist. But he is open to all possibilities. The Information was about a mid-life crisis; Amis, who was forty-five in 1995, certainly seemed to be living through some kind of existential crisis of his own: his long-time marriage had ended; he was having expensive and painful surgery on his troublesome teeth, which had turned him into a figure of fun; and the details of his pursuit of a talent-affirming advance was being reported in the newspapers as if it were a story of national significance, like sudden severe shifts in the weather or the fall of a government minister. The media frenzy seems, in retrospect, absurd but for Amis The Information proved to be a terminus. After its publication, he was taken far less seriously and ceased to be the most influential novelist of his generation.
Instead, in the following years, writers close to him, such as Ian McEwan and Kazuo Ishiguro, achieved the kind of career-defining commercial and critical success that he, above all literary novelists of that time, had once seemed destined to enjoy. He has written nothing notable since The Information, turning away from grand, 500-page state-of-the-nation-style novels as he experiments instead with other forms: nourish crime (Night Train, 1997), memoir (Experience, 2000), political narrative (Koba the Dread, 2002, a book about the crimes of Stalin and why the left for too long stayed silent about communist oppression), the novella (The House of Meetings, 2006) and the autobiographical novel (The Pregnant Widow, 2009).
There was one shortish, hypercharacteristic novel, Yellow Dog (2003), which has the usual desolate inner-London setting; the usual comic cast of preposterously named grotesques, such as a tabloid-reporter called Clint Smoker (Amis evidently likes the name – a character called Smoker appears in The Information as well); the usual supercharged prose style, mixing the vernacular of the street with a more refined literariness. Unfortunately, Yellow Dog, as Michiko Kakutani, a longstanding admirer of Amis, wrote in the New York Times, ‘reads like a sendup of a Martin Amis novel written by someone intent on sabotaging his reputation’. It need not detain us here.
So what of The Information? It certainly reads as if it were the culmination of an entire fictional project. All the old obsessions are here: male rivalry, inevitably; literary envy; the allure of dirty money; the unknowability and mystery of women; the impossibility of love; the fear of time’s irreversibility; metaphysical terror. The Information is a comedy of cosmic humiliation; the strivings of two writers, who both live in west London and turn forty as the novel begins, are set in the context of a godless and pitilessly indifferent universe. Throughout the book the omniscient narrator stands apart, mocking and commenting on the small struggles of his characters as he reminds us of the futility of artistic ambition, indeed of all ambition, and of the absence of larger meaning in our lives. We are hard-wired, he seems to be saying, to seek meaning in a universe in which there is none.
This is the real information that comes in the night, that comes to us when we least expect and want to think about it. The Information begins well, with Richard Tull at home in west London and in bed with his wife, Gina; it is the middle of the night and he is weeping. The first sentence is rather lovely – ‘Cities at night, I feel, contain men who cry in their sleep and then say Nothing.’
Who is the speaker here? Is this to be another first-person confession, in the style of Money, which was narrated by the junk-food-addicted, coke-addled John Self, or London Fields, narrated by Samson Young, an American in London who is dying from an unnamed wasting disease, possibly Aids? Not quite. The ‘I’ of this first sentence turns out to be the omniscient narrator, a distinct, self-conscious character all his own.
His initials are MA, as you would expect, and he directly enters the narrative when he meets Richard in a park, just as John Self in one of Money’s best set-pieces meets a writer called Martin Amis in a pub, observing how the writer is ‘small, compact, wears his rug fairly long’. This time, the role of Amisas- narrator is much more directly controlling and interpretative. He is at once complicit in his characters’ miseries and at an ironic remove from them. Again and again he interrupts the story to apostrophise and pontificate, like a puppet master breaking the spell of performance directly to address his audience, which serves merely to remind us of the artificiality of the entire exercise and of the visibility of the strings through which he exerts control.
Once Richard is up and about the next morning we discover what it is he has to cry about. He is a novelist who no longer publishes novels. He is a father of disruptive twin boys, from whom he seeks to escape even as they turn the family home into a battleground. He is impotent, naturally. His marriage is moribund – Gina was once his ‘sexual obsession’, which was why he married her, but that was a long time ago. He has no money. He has just turned forty, and has a cyst on the back of his neck, which he disguises by growing long what is left of his hair. Worst of all, his closest friend, Gwyn Barry, is a successful novelist: a bestseller, a prize-winner. The writers are in continuous competition. They compete in the snooker hall, over the chess board and on the tennis court – as well as, naturally, in the shower, where Richard furtively watches Gwyn ‘toweling his humid bush’ while speculating on how ‘nice’ it would be ‘to have had a big one’. Richard beats Gwyn at chess, at snooker, at tennis. None of this matters to him because, when it comes to writing, to the literary high stakes, Gwyn is winning. Gwyn has everything that Richard wants: wealth, a readership, Hollywood interest in his work and a beautiful young aristocratic wife he adores and fucks as often as he can. As if this weren’t enough, as the novel opens, Gwyn discovers that he is on the shortlist for a prize, the nicely named Profundity Requital – which, if he wins, will provide him with a considerable income for the rest of his life. Good work if you can get it.
Amis enjoys taking us through the routine of Richard’s days, contrasting his calamities and woes with Gwyn’s successes. Richard dresses ridiculously in bright waistcoats, reviews literary biographies, edits the arts pages of The Little Magazine, sells scraps of literary gossip and moves without purpose through the degraded streets and sordid parks of west London, the familiar Amis territory of Holland Park, Notting Hill and Ladbroke Grove, his fictional patch, his manor.
At night, Richard retreats to his study to work on his latest novel, Untitled, a novel so opaque and experimental that it induces a migraine in whoever tries to read it. We have been here before in the company of Amis, most obviously in the early novel Success (1981), an engaging caper in which two foster brothers are set against each other in perpetual competition, especially over women, with one more successful than the other, until their fortunes are reversed, as in the story about the poet and the screenwriter, ‘Career Move’. The rivalry between the writers in The Information is darker and far more treacherous than in these earlier fictions, at one with the unremitting bleakness of the urban setting – and there is to be no dramatic reversal for Richard. If anything, his luck is destined to run out altogether, especially once he decides that he can escape the prison of his envy only through destroying Barry, through ‘fucking him up’ once and for all. This becomes his consuming mission. What sustains him in his unhappiness and envy, what keeps him going as he trips and stumbles in his various attempts to topple Barry, is the knowledge that his rival’s novels are worthless and shall have no afterlife. ‘Gwyn’s success was rather amusingly – no, in fact completely hilariously – accidental,’ he tells himself. ‘And transitory. Above all transitory. If not in real time then, failing that, certainly in literary time. Enthusiasm for Gwyn’s work, Richard felt sure, would cool quicker than his corpse. Or else the universe was a joke. And a contemptible joke.’
To smooth his mission Richard enlists the help of a street thug he meets one afternoon by chance. He is Steven Cousins (aka Scozzy) and, together with his two black sidekicks, a driving instructor called – wait for it – Crash, and 13, a man who answers not to a name but a number, and an unlucky one at that, certainly for Richard, as it turns out. Amis, like Bellow before him, invariably introduces criminals into the mix with writers and aristocrats. He likes the comic possibilities of this crosscultural slippage and he likes experimenting with different modes of speech. Here is 13, complaining about the enhanced powers of the police in Thatcher’s Britain:
‘The titheads . . . is like a gang. The Old Bill is like a gang. Hired by the government. When did it happen? It happened when they upped the pay. 1980 or whatever. They saying: It’s gonna get rough. Unemployment is it. Riots or whatever. You keep a lid on it and we pay you extra. Where’s the money come from? No worries. We’ll fine the fuckers.’
This amusing passage is evidence of Amis’s fine gift for listening and then for replicating the multiracial patois of the inner city. The trouble is: he is seldom prepared to loosen the reins of narrative control; he is always insistently and tiresomely present, pre-empting the reader. So 13’s riff about the police is prefaced thus: ‘13 drew breath: he was about to give voice – and in the high style. His intention, plainly, was to speak not just for himself but for all men and all women, in all places, in all times – to remind the human heart of what it had once known and had now long forgotten.’
Haven’t we heard something like this before? ‘The High Style,’ wrote Amis of Bellow, ‘attempts to speak for the whole of mankind . . . to remind us of what we once knew and have since forgotten . . .’
Because this is an Amis novel it must necessarily follow that Cousins – and 13 and Crash – shall be a comic grotesque, rather than a comic surprise. It follows that he must conform to (stereo) type, even though he introduces himself to Richard as ‘an autodidact’, in a way that is against type. This interests Richard and, for once, he stops thinking about himself and thinks instead about Cousins. ‘Autodidact – that’s a tough call,’ he says.
‘You’re always playing catch-up, and it’s never wholly that you love learning. It’s always for yourself.’
This is one of the most poignant observations in the book, because true, but Amis never takes it anywhere. He never attempts to develop Cousins as a character or explore the possibilities of his quest for knowledge as, say, Forster did with the character of the yearning suburban clerk Leonard Bast in Howard’s End or Zadie smith did in the character of a young black American rapper in On Beauty, her homage to Howard’s End. This is, above all, a failure of imaginative empathy, a failure that extends most problematically to Richard’s wife, Gina. We are told often that Richard is impotent. Indeed, Amis repeatedly riffs around the theme of impotence. Richard, he writes, was ‘impotent with her [Gina] every other night and, at weekends, in the mornings too . . . Nor did the bedroom mark the boundary of their erotic play. In the last month alone, he had been impotent with her on the stairs, on the sofa in the sitting room and on the kitchen table.’
Later, he returns to the subject:
After each display, after each proof of his impotence, it was into his excuses that Richard poured his creative powers . . . In the early weeks they explored the themes of tiredness; and then re-explored it . . . There they lay together, yawning and rubbing their eyes, night after night, working their way through the thesaurus of fatigue: bushed, whacked, shattered, knackered, zonked, zapped, pooped . . . As excuses went, tiredness was clearly a goer, amazingly versatile and athletic; but tiredness couldn’t be expected to soldier on indefinitely. Before very long, tiredness made a natural transition to the sister theme of overwork, and then struck out for the light and space of pressure, stress and anxiety.
All of this is tolerably amusing, if only as adolescent dormitory humour, but it is also unbelievable, especially in the context of the marriage as depicted in the novel. Amis insists on telling rather than showing the details of Richard and Gina’s sexual difficulties. When on the few occasions they are shown together, fretting over unpaid bills or discussing Richard’s chances of finding a publisher for Untitled, their encounters are brief and rather fraught. This marriage is ashen and deathly. Richard and Gina are emphatically not portrayed as being a couple who, when chance would have it, are attempting to make out on the stairs or kitchen table, heady and reckless with mutual intoxication. Nor does Richard and, by implication, his puppet master Amis pause to reflect on how all this rejection may be affecting Gina. This would be to cross a border into altogether unfamiliar terrain. So instead of pathos, we have pontification; instead of empathy, we have stylised effect.
To Martin Amis prose style is not mere decoration; it reveals moral character. ‘When I read someone’s prose I reckon to get a sense of their moral life,’ he wrote, preposterously, in Koba the Dread. So what of his own moral life? If you read Amis’s prose against itself, seeking meaning in the ellipses and omissions of his style, you find an empty space where once the consolations of faith and belief might have been for the nineteenth-century novelist, where for later writers, perhaps, a political programme would have been, and where now love ought to be, however tangentially expressed. Many of Amis’s best non-fiction pieces are enriched by love – the love he feels for his father and siblings and children and for the writers and books that mean most to him. There is no love in his fiction, certainly for or between characters. There is only a love of style, something that precedes and is anterior to the fiction. So the very act of writing for Amis must be an act of love, even if he is repeatedly drawn to what is most morbid and debased in the human story, even if in his land of the make-believe the word itself catches amen-like in his throat. It cannot be spoken or expressed.
Amis inhabits a resolutely post-religious world, in which everything is perishable and there is no redemption. The universe, he keeps telling us in The Information is not, emphatically, about us. He returned to this theme in his next work, the novella Night Train, narrated by a tough, lonely Irish-American female cop with a man’s name (Mike Hoolihan). Night Train is, like The Information, un livre sur rien – a book about nothing. Or, rather, about nothingness. Hoolihan is investigating the death of a young woman, the well-named Jennifer Rockwell, who has been shot in the head. But this is a detective novel without a murderer and it soon becomes apparent that Jennifer, a family friend of Hoolihan’s, was not murdered. She committed suicide as she sat one day alone in her apartment – but why? We learn much about Jennifer during the course of Hoolihan’s sad investigation, most pressingly, and oddly, that she was happy enough and largely fulfilled in her life.
So why did she do it? There is a clue to the mystery of her death in the work she did. Jennifer Rockwell was an astronomer; it was her professional duty to study emptiness and voids, to be paid to think about being and nothingness. Pascal wrote that ‘man is equally incapable of seeing the nothingness from which he emerges and the infinity in which he is engulfed’. Not so with Jennifer Rockwell. She, Amis suggests – and the reader must accept, because nothing else in her fine bright life of achievement and opportunity indicates that she would have killed herself – evidently saw into the nothingness of Pascal’s ‘immensity of spaces which I know not and which know not me’. This knowledge, this terror of the infinite void, destroyed her.
A terror of the void is also what keeps disturbing Richard Tull in his sleep, awakening him to the reality of his earthly failures. When Amis is not pushing these fears on to the hapless Richard, he stands apart from the narrative, taking time out, as it were, to talk about time – and space. Long passages of the novel are given over to astronomical equations and calculations.
‘Out there, in the universe, the kilometer definitively has it over the mile. If the universe likes roundness. Which it seems to do. The speed of light is 186,282 mps, but it is very close to 300,000 kps. One light hour is 670,000,000 miles but it is very close to 1,000,000,000 kilometres . . .’
Even the characters think of themselves in cosmological terms. If people were planets, Richard thinks, he would be Pluto, and Charon his art. Pluto was the smallest of the planets, so far away from the sun. How would he feel now, all these years later, to discover that Pluto is no longer even a planet; that in 2006 it was downgraded to the status of ‘dwarf planet’?
The universe’s first appearance as a major character in an Amis novel was in London Fields, published in 1989 but set a decade later, on the eve of the new millennium. Despite the title, this is an anti-pastoral, a study in urban psychosis and alienation. The sense of crisis is once more acute: time is out of joint, London’s streets are polluted, crowded and violent; the weather has gone wrong (in 1989, Amis knew all about the heat waves ahead) and the threat of nuclear and environmental catastrophe is omnipresent. Samson Young, the narrator, alone in his flat, and dying, writes, ‘We have all known days of sun and storm that make us feel what it is to live on a planet. But the recent convulsions have taken this further. They make us feel what it is to live in a solar system, a galaxy. They make us feel – and I’m on the edge of nausea as I write these words – what it is to live in a universe. Particularly the winds. They tear through the city, they tear through the island, as if softening it up for exponentially greater violence.’
Many scenes take place in a west London pub called the Black Cross, where a promiscuous and jaded woman of thirty-four called Nicola Six (or should that be Sex!) is searching for a murderer – her own. She ends up meeting Keith Talent, a wifebeating, small-time crook and darts player, and perhaps Amis’s most energetic low-life creation. (Keith – he has no talent at all, of course. Ha ha.) London Fields is sprawling and fragmentary, a novel about writing, full of intertextual jokes and self-references – Samsom Young is staying in the flat of an absent writer, one Mark Asprey, who may or may not be the same ‘MA’ who, in Nicola’s diary, is referenced as her most accomplished lover. MA – get it? The plot, such as it is, is incoherent. Nicola knows that she is to be murdered and when, on her next birthday – when she will be thirty-five, such a resonant age in literature – but not by whom. How she comes to know this is never properly explained, as Amis is no major realist, with minors in psychology, motivation and agency. The suspense turns on who is to be the murderer. Is it to be low-lifer Keith Talent, over whom Nicola exerts considerable sexual control, or high-born Guy Clinch, the naive and gullible posh boy with the demanding wife and demented child, who Nicola gleefully teases and torments?
It doesn’t really matter in the end who the murderer is, though the murder takes place all the same as we knew it would, because Nicola, Keith and Guy have all the garish unreality of cartoon characters. We are encouraged to care little or nothing for them. What we are encouraged to care for, instead, is the big picture: the language, the artifice, the art. To read London Fields is, in many ways, to encounter a writer with too much talent. He wants to try everything – anything – because he can, and more often than not it comes off. Look at me, he seems to be saying, I can juggle with all the balls in the air.
Shortly after the publication of London Fields, Amis was interviewed in the New York Times. At the age of forty, he had begun to feel old. ‘It’s a little death, middle age. Romantic possibility . . . changes. It’s calmer waters now, windless seas – if not the doldrums. You always thought it was a hilarious secret that while everyone else got old, you weren’t. But children redefine everything for you. A lot of the self is lost, thank God; the internal gibber of wants and need dies down.’ Ah, calm seas, the doldrums . . . as it turned out, Amis could not have been more wrong, because he would soon find himself adrift in very turbulent waters indeed. If The Information is a book about a mid-life crisis it was written, as Amis told me when I interviewed him at home one evening in the summer of 1997, at the end of what he called his own ‘cataclysmic midlife crisis’. In retrospect, the entire book reads like an extended crisis – of ambition, of confidence, of over-reach. In the last instance, it is an exercise in heroic decline, the monumental work towards which Amis had long been moving as each novel became more complicated and multilayered, as each novel strove to be truly novel: new, urgent. A superpower novel!
Yet approaching the final 100-page stretch of The Information, once the two writers have returned from a protracted and hysterically rendered book promotional tour of the US, the structure begins to mimic that of its central character. It begins to atrophy. It begins slowly to collapse in on itself. The strain becomes palpable. In the fourth and final part of the book, Amis starts closing each discrete section with a ruled line, a technicality introduced for no apparent reason. He begins to shift points of view and, intermittently, we are inside Gwyn Barry’s head. The weather becomes more extreme (‘All the rumours of the wind now gathered themselves, in riptide’) and the astronomical musings even more overwrought, as if it is not only Richard Tull who feels he is running out of time: ‘The Man in the Moon is getting younger every year. Your watch knows exactly what time is doing to you: tsk, tsk, it says, every second of every day. Every morning we leave more in bed, more of ourselves, as our bodies make their own preparations for reunion with the cosmos . . . The planesaw whines, whining for its planesaw mummy. And then there is the information, which is nothing, and comes at night.’
During our meeting, I was baffled as to why the experience of ageing should have been so traumatic for Amis. The complacency of youth, no doubt. Now, having reread The Information all these years later, I understand how the real subject of the novel is not literary envy or male rivalry, the ordinary motors of comedy. It is the fear of death, a fear that can come upon some of us suddenly, nightmarishly, in early middle-age. ‘During a mid-life crisis you feel stupefied,’ Amis told me. ‘You are living in a land you no longer recognise. You don’t know the language anymore. You feel lost. Women have a biological change; men don’t. It’s a pity because the whole thing might be understood more if they did. A mid-life crisis is really about reaching an accommodation with death.’ For Amis, more than most, the passing of youth must have been especially painful. He had always achieved so much so young; he had always been the coming man, the writer with the youthful high-energy style and the cool, street-smart persona, the writer in search of the new rhythms. He always seemed to have so much promise, and he kept on improving: each new book seeemed at the time to be an advance on the one before – until, that was, he wrote The Information, and revealed how increasingly over-reliant he was on the same effects and satirical conceits, the same overheated tropes, how destined he was to repeat himself again and again, like poor Pincher Martin scrambling for survival on his blasted rock.
Like Woody Allen, Amis is a comedian who wants to be a catastrophist. This may explain why no matter how much he labours to import seriousness into his fiction – through writing about the nuclear threat, the Holocaust, Stalin’s gulags or Islamism and the al-Qaeda attacks on New York and Washington of 11 September 2001 and the cultural wars that followed – his novels never really move or, I think, succeed in conveying the textures of felt experience. There is something powerfully ersatz about them. They never carry us to the heart of the human muddle in the way that his non-fiction can. Largely this is because his characters remain trapped within the matrix of his style. They are ghosts orbiting, forever lost in the monotonous sublime of caricature. You cannot believe in them because their creator does not bestow upon them the gift of autonomous life nor does he want you to believe in them, and if you cannot really believe in them, you cannot care.
‘All writers,’ Amis once said, as noted, ‘if they mean business, if they’re ambitious, have got to think they’re the best. You haven’t got a chance of being the best unless you think you’re best.’ Does Amis still think he’s the best? Much of his writing is about artistic rivalries, even if his ambition is to write about very big issues, not just middle-class mores. Yet this preoccupation with artistic rivalry, and the possibility of defeat in such rivalry, is intensely personal and rather parochial, echoing his own experiences in the smart, young literary set in which he moved in the 1970s. As a subject, it isn’t really the stuff of literature. It is too weak and flimsy, hence the need for all that additional heavy-duty intellectual support – for the scaffolding of astronomy.
As Amis enters his seventh decade – his seventh! – what has it cost him, all this striving and effort to be the best? How does it feel nowadays to be Martin Amis, a writer who, in critical mode, long ago declared war on cliché, a writer who, after all this time, remains a self-appointed warrior of words?
Early in The Information, as the narrator digresses to speculate on a future in which ‘the polar icecaps have melted and Norway enjoys the climate of North Africa’, he teasingly suggests future readers can ‘check’ the accuracy of ‘these words against personal experience’. Yes, he expects his work – this novel – to have a glorious afterlife, to continue to be read long into the future. It’s a nice joke. Will future generations, similarly, read Amis? Will his stuff last? The final cruelty, as Richard Tull and indeed Amis himself know only too well, is that ‘only time shall tell, if not real time then, failing that, certainly literary time’. And Amis, like the rest of us, is skewered on time’s arrow.
October 19 2010 / New Statesman
June 11 2009 / New Statesman
March 12 2009 / New Statesman
November 2 2008 / The Observer
May 4 2008 / The Observer
February 3 2008 / The Observer
January 12 2008 / The Guardian
September 2007 / The World is Everything tour brochure
Where to locate the music of David Sylvian? His journey from the centre of planet pop to the margins of the avant-garde is certainly one of the most unusual in contemporary music. Today he occupies an exalted position in what he describes as that “wonderfully vague area where the avant-garde crosses over with electronic music and the outer fringes of jazz”.
In other words, he occupies a space that is entirely his own, just as his journey has been entirely his own, in its courage, singularity and continuous seeking after truth and innovation, both in the music, with its restless experimentation and search for new forms, and in the life as revealed through the music. Sylvian once told me that he was “not there” in the music of Japan, that he had revealed little or nothing of himself in those early songs, with the possible exception of the stark and confessional ‘Ghosts’, with its sparse, minimalist electronics and exploration of the aesthetics of emptiness – of the precise nuance, the interval, the pause. In retrospect, the young Sylvian was in hiding – especially from himself. And the music of the band called Japan he fronted with such inscrutable reserve in the late Seventies and early Eighties was ultimately a music of surfaces and stylised effects, a music of evasion.
The early solo career, beginning with Brilliant Trees in 1984 and extending through to Gone to Earth (1986) and Secrets of the Beehive (1987), was anything but evasive; the best songs of this period of high creativity are anguished expressions of interiority, worked on and recorded in collaboration with an ever-changing ensemble of musicians and composers.
After Secrets there would be a long wait before another solo album, 1999’s Dead Bees on a Cake. The intervening period had seen Sylvian working closely with Robert Fripp, and, briefly, with his former confreres in Japan (together they released an album in 1991 under the name Rain Tree Crow). Dead Bees is his most serene album. Sylvian is revealed as a contented husband and father, increasingly at ease in the world and enraptured by mystical Hinduism and ritual worship: seeking at once to know and heighten the self he sings also of wanting to be liberated from its primary emotions and desires. It is, perhaps, his least challenging album, precisely because it is, in so many ways, his happiest and least self-interrogative.
There was certainly nothing about it that could have prepared you for what came next – the astonishing Blemish (2003), which even at a distance of four years has lost none of its capacity for aesthetic surprise. Blemish is the product of an artist on the very edge of dissolution, for whom everything seems to be breaking apart. If Dead Bees was a music of spiritual rapture and celebration, Blemish is its very opposite, a music of existential crisis, in which the old established forms no longer seem adequate. Listening to the album you understand how Sylvian no longer wishes to be articulate in the language of pop music. The syntax and vocabulary are too familiar, the formulations too tired.
Blemish was recorded in just six weeks at his home studio in New Hampshire and released on his own label, Samadhisound. It is raw, fragmented, and lyrically desolate, and served as my reconnection with his music. It was obvious that here was a musician under great pressure, struggling to invent his own idiom, working fast, trying to break free as he stumbled in the dark with only the fragile light of a candle to guide him.
Improbably, Blemish – Sylvian’s experiment in “improvisation and automatic writing,” as he called it – succeeded in introducing him to a whole new audience, as well as serving as a kind of personal liberation. It was as if the act of aesthetic rupture freed him to begin again, and now, in this new phase of creativity, his writing became more overtly political as he grappled with the complexities of our new world order in the aftermath of the attacks on New York and Washington DC of 11 September 2001, their antecedents and consequences.
Towards the end of 2003, he released a pop song, but it was no ordinary pop song: ‘World Citizen’ is a protest against the American-led invasion of Iraq, at once jaunty and bitingly sardonic. This was followed in 2005 by Snow Borne Sorrow, a suite of nine songs, interconnecting the personal and the political, and released under the name of Nine Horses (the other “band” members are his brother and long-time collaborator Steve Jansen, and the German electronic experimentalist Burnt Friedman). Like Blemish, the tone is confessional, but this time, because of the sweetness of the melodies, even those tracks which are sorrowful or about the end of a love affair, such as ‘The Day the Earth Stole Heaven’, are curiously uplifting. The album is also an experiment in forms: electronica, gospel, jazz, pop. It is, I think, his most consistently engaging, accessible, and affecting album since Gone to Earth.
A dedicated reader, Sylvian has long been inspired by poetry, literature and philosophy, as well painting and film. In an early work such as Brilliant Trees these influences were explicitly signposted. Nowadays the influences, whether literary, religious or philosophical, are much more deeply embedded in the work; they are an expression of a complete sensibility, and the effect is both subtle and complex.
All art, said the Victorian critic Walter Pater, aspires to the condition of music. But what of a music that aspires to the condition of silence? What of a music whose purpose is not to divert or entertain but to transport the listener beyond the noise of the world and the mere flux of appearances and on into consideration of a higher reality?
Music is the most abstract of all art forms because it is about and represents nothing; it is only created and experienced as music. There is nothing before or after the creation of the music; there is only silence. Yet at its best, and when heard with understanding, it can be expressive of so many different moods and states of being.
What is David Sylvian’s music most expressive of? That, I would guess, depends on the listener. According to the New York Times his voice, so evocative is it of yearning and melancholy, “is like the sound of introspection itself”. For my part, it’s impossible to listen to the best of Gone to Earth or Blemish or Snow Borne Sorrow without feeling emotionally challenged and, above all, moved, not least moved by the struggles of being that are enacted in the very form and content of so many of the songs themselves.
May 14 2007 / New Statesman
April 29 2007 / The Observer
October 22 2006 / The Observer
August 13 2006 / The Observer
June 25 2006 / The Observer
June 11 2006 / The Observer
April 16 2006 / The Observer
August 7 2005 / The Observer
July 16 2005 / The Guardian
February 27 2005 / The Observer
August 23 2004 / New Statesman
One warm evening earlier this summer, on a visit to see my mother, I went up into the attic of the house where I once lived. I was searching for a box of cricket balls with which my father had returned many years ago from one of his business trips to India, and which I’d forgotten about until a chance remark by my mother that evening made me think of them all over again: the smoothness of the leather and the stitched stiffness of their seams.
For Philip Larkin, in several poems, an attic was a metaphor for coldness and sterility—and for all that is shut away and regretfully past. The never-returning moments of our lives. But the attic of my mother’s house is not like that. It is, rather, full of warm riches—artefacts and curiosities—that serve to reconnect you to childhood and adolescence, and to the person you once were: full of inchoate longing.
I never found the cardboard box of cricket balls, individually wrapped in plastic bags, perhaps because I didn’t search hard enough. I found something far more interesting instead—the comics I used to read as a very young boy in the early 1970s. More specifically, I found old, deteriorating copies of the Victor, thickly dust-covered and roped together in eight separate bundles, covering the years 1970 to 1977. For the rest of that evening and long into the next morning, I reread many of these old Victor comics, their pages time-yellowed and fragile, held by the memories they evoked.
The Victor was the first proper publication—words on paper—that I ever read. For many years, and despite the protests of various teachers and the encouragement of my parents, I read little else, and certainly never books. The Victor was a self-described boys’ adventure paper, not a comic, and even at its launch in 1961 it seemed already out of time, speaking more to the past than to the urgent present. In theme and content, with its stories about war and sport, it took its inspiration from the once popular boys’ papers Adventure (1921), Rover (1922), Wizard (1922), Skipper (1930) and Hotspur (1933), which, like the Victor, were all published by D C Thomson of Dundee. Indeed, some of the characters from those earlier publications, such as Alf Tupper, “the tough of the track”, and Morgan the Mighty, “the world’s strongest man”, enjoyed a radiant afterlife in the Victor long after the papers in which they originally appeared had closed.
Alf Tupper was an archetypal Victor hero, perhaps the most popular of them all. He was poor. He lived with an unsympathetic aunt (his gentle mother had died, I think, in a fire) and then alone in dishevelled rooms beneath a railway siding. He worked as a welder and ate nothing but fish and chips wrapped in old newspaper. Nothing remarkable about Tupper, then, except that he was a superbly gifted middle-distance runner, a working-class warrior who would compete against and invariably beat smarter and more privileged athletes, the toffs of the track, as well as any number of challengers from eastern Europe—as a patriotic Englishman, he greeted all foreigners with suspicion. Tupper had no car and, having worked a morning shift as a welder, would have to find his own way to race meetings, even if it meant running part of the way there. En route, exciting things would happen to him—once he even pulled a man from a burning plane that had crashed in a nearby field—which meant that he usually arrived late for his race. And no race was simple for Tupper. He would be tripped, pushed, barged and spiked. He would sometimes fall. But most of the time he would still win.
Tupper, like all the best comic-strip heroes, occupied a kind of perpetual present: time did not diminish him, nor wither his enthusiasm. His dark hair was cropped military-short and worn in a tufty, Morrissey-style quiff, which may have been fashionable in the mid-1950s but certainly wasn’t so when I first began to read about him in the Victor. Yet that scarcely mattered, because you didn’t read the Victor for a realistic representation of contemporary society; you read it to be inspired, to be carried into a Manichaean world of pure adventure. You knew who the enemies were (Germans, the Japanese, the very rich), who was on your side (Australians, Kiwis, Canadians) and which virtues (loyalty, bravery, honesty) would eventually be rewarded.
Rereading the Victor, I was surprised to find that the narratives I had most enjoyed and still sometimes thought about—“The Lost Warriors of Tartary”, “Captain Neilson’s Floating Mine”, “Three on a Terror Trail”, a football story called “Behind the Crimson Door” and something featuring an Australian soldier called Harry Garrett in the Arabian desert—are all to be found in issues from 1970, the year I first began to read the Victor. Or, rather, to have the Victor read to me, because I would have been too young to read them myself. Perhaps that is why I remember these particular strips so vividly: they may well have been the first complex stories I was ever told.
As it turned out, I had misremembered the title of “Captain Neilson’s Floating Mine”: it is called “Neilson in the Floating Mine” and is about a lone naval captain, Tom Neilson, who operates a British secret weapon during the Second World War—a “one-man submarine disguised as an ordinary sea-mine”. There is very little dialogue in the Neilson stories because he works mostly alone, and because so much of the action takes place inside his head, to which you have access through the glorious comic-strip innovation of the thought bubble—something Private Eye continues to use so well on its celebrated covers.
The title of the Harry Garrett narrative is, I discovered, “The Man with the Brazen Mask”, and it, too, has a war setting: this time we are in Mesopotamia (which, we are helpfully told, is “now known as Iraq”) during the First World War. A group of Australians, led by Garrett, has been sent into the desert to find and assassinate a German spy, Huth, whose mission is to “incite the Arabs to join forces against the British”. Huth, purporting to be the ghost of an Arab king, wears dark robes and the brazen mask of the title: he has as much contempt for the Arabs he is seeking to agitate into conflict as he does for his Australian pursuers, one of whom is a young Aborigine called Billy Tuesday (as opposed to, say, Daniel Defoe’s Man Friday).
There was, I understand now, something irredeemably nostalgic about the Victor. The stories are underscored by a simple, unquestioning patriotism and by a sense of imperial longing. Many of the best plots, published long after the end of empire, turn on threats to the stability of that empire in distant lands, as if it would have been too mundane to set stories of such extravagant adventure in England.
Yet in “Three on a Terror Trail”, the empire returns in the form of three turbaned Sikhs, “the Dacoits”, who have come to England to murder Sir Stanley Brand, a former high-ranking police officer in Khandan, a small British protectorate in the Himalayas. The Dacoits, the terrorists of the title, are in possession of something called koiroot, “a deadly, slow-acting poison”, fragments of which, on the voyage to England, were eaten by three rats. Far from killing the rats, the poison caused them to grow alarmingly in size; they are now hungry for even more koiroot. So the Dacoits who are pursuing Sir Stanley and his son are themselves pursued by the giant rats: this is the wonderfully preposterous set-up of one of the Victor’s finest stories.
There is no doubt, in retrospect, that the Dacoits are orientalised—portrayed, like the Japanese in many of the war stories and the Arabs in “The Man with the Brazen Mask”, as culturally alien and programmatically other. They are sinister and treacherous, and their dark skin and turbans only exacerbate their strangeness. And yet, bafflingly, we still empathise with their struggles and want them to escape from the voracious rats, if not to kill Sir Stanley.
In March 1940, George Orwell published an essay on boys’ weeklies in Horizon magazine. He read ten weeklies, including Wizard, Rover and Hotspur (this was before they had reinvented themselves as comics, publishing exclusively in strip format), and observed how contemporary history was carefully excluded. “It is worth noticing,” he wrote, “that in papers of this type it is always taken for granted that adventures only happen at the ends of the earth, in tropical forests, in Arctic wastes, in African deserts, on western prairies, in Chinese opium dens—everywhere, in fact, except the places where things really do happen. That is a belief dating from 30 or 40 years ago, when the new continents were in the process of being opened up.”
Orwell was troubled by this evasion of the contemporary and saw it as a form of covert political control: boys have a need to read adventure stories at certain ages and “they get what they are looking for, but they get it wrapped up in the illusions which their future employers think suitable for them”. Most people, he continued, are influenced far more than they would care to admit by novels, serial stories, films and so forth ... from this point of view the worst books are often the most important, because they are usually the ones that are read earliest in life. It is probable that many people who would consider themselves extremely sophisticated and “advanced” are actually carrying through life an imaginative background which they acquired in childhood ... If that is so, the twopenny weeklies are of the deepest importance. Here is the stuff that is read somewhere between the ages of 12 and 18 by a very large proportion, perhaps an actual majority, of English boys, including many who will never read anything else except newspapers ... [and] there is being pumped into them the conviction that the major problems of our time do not exist, that there is nothing wrong with laissez-faire capitalism, that foreigners are unimportant comics and that the British empire is a sort of charity concern which will last for ever.
By the time I was reading the Victor, in the era of power cuts, mass industrial unrest and the three-day working work, when we were frozen deep in the coldest of wars, the British empire was in advanced retreat and the English were leading the world in nothing so much as decline. Our national football team even failed to qualify for the 1974 World Cup in West Germany, a trick repeated in 1978 to show that the first failure was no unlucky aberration.
Yet the Victor continued to ignore the problems of our time, political or otherwise, returning instead to the old certainties of the war years and to the period of our great imperial adventures. The cover story each week would be a true story of heroism or bravery from the Second World War. Inside, there would be the usual fictional mix of sport and war. So the imaginative landscape of my boyhood was serious, softly nationalistic, melodramatic and only rarely satirical: the Victor had none of the robust comic unreality of the Beano or the Dandy, which survive to the present day.
The original boys’ weekly was founded in 1879 and published by the Religious Tract Society. The Boys’ Own Paper published adventure stories with imperialist themes, but also short essays on eminent Britons such as Charles Darwin. Like the Boy Scout movement, its didactic purpose was to prepare its young readers for a life of duty and imperial service. One notable Boys’ Own hero was a sailor from a poor family in the East End of London called Jack Travers Cornwell. A former delivery boy, Cornwell, at the age of 15, enlisted in the Royal Navy in 1915. On 31 May 1916, during the Battle of Jutland, he was injured while waiting for orders at his post. All around him men lay dying, but Cornwell, though severely injured, refused to leave the gun turret at which he was positioned until the end of action. He died from his injuries on 2 June and was buried quietly in a cemetery in Grimsby.
As the story of his brave defiance aboard HMS Chester became more widely known, a cult of Cornwell gathered momentum: an artist’s impression of him, stricken and alone at his post, was published in the Boys’ Own Paper, he was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross; and in September 1916, he was reburied at the City of London Cemetery, Manor Park, a funeral attended by many thousands of people. “Cornwell has set an example of devotion to duty which will be an inspiration to British boys for all time,” wrote Admiral Lord Beresford to the readers of the Boys’ Own Paper. “It will not fall to every boy to prove so devotedly his obedience, discipline and self-sacrifice; but every boy can endeavour to live up to his example by practicing discipline and being obedient in small things. In this way character is formed, and we are able—when a crisis arises and there are big things to be done—to do them.”
When Orwell began to research his article on the boys’ weeklies, he visited a small newsagent’s shop in a poor quarter of an unnamed town. “Probably the content of these shops is the best available indication of what the mass of the English people really feels and thinks,” he wrote. This week, I visited several small newsagents in towns in Lancashire and Essex. These cluttered shops, with their porno mags and women’s weeklies, their specialist magazines and celebrity glossies, had nothing on their shelves for boys to read, and certainly nothing that Orwell would have recognised.
What happened? The short answer is that the future happened, a future that the Victor, retreating inexorably into the past, never saw coming. Today a young boy’s bedroom is less a secret den of imaginative adventure than a pleasure dome of televisual and high-tech gadgetry, from where he communicates with the world via texting or e-mail.
The 1,657th and final issue of the Victor was published by D C Thomson on 21 November 1992. I stopped reading the comic in 1977, when it cost 5p. Looking back at some of the issues of that year, I can understand why I lost interest. Though Alf Tupper is still there and the cover is reserved for a true story of men at war, too many of the supporting stories feature elements of the supernatural: miraculous happenings, invaders from other planets, prehistoric monsters. The classic Victor story may have been exotic to a young reader living in suburban Essex, as I did, but it was never about other-worldly fantasies; it was resolutely rooted in the real, in this world.
The Victor was the last comic of its kind there ever was to be, not least because, since its launch on 25 February 1961, it had absorbed most of its rivals, including Wizard, Hotspur, Rover and Adventure. When the Victor folded, there was nothing for a young boy to seek out in its place. There was nowhere for him to go. The world had changed too much. And yet, what could be less reprehensible than a boy’s own adventure story?
April 19 2004 / New Statesman
It is very early in the morning, the sun is rising above the eastern hills of Kigali after a night of unceasing rain, and Hilary Benn, Secretary of State for International Development, his small team of advisers and I are at the airport waiting to see if we will be allowed, on our way to Kinshasa, to stop off in Bukavu, just over the border from Rwanda in eastern Congo. Unresolved negotiations had been taking place for much of the previous day and long into the night between the British ambassador in Kigali and representatives of the transitional national government of the fractious Democratic Republic of Congo.
Because Britain is investing in the reconstruction of the DRC, Benn, as much of a liberal interventionist as his Prime Minister, is determined to visit Bukavu. Before meeting President Joseph Kabila in Kinshasa, he wants to find out from local people, as well as from the United Nations soldiers based at Adikivu camp, about life under the transitional government. But President Kabila wants the secretary of state to fly directly to Kinshasa. “I think it’s a question of protocol,” Benn says, as we climb aboard the six-seater jet that will carry us across the vast nation that is the Congo. Either that, or Kabila recognises a meddling Blairite when he sees one.
Eastern Congo was the site of repeated cross-border raids from Rwandan and Ugandan troops during the second Congo war, in 1998, in which the former Zaire was invaded by six different African countries and more than three million people were killed. It is, like much of the country itself, only tangentially under the control of the transitional government. A decade after the end of the genocide in Rwanda, the murderous Interahamwe still roam the thick forests of the region, terrorising remote villages. The Banyamulenge (second- and third-generation Tutsis living in eastern Congo) remain more aligned to Rwanda than to the so-called national government in distant Kinshasa. In truth the entire region is less part of a homogeneous nation than a collapsing pseudo-state: different towns and villages are under the control of different ethnic groupings or rival militias and, long after the war officially ended, the battle for mineral resources goes on. So, remorselessly, does the killing.
Since Labour returned to power and established the Department for International Development, there has been a concerted attempt to link the delivery of aid more directly to issues of peace and stability. Without peace in collapsed states such as Rwanda and the Congo, there can, so the argument goes, be no true development. This explains why Hilary Benn has been travelling through the Great Lakes Region in search of political solutions to entrenched problems (before Rwanda and the DRC, he was in northern Uganda, meeting families displaced in the war between the Ugandan state and the nihilistic Lord’s Resistance Army).
Yet how much of Labour policy is the result of hard-headed realism and how much the result of emotionalism and guilt? Before travelling to the Congo with Hilary Benn, I spent just under a week in Rwanda, my visit coinciding with the tenth-anniversary commemorations of the genocide. Britain is the single largest bilateral donor to Rwanda—this year we will give [pounds sterling]42m in aid to the world’s tenth-poorest country, a country with which we have no former colonial ties and where we only recently opened an embassy. It is hard not to be cynical about such belated generosity and to conclude that it must have something to do with the failure of Britain and other powerful nations to intervene in 1994 (as they would later do in Kosovo) to prevent the killing of more than one million Tutsis and moderate Hutus. It is hard, too, not to wonder why impoverished Burundi, which has the same uneasy ethnic balance as neighbouring Rwanda and has witnessed state-driven massacres of both Tutsis and Hutus over the past three decades, will this year receive only [pounds sterling]7m in British aid.
When I asked Benn about this, he spoke of the desire of the government “to do good”; then he retreated into abstraction and rehearsed generalisation. Later, however, he returned to the subject of Burundi. “We have a small presence there,” he said, as we shared tea and toast in the garden of the British ambassador’s residence in Kinshasa. “But the honest answer is that we can’t do everything everywhere ... What we can do, and must do, is to work as part of the international system ... and to encourage African initiatives and organisations such as the African Union, which is active in Burundi.”
At moments of apparent stress, this likeable, sharp-featured son of Wedgwood can look and sound uncannily like his more famous father, Tony Benn, with whom he shares the same sincerity and commitment, if not the overt left-wing politics. He gives the impression, or so I would like to think, of conducting a kind of anguished inner dialogue with his father; he must be never free from the sound of two fervent, evangelical voices, those of Benn and Blair, each tugging him in different directions.
On my first evening in Rwanda I made a mistake. I attempted to speak to my driver in French. My French is, at best, faltering, so I was not surprised when he answered me in English. “I do not speak French,” he said. He was, I guessed, one of the many anglophone Tutsis whose families fled the country in 1959 following a Belgian-inspired Hutu revolt. The children of these displaced Tutsis grew up in refugee camps in southern Uganda, Tanzania, Congo and in Burundi. They were born outside Rwanda but longed to return to the country they called home. Eventually, hundreds of thousands did so, but only once the Rwandan Patriotic Front, led by the guerrilla fighter Paul Kagame, had seized power at the end of the killing frenzy of 1994.
I made my second mistake by asking my driver if he was a Tutsi or Hutu. After a long pause, he explained that he did not know if he was a Tutsi or Hutu; all he knew was that he was Rwandan, and that was all that mattered. This would become a familiar refrain during my time in a country that is at once in flight from and in thrall to the recent past.
Rwanda has a long history of authoritarianism and has never been truly democratic. This former mountain kingdom was, for many centuries, what Ryszard Kapuscinski calls a closed state. “The Banyarwanda initiated no conquests,” he writes in The Shadow of the Sun,” and, like the Japanese at one time, they did not allow foreigners into their territory.” It was not until 1894 that Rwanda received its first European.
Today the control of Kagame’s RPF is as total as it was under the old pre-colonial Tutsi monarchy, and the country operates as a quasi-police state. But unlike the Hutu supremacist Juvenal Habyarimana, the former president who died when his plane was shot down on the night of 6 April 1994, precipitating a greater, more sustained and mass murder, Kagame preaches only ethnic unity and reconciliation. He preaches it so vigorously, and through every mechanism of public communication, that his people obediently preach the same message, too. I did not meet a single Tutsi survivor who did not profess to forgive the Hutu killers who are now slowly being reintegrated into civilian life.
It is easy to distinguish these killers, these perpetrators of genocide, for they must wear their pink prison shirts even as they return on community service to their home towns and villages. When I visited Butare, Rwanda’s second city, in the far south, these pink-shirted men were everywhere: on bicycles, riding in the backs of trucks, on street corners. Yet no one looked at them. No one shunned or abused them. They were simply allowed to be.
Kigali is, at least to the unknowing visitor, an extraordinarily serene city. It is a place of hills and lush, green vegetation, safe and calm. Travelling through the city, and in the mountainous, densely populated surrounding countryside, it seems inconceivable that such trauma and suffering could have taken place here so recently. But you do not have to search too hard to find reminders of this suffering: you need only look out the window of your car at the innumerable roadside graves and memorials, or move among the local population, who will lead you to children orphaned in the killing or to widows who were raped and infected with Aids, and who are now dying painfully.
Yet this is a remarkably resilient population. How else to explain the will to continue and the desire to forgive? How else to explain the reconstruction of a country in which most of its professional class were murdered and its infrastructure destroyed?
In Butare, I met Gemima Mukashyaka. She is 25 years old, a Tutsi. During what she calls the war her father, her mother and several of her sisters were murdered, either shot or slashed with machetes. She survived only through being taken as a “wife” by one of the Interaham we killers, perhaps one of the men who murdered her family. “I wanted to be a doctor,” she told me, speaking through a translator, “but the war destroyed my education.”
Gemima is a subsistence coffee farmer, one of 350 members of the Abahuzamugambi ba Kawa co-operative, which is supported by the London-based company Union Coffee Roasters. Each morning she works between 7 am and 11am on her plot, a thin-soiled patch on a hillside outside Butare. She then breaks for lunch and to clean her small house, where she lives alone without electricity. She returns in the evening to plant crops. She earns 70,000 Rwandan francs per year (about [pounds sterling]70). “I enjoy working on the land,” she said, “but farming is a last resort. If I had a chance to continue my education, I wouldn’t be doing this.”
Gemima was raped repeatedly by the Interahamwe. In a way, she was lucky: she survived and she does not have Aids. “What happened was terrible,” she said. “But many of the killers have repented. They are genuinely sorry. We should forgive them for what happened. I feel what is happening through gacaca [the system of local tribunals through which the killers are tried and forgiven] is something good.”
Gemima speaks openly, honestly, but without animation. She is a beautiful young woman, slim and soft-featured, but there is intense sadness in her eyes, a sadness that cannot be disguised by her well-chosen words.
In Gisozi, a suburb of Kigali, there is a memorial site, a recently constructed museum of remembrance and education centre, water gardens and mass graves. The site was paid for and constructed by Aegis, a Nottingham-based genocide trust that is run by two brothers, Stephen and James Smith. The Smiths had no special connection to Rwanda, or indeed to Africa, but they were moved by the plight of Rwandans and felt compelled to act. In association with the Kagame government, they have worked tirelessly to establish two sites of “remembrance and civic education”, in Gisozi and at Murambi, in eastern Rwanda, where 50,000 people were massacred.
On the morning of 7 April, a ceremony of remembrance was held at the Gisozi monument, attended by many African leaders. The event was solemn and dignified, but overwhelmed by oppressive security and posturing. At times, it was as if the various African leaders, speeding across town in their dark-windowed limousines, and flanked by outriders, were competing to see whose arrival would be the most ostentatious. All of this had a curious hierarchy of its own: the most powerful of the leaders, Thabo Mbeki of South Africa, inevitably arrived last, about 90 minutes after Paul Kagame.
Later, once Kagame had lit an eternal flame of remembrance, and the leaders had departed in their limousines, something extraordinary happened in Gisozi: thousands of people who had been watching events from a wary distance suddenly came down from the surrounding hillsides, or up from their homes below, and streamed past the security guards on the gate and into the site. There they gathered in silent tribute alongside the mass graves.
Something similarly spontaneous happened later that afternoon during the main ceremony at the national stadium. Before Kagame made his widely criticised speech, in which he rightly condemned the French for their support of the Hutu dictatorship of Habyarimana and for their complicity in genocide, several survivors gave their testimonies. The testimonies were interrupted by sounds of uncontrolled weeping and screaming from parts of the crowd. It was as if many of these Rwandans, several of whom were carried out after fainting, could no longer bear to contemplate the memory of what had happened, as if what had happened ten years earlier was not the promised end, but the mere image of that horror—a horror from which they would never be free.
Earlier that morning, in Gisozi, I had met Fergal Keane, the BBC journalist. Keane, the author of Season of Blood, a fine book about the genocide, was despondent about prospects for democracy in Rwanda. Like many western reporters, he thought that Kagame was corrupt and that, under him, the country was being run by a clique of Ugandan Tutsis, with whom Kagame had grown up and once fought alongside. “Kagame has no ethnic agenda,” Keane told me. “It’s simply about power—about holding on to power. He’s a Leninist of the kind not seen by Africa before. But you cannot ignore 85 per cent of the population. His hold on power will be secure for ten, perhaps for 20 years, but the real trouble will come when the second generation of post-genocide Hutus emerge from the universities ...”
When I later mentioned these remarks to Hilary Benn, he said: “Good progress is being made here in Rwanda. The elections took place. They were not perfect, but they took place. And one cannot overestimate the impact of the genocide on this country, the trauma of what happened. I agree that there needs to be an opening up of the political space in Rwanda, but I understand why people might be fearful about what might flow into that political space if it is opened up too quickly.”
Benn, I think, is right, and Fergal Keane is, for once, wrong. The austere and ascetic Kagame may be an autocrat; his Tutsi-led RPF troops may have committed atrocities of their own, against retreating Hutus in 1994 and during the two Congo wars; and the country he leads may not be free in any recognisable western sense. But he is the right leader at the right time, the first Rwandan president to abolish the ethnic divisions institutionalised by the loathed Belgian colonialists. Surely, too, the last thing this traumatised nation requires right now is free markets, an open society and robust democratic pluralism. What it needs, rather, is stability and a period of benign authoritarianism—and it needs its new friends, donor countries such as Britain, to monitor its progress and ensure development money is being spent wisely. Above all, this aid-dependent country of eight million people and of scant natural resources and even less land needs never to feel abandoned again, especially when, in the years ahead, the population continues to grow, claustrophobia intensifies and the old tensions return.
March 29 2004 / New Statesman
Returning to America after an absence of 20 years, Henry James wrote, in The American Scene (1907), of his unease at the arrival in New York of so many non-English-speaking Jews from Europe. He observed them on the street, in shops and together in their neighbourhoods and ghettos, and feared not only for the future of America but for the English language itself, especially the language of literature. “There is no swarming like that of Israel when once Israel has got a start, and the scene here bristled, at every step, with the signs and sounds, immitigable, unmistakable, of a Jewry that had burst all bounds.”
James was disconcerted by what he considered to be these new arrivals’ sense of “settled possession”, which he found “presumptuous, monstrous”, and which contrasted with his own feelings of unsettled possession. He regretted how established Americans would inevitably be forced into a kind of surrendered acceptance of cultural difference. “We must go, in other words, more than half-way to meet them; which is all the difference, for us, between possession and dispossession. This sense of dispossession haunted me.”
Following the often lurid debate about immigration and multiculturalism in this country, one sometimes feels that it is not the recent arrivals but the settled peoples of these islands who, like Henry James, feel most dispossessed, as if they are unable to understand, or feel powerless to prevent, what is happening around them.
But what exactly is happening? How rapidly and by how much is Britain really changing? We are ceaselessly told that ours is a multiracial and multicultural society. It is certainly multiracial—and all the better for it—but what does it really mean to speak of a multicultural society? Does a multicultural society mean simply a broad tolerance of difference and respect for minority cultures and traditions? Or does it mean something more assertive—the establishment, for instance, of more religious schools in Britain, of children being increasingly taught in separate religious and racial communities?
Early one Saturday afternoon at the end of February, I was travelling south on the London Underground from Tottenham Hale to King’s Cross. Sitting opposite me in the carriage of our Victoria Line train were two women of Middle Eastern appearance. They were wearing the Muslim hijab or veil and speaking very quietly in Arabic, as if embarrassed at being overheard. In the same carriage were three young black women, who, judging from their conversation, were Nigerian. They were speaking “pidgin”—a vibrant, energetic hybrid of English and, I think, Yoruba. Their hair was worn in crisp braids and threaded with intricate wooden beads. Also in the carriage were two men in their twenties, one black and the other white. The white guy, I gathered, was from a Greek-Cypriot family, but his accent was entirely local. He and his friend were both clamorous Cockneys. Beneath their jackets, they were wearing Arsenal shirts.
At the next stop, a young woman, a poor Romanian or Albanian, entered the carriage. She was wearing a headscarf, a ragged shawl and cradled a baby in her arms. She held out her hand and patiently asked each person for money. Each time, she was ignored; at the next stop, she left the train, only to be replaced by a gang of about ten youths, who, I guessed from their dark hair and scruffy swarthiness, were from the southern Balkans. They were loud, they refused to sit down, and they spoke a language I did not recognise.
Watching these boys from the Balkans as they jostled and scrapped, I did not feel threatened or uncomfortable, but I did have a strong sense of how London was being changed by the new multiculturalism and by the arrival of hundreds of thousands of people from parts of the world that had little or no affiliation to the old empire. What was taking place deep underground on this Saturday afternoon was a characteristically contemporary London scene: boisterous, polyglot, multiethnic, harmonious.
But it would not have been possible seven years ago: the forces of globalisation, more porous borders, the disintegration of Yugoslavia, the need for cheap labour, Islamic militancy, inexpensive air travel, and a second wave of mass, asylum-driven immigration mean that this is not the country it was when Labour returned to power in 1997. Something fundamental about the country has changed and is continuing to change, with theresult that it is perhaps no longer possible, indeed comprehensible, even to speak of a common British culture. Instead, we have a multiplicity of cultures, some complementary, others discrete or rivalrous.
The majority culture—anglophone, tolerant, broadly liberal, sceptical, Christian in ethos if not in practice—remains strong. But other cultures are threatening and subverting it, forcing concessions and change. Much of this change is good—such as the recognition of the rights of minorities or a respect for racial difference. But there are also areas of more problematic conflict, where the recognition of minority-group rights and identities, and the demand for exemptions from national laws, clash with a broader liberal consensus on, say, animal rights or women’s freedom.
The new cultural clash is experienced most acutely in inner-city state schools, where children from so many different ethnic backgrounds, and for whom English is often a second language, are brought uneasily together. Education is the front line where teachers and governors fight daily culture wars, in a country that has an established Church, which privileges one religion and one culture, but also has a growing and increasingly assertive Muslim minority that demands equality and legitimacy for Islam.
Britain has a strong tradition of secular government. It has, as the philosopher Roger Scruton points out (above), managed to marginalise the Christian religion “by making it into a shy adjunct of the secular state”, which has led to the withering away of religious instruction in many schools. But many Muslims, who view Islam as a revolutionary force in their lives, want their children to receive a religious education. For them, religion is not a once-weekly recreation; it is an entire politics for living.
In France, where there are perhaps six million Muslims (one-tenth of the population), the response from the state to the new multiculturalism has been to reassert the secular ideals of the Republic. This has led to the outlawing of the hijab and other obvious religious symbols in schools.
In multinational, multi-ethnic Britain, we are taught a kind of civic patriotism. From the melancholy long withdrawing roar of empire, we have learnt humility and restraint. Our sense of national identity is not based on ethnicity, on the cult of blood and soil or racial superiority. It is far more subtle and more allusive. The British way is one of resolute pragmatism, reactionary yet progressive, respectful of tradition and the accumulated wisdom of past generations, as embodied in our institutions, but also alert to the need for constant change. Our civil war was a very long time ago and our revolution was glorious.
We are not, as are the French, committed to revolutionary ideals of equality and liberty, which is why the hijab or indeed the turban would never be banned in British schools. Nor are we suspicious of the politics of the “communautaires”—communities that have separate and potentially separatist values from those of the Republic. All this, as well as the absence of a written constitution and the fragmentary nature of the British state itself, makes us endlessly adaptable—and flexible. This sense of adaptability, as well as of soft nationalism, explains in part why Britain has hitherto so successfully integrated so many new arrivals from the Caribbean, Africa, the Indian subcontinent and beyond.
The culture and the way of life of this nation, of any nation, are best understood not through grand political abstractions, but through its songs, jokes, customs, clothes, food, and games. There is something indefinable, even mystical, about national identity: we know what Britishness is, we would defend it under duress, but we would be hard-pressed to define it coherently.
It is this sense of mysterious togetherness, of a continuity of collective consciousness through time, that cultural pessimists fear is being weakened by the second wave of mass immigration, and which led the liberal intellectual David Goodhart, in an essay in Prospect, to complain that we are now too diverse. The American social policy thinker Robert Putnam has also written of how too much ethnic and cultural diversity not only weakens community ties; it weakens trust and fellow feeling, it weakens the desire to redistribute wealth because you no longer feel even the loosest affinity for those most in need. Putnam wants to see the isolated, atomised individual reintegrated into wider society, but fears that society, as once understood, no longer exists—that in our diversity we have lost our sense of common purpose and greater community.
As a child growing up in Essex in the 1970s, I knew only cultural certainties. The headmaster of my old school, a veteran of the Spanish civil war, was a socialist and atheist. “The human being,” he once told me, “is a blank sheet of paper on which any future identity can be written.” Once a week we would gather in the main hall, with its smooth, thickly varnished wooden floor, for morning assembly. We would begin by saying the Lord’s Prayer and then sing some hymns, before settling down to listen to the headmaster as he warned us about the dangers of sloth or cigarettes. He never spoke about religion.
My school was largely monocultural and monoethnic—there were two black brothers, whose parents were from the Caribbean, seven or eight Hong Kong Chinese, a Turkish Cypriot and two girls of Indian subcontinental origin. One of these girls, I recall, would sit out the morning assembly and, at the time, I could never understand why. But my school was progressive. We did not have religious education classes in which we studied the Bible; we had something called moral studies, which was a bit like reading Polly Toynbee’s columns in the Guardian: worthy but dull. These classes, I understand now, were an early concession to multiculturalism and an attempt by our socialist headmaster to fulfil certain obligations while avoiding explicit Christian instruction.
It also meant that the little Pakistani girl who missed morning assembly was quite comfortable about attending these classes.
The late 1970s and early 1980s, when I was at school, were a period of continuous dispute: the consensus politics of the postwar settlement was unravelling, there was social and civic unrest, and punk and early Thatcherism were, in their different but interrelated ways, expressions of a wider cultural disaffection, Bolshevik movements that sought renewal through radical discontinuity from the recent past.
To attend a football match at this time was to have a powerful sense that something was seriously wrong in the country: the atmosphere was invariably violent, raucous, chauvinistic and, above all, racist.
Today, by contrast, football, certainly at the highest level, is a model of cosmopolitan integration, an indicator that rapid, progressive, cultural and social change is possible. To watch Arsenal—with their French manager and their flamboyant squad of international talent—is to understand the power and attraction of multiculturalism, of diversity, hybridity and cultural slippage. Arsenal are a kind of Platonic ideal—the ultimate form of the possible.
Elsewhere, far away from Highbury, out on the streets of the more impoverished areas of London, in the ghettos of the old Lancashire mill towns, or in the small, introspective towns and villages of Middle England, one has little sense of truly cosmopolitan integration. Rather, one has a sense of people retreating into suspicious, self-contained communities.
In his book Culture and Equality: an egalitarian critique of multiculturalism (Harvard University Press), Brian Barry argues that too often “culture” can be a site of oppression—for women condemned to live unrealised lives, for animals ritually slaughtered, and for children abused in accordance with superstition or religious practice. True liberalism, he argues, is not about granting special “group-differentiated rights, privileges and entitlements”, but about enforcing citizenship and equality of opportunity for all before the law. Cultural pluralism, Barry writes, can lead to uneasy compromise and concession to private dogma in the public sphere. What are the obligations of a liberal society to those who reject liberal principles?
Barry, I suspect, would approve of the French decision to ban the hijab in schools as a reassertion of the common purpose of republican citizenship. But the banning of the hijab will solve nothing in France. The brilliant and increasingly influential young francophone philosopher Tariq Ramadan defines multiculturalism as the “Islamisation of modernity”. In France, multiculturalism is beginning to stand for—if it stands for anything at all—a divisive and negative form of revolt.
What is often forgotten or ignored in the debate about multiculturalism is that most countries in the world are multiethnic and genuinely multicultural, and must thus strive to rule by racial consensus. There are exceptions—Japan, South Korea, China, where the Han Chinese make up between 85 and 90 per cent of the population. But in the main, an important part of what it means to be human is to understand and adapt to cultural difference—ethnic, racial, tribal, linguistic, religious, territorial.
Arriving in England for the first time in the 1950s, the South African-born writer Dan Jacobson was relieved to find himself at last in the imperial metropolis, a place he could not call home, but to which he felt a deep attachment. In an essay, “Time of Arrival” (1962), he wrote of looking for a room in Hampstead and of how many notices carried discouraging messages such as “Gentiles Only” or “No Coloureds”.
“When I came here,” he says now, “England struck me as a country bound together, even made up by, a network of reciprocal ‘allusions’ (it was the only word I could think of): localities, institutions, festivals, foods, character-types, historical references and antagonisms, class indicators and suchlike. People took this network for granted, yet also half-consciously acted up to the expectations it fostered; they recognised one another through it and used it to place others in various categories—acceptable/not acceptable; belonging/not belonging. Together, it all led to the sense I had of ‘Englishness’ as something private, reserved, semiinstinctive, inherently resistant to foreign intrusions. Anyway, whether I was right or wrong about it, I thought it distinctive and interesting; and have no doubt it has taken a battering over the past half-century. But the irony—of which, as a ‘colonial’, I was always conscious—is that this same, seemingly private, reserved form of life had no hesitation in thrusting itself into other people’s territories, no matter how distant they might be, and ruling them as if by God-given right. This now gives an extra impetus to the wash-back of migration the country is experiencing.”
Jacobson, in the 1950s, could not believe that the reserved, allusive people among whom he had come to live would tolerate mass immigration. But they did and, in the main, Britain, despite its residue of serious racism, is becoming one of the most relaxed and harmonious multi-ethnic societies in the world, not least because the majority culture remains so robust and so adept at appropriating new influences and in creating new multiple identities. So just as new English cuisine has become a globalised identity, merging ingredients and styles of cooking from India, China, the Pacific Rim and from continental Europe to create what is still recognisably British food, so what it means to be British itself has become increasingly fluid and interchangeable. Yet something recognisable remains, some substratum of habit and feeling that underlies all change, and it is this mysterious something that is most valuable and gives meaning and definition to life in Britain.
Will this mysterious something endure? When Henry James left New York in 1904 to continue his travels along the east coast of America, he did so with foreboding. The “ethnic synthesis” he witnessed on the streets of Manhattan had troubled him—“here was multiplication with a vengeance”. He wrote of his “lettered anguish”, and it was as if he were already mourning the loss of the linguistic tradition he most valued. He was certain that “the accent of the ultimate future, in the States, may be destined to become the most beautiful on the globe ... but ... we shall not know it for English—in any sense for which there is an existing literary measure.”
Yet the commanding novelists of the 20th century American experience, certainly since the end of the Second World War, have been Bernard Malamud, Saul Bellow and Philip Roth, sons of Jewish migrants and the result of this ethnic synthesis, and the man who wrote the definitive account of James’s own life, and one of the greatest of all literary biographies, was none other than Leon Edel, a Jew. The problem with prediction is that, as Enoch Powell discovered and Tony Blair is discovering most calamitously, we seldom know what we think we know. What we thought was so, was not so.
January 12 2004 / New Statesman
“I could be bounded in a nut-shell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.” Hamlet
What did Saddam Hussein think about as he lay in his hole in the ground in the bleak scrublands surrounding his home town of Tikrit? How did this 21st-century underground man endure the hours of darkness and dead time? Did he think about the recent past, the palaces that were once his, the land he once owned and lost, the people he had once controlled? Did he ever think about his victims and their suffering? There must have been a time when, like Hamlet, he counted himself king of infinite space, but now his world had shrunk to a tiny space—in effect, to nothing at all. The hunter had become the hunted and, like a terrified fox, he had gone to earth, burrowing deep underground. But even there he was not safe; he was trapped and eventually pulled from the soil.
Watching the televised images of the captured Saddam, I thought often about what can be called the literature of the hole, of those writers and books that have shown us something of how it feels to be truly isolated from the world, incarcerated in solitary confinement, locked in a prison cell or lost underground. In children’s literature, the hole is at once a place of fear, adventure (Alice in Wonderland) and transformation (the Ugly Duckling goes into a hole for the winter and emerges as a swan). Holes are either imaginative, secretive places to which children retreat from the adult world or places in which they are locked, such as cupboards under the stairs. They are places from which we emerge the vagina, the womb—but to which we also long to return. They are simultaneously places of danger and of safety, where you can, like Saddam, hide but also be trapped.
Patrick Suskind’s novel Perfume(1985), set in pre-revolutionary 18th-century France, is about a grotesque young man called Jean Baptiste Grenouille who is born with a remarkable sense of smell. His gift is a blessing and a curse; his olfactory refinement enables him to make the sweetest, most sensuous perfumes in France but, at the same time, the stink of ordinary humanity repulses him, tie longs to withdraw from the world of the senses, to isolate himself, and so, having become a celebrated perfumer in Paris, he retreats to the mountainous wilderness of the Massif Central. There, at the end of a long tunnel, he finds a small hole into which he climbs. It is as if he has found his own grave. “Never in his life had he felt so secure,” writes Suskind of his peculiar fictional creation. “He lay in his stony crypt like his own corpse, hardly breathing, his heart hardly beating—and yet lived as intensively and dissolutely as ever a rake had lived in the world outside.” This is the literary hole-dweller as hermit or mystic: the isolated fanatic who seeks revelation in retreat, vision in darkness.
In Geoffrey Household’s thriller Rogue Male (1939) the central character’s retreat underground is of an altogether different kind from the misanthropic Grenouille, for whom the hole was a sanctuary. The novel’s unnamed narrator is a gentleman-sportsman whom we first encounter as he is poised to assassinate a loathed central European dictator who may or may not be Adolf Hitler. The sportsman is not a secret agent; he is acting alone. Yet when he has the dictator in his sights, he refuses to pull the trigger, as if it is enough to know that he could have killed him. Perhaps he should have done so, because soon afterwards he is captured, tortured and thrown from a cliff. Miraculously, he survives the fall, and then makes his way back to England. There he is never at peace again: hunted by assassins, he flees, as Saddam did, to the place he knows best and from which he came. In this instance, he returns to his home county of Dorset, and there, on barren moorland, he digs himself a hole in the ground and hides in it. Household writes well about the loneliness of the hole, about fear, anxiety and regret, and the knowledge that although the rogue male can hide, he knows he will also he caught.
In Charles Dickens’s great protest novel Hard Times (1854), the hole in the ground is less a place of greater safety than of entrapment. It is a place of death. Stephen Blackpool is a humble mill-worker in an era of unrestrained capitalism. His wife, from whom, against social convention, he seeks a divorce, is a drunk and he is ostracised by his fellow workers when he refuses to join their nascent union. One afternoon, he falls down an abandoned mine shaft, where he must suffer alone, marooned from the world. Blackpool is eventually discovered and pulled from the earth, but it is too late for him. His injuries are too severe, and he becomes merely another unfortunate victim of a riven and corrupt society.
In Mary Webb’s Gone to Earth (1917) the hole once more becomes a kind of sanctuary, but it is one where no true peace can ever be found. The novel was written during the First World War; three of the author’s brothers were at the Western Front, wading through mud and living in trenches. The setting for the novel is the remote Shropshire Hills, where Hazel Woodus, the daughter of a Welsh gypsy mother and a father who is a beekeeper and coffin maker, roams with freedom. She is a child of the earth who is happiest when she is alone with her pet fox-cub. But like the fox, she herself is hunted—by two men, Edward Marston, a Nonconformist minister whom she marries but discovers is impotent, and Jack Reddin, the local squire and leader of the hunt, for whom she experiences a desperate passion. In her struggles, she becomes symbolic of “all things hunted and snared and destroyed”. Her only escape is to go to earth, to burrow under ground. But her hole is not a den; it becomes a coffin.
JM Coetzee once said of Robinson Crusoe, a novel he rewrote in his own Foe(1986), that the idea of a man being marooned alone on an island is perhaps the “only story”. In Coetzee’s fiction his lonely protagonists usually find themselves in societies without any recognisable moral centre. They are often afflicted by a nameless menace, guilty of no crime except that of being alive. For Coetzee, writing under the influence of Kafka, it seems as if life itself is a prison sentence, from which there is no fixed date of release. We are all, in our own way, hole-dwellers.
Samuel Beckett, in his plays, novels and prose-poetry, offers a dramatised representation of this peculiarly modern dilemma. His tramps, outcasts and vagabonds, with their fluid, interchangeable identities and patterns of repetitive behaviour, are sent off in search of missing people or on bizarre quests that have no end. Increasingly confused, they find themselves retreating to smaller and more claustrophobic spaces—dustbins (Endgame), a single bed (Molloy), a muddy hole (How It Is). They are inhabiters of the psychological underground, because they have few expectations and exist in a kind of exaggerated limbo, perpetually waiting for nothing. They do not want to go on, but they go on, all the same, towards “a long unbroken time without before or after ... life and death all nothing”.
For Dostoevsky, writing in the mid-19th century, the underground man, the isolated consciousness freed from all religion and social responsibility, was the voice of the future. He is the nihilist who, like Saddam, longs to elevate himself above the common morality of the herd, to create his own laws, become his own man. But though he fears death, this underground man cannot embrace life. And so he must remain, like the scabrous narrator of Notes from the Underground (1864), locked inside a metaphysical prison, unable to “make myself anything, neither a scoundrel nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect”.
Yet what of works of actual (as opposed to metaphoric) prison literature? A book such as Brian Keenan’s An Evil Cradling (1992), his remarkable memoir about his four and a half years as a hostage in Beirut, is valuable because it testifies not only to suffering hut also to human resilience and to the wealth and freedom that can, paradoxically, be discovered only in real poverty and isolation. Alone in his cell in Beirut, Keenan discovered truths about himself—about his needs, his selfishness, his failures and his longing for company—that, in any other circumstances, he would never have known. Shut away in his bole deep beneath the streets of Beirut, the walls of Keenan’s prison came to represent the whole world and his place in it. What he experienced was cruel and humiliating, but it was freedom-in-isolation of the kind that Saddam Hussein would never have known as he lay in his own hole in the ground in Tikrit, with nothing but a revolver, a bottle of water and bad dreams for company.
October 13 2003 / New Statesman
This is a good moment for the novel in South Africa: John Maxwell Coetzee has been awarded the 2003 Nobel Prize for Literature and Damon Galgut, who writes under Coetzee’s influence, will discover on Tuesday whether his fifth novel, The Good Doctor, has won the Booker Prize. Yet there is a feeling of hopelessness among many white South African writers, an increasing sense that to be a writer there is to be condemned, through the absence of a local readership or anything resembling an indigenous literary culture, to write endlessly into a vacuum of indifference. The novel is their chosen medium of expression, but they feel oppressed by emptiness; there is a sense of having something important to say but of not being heard. At least, not by their own people, in the country they call home.
“Not only is South African literature, historically, the literature of a vacuum, but more and more it is becoming a literature in a vacuum,” says the Cape Town-based academic and critic Roy Robins. “Where is the new generation of South African writers under 50, black or white? Can you imagine South Africa starting its own Granta-type list for writers under 40? We would be hard-pressed to find even two worthy of inclusion . . . It is easy to say that the problem of literature in South Africa is that we do not have a culture of reading, and therefore of writing, fiction. But this problem of literature is subsumed by a deeper, more important problem - the problem of literacy. For it seems almost arrogant to worry about the future of local fiction in a country where many can’t even write their own names.”
It is certainly true that for many black South Africans the novel remains an alien form, something imported from Europe and tainted by colonialism. And perhaps the art of fiction in places of such poverty is, after all, a kind of bourgeois luxury. What place is there for the novel when 30 per cent of the population is reported to be HIV-positive? When millions are shut out through a quirk of birth from civil society? More obliquely, what relevance do the canonical texts of the great western tradition and the old cultural hierarchies have to decolonised peoples engaged in long and complicated struggles for self-realisation?
Discussing the work of Nadine Gordimer in the latest issue of the New York Review of Books, Coetzee writes of how, in the 1970s, Gordimer was made to realise that, to black South Africans, “the people to whose struggle she bore historical witness, the name Zola, to say nothing of the name Proust, carried no resonance - that she was too European to matter to the people who mattered most to her”. One can read into this remark - with its sly allusion to Saul Bellow’s notorious quip about the failure of the African continent to produce a truly great writer, an “African Proust” - something of Coetzee’s own regret and frustration.
In a series of admirable novels, many written while he was working as a professor of literature at Cape Town University in the 1980s and 1990s, Coetzee used allegory and parable to write against apartheid and to challenge the oppression and absurdities of the old regime. He was, as the Nobel committee pointed out, “ruthless in his criticism of the cruel rationalism and cosmetic morality of western civilisation”. But Coetzee moved to Australia in 2002 after his Booker-winning novel, Disgrace (1999), was received with resentment and incredulity in his home country. In particular, leading members of the African National Congress accused him of disloyalty, as if they believed that fiction should bring only good news about post-apartheid South Africa.
His recent work returns obsessively to the question of what it means to be a white writer in Africa, and to the dilemma of writing about and for a society that cannot or will not read your work. David Lurie, the protagonist of Disgrace, is a disaffected, middle-aged academic, preoccupied by death and by the diminishment of the humanities at his university. He believes the high European cultural tradition - Romantic poetry, opera, philosophy and Greek tragedy - has no place in Africa. In retreat, Lurie has an affair with one of his students; the affair is discovered by the authorities and, when he refuses to apologise, Lurie is sacked. This is his disgrace. He travels to the Eastern Cape to stay with his daughter, Lucy, on her isolated farmstead; one afternoon, Lurie is attacked and his daughter gang-raped by black men. Too neatly - Coetzee is a programmatic writer, and his novels are rigidly schematic, like elaborate puzzles, really - Lucy becomes pregnant. But she refuses to have an abortion, because she believes humiliation is the fate she most deserves as a once privileged white woman in Africa. In despair, Lurie, distracted by the libretto on the life of Byron he writes in his head, withdraws further, and ends up, withered by contempt, working with sick and dying animals. His fall is complete.
Disgrace is a fine and bold novel, but it has been appropriated by cultural conservatives who argue that it reveals the whole truth about the corruption of the new South Africa, as if the old South Africa was in any way less corrupt. In truth, South Africa is perhaps more unstable than it was under apartheid for the simple reason that its people are more free and sceptical.
The protagonist of Coetzee’s latest novel, Elizabeth Costello (2003), is, like Lurie, out of place and out of time. Elizabeth is a celebrated writer, travelling the world to academic conferences and professional speaking engagements, but she feels bereft. The modern world - its cheap obsessions, its junk and celebrity culture, its cult of the new - distresses her. At one conference, she meets a famous Nigerian writer, who is delivering a paper on the novel in Africa. What interests him most, he says, is the oral tradition. She is unconvinced. “The English novel,” she tells him, “is written in the first place by English people for English people. That is what makes it the English novel. The Russian novel is written by Russians for Russians. But the African novel is not written by Africans for Africans. African novelists may write about Africa, about African experiences, but they seem to me to be glancing over their shoulder all the time they write, at the foreigners who will read them. Whether they like it or not, they have accepted the role of interpreter, interpreting Africa to their readers. Yet how can you explore a world in all its depth if at the same time you are having to explain it to outsiders?”
Elizabeth Costello never answers her own question. You sense, however, that, like Coetzee himself, she feels the answer is that the novel has no future in Africa, certainly not until it is written not for a putative international readership but by Africans for Africans themselves. There is a similar sense of despair in Galgut’s The Good Doctor, which is set in a remote and run-down hospital in a former homeland, the semi-autonomous, often barren areas where the old apartheid government allowed a semblance of self-rule. One is never quite sure who is the good doctor of the title - the jaded and nihilistic narrator, Frank, or Laurence, the idealistic young doctor who arrives with big ideas on how to improve the lives of the impoverished local population.
The Good Doctor is written with economy and grace. An allegory of the sense of redundancy and guilt felt by many white South Africans, it offers a vision of the new country that is as bleak as anything by Coetzee. Through Frank’s relationship with the black doctor for whom he works, with her staff, and with the young illiterate African Maria, whom he pays for sex, Galgut dramatises the tensions confronting even the most optimistic liberal whites in a country that they feel is increasingly indifferent to their fate. These were people who believed in the struggle to liberate the black majority, who despised the cruelty of apartheid, but who cannot now accept the loss of their own exceptionalism.
Frank may therefore be a more reliable witness to the political transformation of South Africa because, unlike the liberal Laurence, he has no great expectations. He may be cynical and contemptuous of progress, yet he yearns for something better; he even fantasises that he and poor, illiterate Maria may one day start a new life together in the city, far away from the desolate aridity of the homeland. But he knows that all such hopes are forlorn, that perhaps there can never be true understanding or reconciliation between the European and the African, that there is, in the end, no place for the white man in Africa. And always in the background of this novel is the unforgiving landscape, the bush that grows remorselessly and covers everything.
The Good Doctor is a novel about guilty memory and the instability of the past; Frank is surrounded by presences from the life he has left behind, not all of whom may be real. It is also about how we can never evade the truth of what we have done, especially in a country as tainted as South Africa.
Galgut lives in a small, cramped flat in Cape Town. He is committed to the new South Africa and deeply attached to the landscape of the Western Cape, but, since being shortlisted for the Booker, he too has spoken of persistent feelings of irrelevance. He was surprised, on arriving in London, at the amount of book chat in England and how it has a committed community of writers and readers of the kind missing from South Africa.
Will he return home if he wins the Booker? One hopes so, not least because the traumas of nation-building can be a source not only of despair, but also of inspiration, to both black and white writers. It can provoke them into speech. This may explain why there is an urgency and tension to many South African novels; reading them, you feel that something important is at stake. You seldom feel that when you read a contemporary English novel.
“It is the storyteller,” wrote the great Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe, “who makes us what we are, who creates history. The storyteller creates the memory that the survivors must have - otherwise their surviving would have no meaning.” In recent years, many talented young black African writers have emerged, especially in Nigeria, writers who have begun to create their own histories, reclaiming the truth of the African experience from outsiders, and recasting the myths and stories and hard political realities of their native lands in fiction. They have also given a once foreign language, English, an indigenous African idiom. The same, I’m sure, can happen in South Africa, a country that has already had its Coetzee and Mandela and now awaits its Achebe.
August 25 2003 / New Statesman
There was a particularly stupid editorial in the Daily Telegraph of 16 August. Commenting on the announcement of the 2003 Booker Prize long list, the paper complained that “Too often in the past, Booker judges chose wilfully obscure books to show quite how clever they really are.” The assumption was that the Booker should be, as the Telegraph put it, “popular”, as if the purpose of the prize was to create a culture of contentment, rather than to honour the most distinguished novel in any one particular publishing year. In truth, the Booker over its 35-year history has, if anything, been prejudiced against difficulty and obscurity. Accessibility, plot, the costume dramas of history, the upheavals of the decolonised world and the traditional virtues of craft and technique have, on the whole, been privileged over the wild, the experimental and the extreme.
To look back at past Booker winners is to encounter few, if any, truly remarkable novels about contemporary Britain. There have been remarkable winners all right, such as JM Coetzee’s Disgrace (1999) and V S Naipaul’s In a Free State (1971), but both books were set largely in southern Africa. If you are seeking something to compare with the profundity, urgency and ambition of, say, Michel Houellebecq’s Atomised, Philip Roth’s American Pastoral, Don DeLillo’s Underworld or Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections, then the Booker cannot really help. Martin Amis and J G Ballard, who have both chronicled the contemporary with consistency and courage, have each been shortlisted only once, and then for their least characteristic novels—Amis for Time’s Arrow (1991), which tells the story of the Holocaust backwards, and Ballard for Empire of the Sun (1984), about his childhood experience of internment under the Japanese in occupied Shanghai. Jonathan Coe’s fine novel about Thatcherism and the excesses of the 1980s, What a Carve Up! (1994), was not even shortlisted, nor were V S Naipaul’s The Enigma of Arrival (1987), Hanif Kureishi’s The Buddha of Suburbia (1990), Ian McEwan’s The Child in Time (1987), Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting (1993) or Zadie Smith’s White Teeth (2000). These excellent novels about modern Britain all failed to make it on to the short list.
Yet one should not take the Booker too seriously, as the whole thing—the prize dinner, the judging process, the announcement of the long and short lists and the accompanying journalistic chatter and buzz—amounts to little more than a game, with its own arcane rules and rituals. The rules, like those of the British constitution, remain largely unwritten: change occurs, but never quickly, which means the prize still fails fully to embrace the anglophone world (the Americans remain stubbornly excluded). Like Granta magazine’s Best of Young British promotion, the Booker has ever less to do with literature than with marketing and media management. Its purpose is simply to provoke discussion and disagreement, and through doing so, to generate sales of the kinds of novels that might otherwise be neglected or ignored altogether. The prize, which was last year raised from 20,000 [pounds sterling] to 50,000 [pounds sterling], ensures that the winning novel becomes a bestseller in Britain and much of the rest of the world too.
To attempt to dignify proceedings, as the mandarin commentator Simon Jenkins did when, as chairman of the judges in 2000, he prohibited all undisclosed media leaks, is to misunderstand the nature of an event that thrives on gossip, faux conspiracy and artificial scandal. Far better, as Lisa Jardine did last year, to take your fellow judges up on to the Millennium Wheel to check the veracity of a particular scene in a novel under discussion and then allow news of your stunt to leak out. Professor Jardine was a good chairman because she understood perfectly the nature of the event with which she was associated. This is an event, after all, which in pursuit of televised drama can sometimes end up inadvertently humiliating writers: individuals more used to spending long days alone at their desks are required for one night of radiant hope to dress up like dandies and attend a banquet. There they are expected to conceal any sense of public disappointment, in the manner of the best Hollywood actors. But actors are used to pretence and artifice; they live by it. Writers, no less ambitious but often much more socially gauche than actors, too often are left feeling vulnerable and exposed.
Judging the prize can be an odd experience, too. For a start, so intense is the concentration of interest that even the judges themselves become quickly caught up in the engine of media controversy, their every public utterance monitored for clues as to what might be happening inside the Savile Club, where the judging meetings take place. When I was a judge, I approached the task with the levity and mischief I thought it deserved, as well as using it as an opportunity to ask what I thought were then important questions about the modern British novel, which seemed to me, at that time, to be in flight from the present (a wearisome number of the entries that year were historical novels which, when contrasted with the spectacular superabundance of the American fiction I liked most, seemed provincial, introspective, class-obsessed, irrelevant).
The Booker was founded in 1968. The late Sir Michael Caine, the then chairman of Booker plc, an international food distribution conglomerate with close links to the old Commonwealth, and various senior literary publishers wanted to create the British equivalent of the Prix Goncourt in France, or the Pulitzer in the United States. As the owner of several lucrative literary copyrights, including those of Ian Fleming and Agatha Christie, from which it earned more than an estimated 2m [pounds sterling] per year, Booker plc was seeking to return some of the proceeds of these profits to the world of books. Or so it was said at the time.
Michael Caine, who died in 1999, was a grand patriarch in the Victorian mould, the kind of learned, enlightened, occasionally tyrannical marketer who has all but disappeared from the modern business world. He cared passionately about literature and world affairs. Together with his old friend Jonathan Taylor, another former chairman of the now defunct Booker plc, and Martyn Goff, the charming and crafty prize administrator, who recently celebrated his 80th birthday, he created in the Booker what has been described as the single most successful arts sponsorship in the world. The Booker—whose latest sponsor, following an unhappy association with Iceland (the frozen-food group, alas, not the country) is the Man Group, which specialises in “financial services”—has long since transcended its original sponsor to become a brand in its own right, with flourishing franchises. For instance, in 1992, Sir Michael established, with support from the British Council, a Russian Booker prize, which galvanised Russian publishing during the immediate post-Soviet period. Today, the Russian prize has a new sponsor—the drinks company Diageo—but the Booker name lives on. More recently, following his death, Sir Michael’s widow, the MEP Emma Nicholson, set up in his memory the Caine Prize for African Writing which offers an annual award of $15,000 for a short story by an African writer. The prize is referred to both here and in much of Africa as the “African Booker”.
Yet the Booker almost didn’t make it. In the early years, as well as grappling with widespread indifference, Booker plc found itself often under consistent attack because of its colonial heritage. John Berger (G, 1972) and J G Farrell (The Siege of Krishnapur, 1973) both used the occasion of the award dinner to denounce the sources of wealth behind the prize. Berger, who donated his winning cheque to the Black Panthers, was fortunate to be there in the first place. The judges in 1972 were distinguished: Cyril Connolly, Elizabeth Bowen and George Steiner. But, so the story goes, Connolly was drunk for the judging meetings while Bowen was distracted by illness. This meant that Steiner was largely free to award the prize to whomever he wished. He chose Berger, whose speech, according to the academic John Sutherland, has since had “a palpable influence in politically correcting the shortlist”.
The Booker survived these as well as other relatively minor scandals—walkouts, resignations, tantrums, feuds—to become the event of the publishing year. Without the Booker, the way novels are written, read and published in this country would have been different, because it created an entire prize culture, from which so much that is good has flowed, including reading groups and more progressive literary publishing. Today, there are more than 250 different book prizes in Britain, many of which are generously sponsored and enthusiastically reported. But none can quite claim the authority of the Booker prize for fiction which, celebrating its 35th anniversary, continues to create its own commanding canon of contemporary fiction, the starting point for argument and still the best guide we have to what is out there and what is worth reading.
July 21 2003 / New Statesman
Visions of apocalypse, once confined to science fiction, now dominate mainstream films and novels. They have become young, smart, even beautiful.
I was at school in the 1970s, a period I recall as one of deep social and political unease. In our old bipolar world, split between rival ideological blocs, we watched innumerable television plays about the nuclear threat or life after an atomic war; we discussed with our teachers, most of whom were anxious members of CND, the dangers of the bomb. In those days, we all lived with the threat of apocalypse. We knew that our world could end at any moment, destroyed not by natural disaster or by the intervention of a malevolent deity, but by man himself. For the first time in history, we knew that we had the capacity and the desire to enact our own mass destruction. The motif of those times was an acute watchfulness; narratives of spying and surveillance were what preoccupied us, and I remember pleading with my father to build a bunker in our garden.
Yet I also remember being told at school that once the Soviet threat was vanquished, we would enjoy the benefits of the leisure age: by the year 2000 we would be travelling around in space-age buggies, dressing in tracksuits or something equally hideous, and sitting back while a robot did most of the housework. When we were not holidaying on the moon, we would be travelling briskly across whole continents in supersonic aircraft.
The revolutions of 1989 in central and eastern Europe and the subsequent collapse of the Soviet Union seemed to offer the prospect of something like that better, safer world coming true. We were, according to Francis Fukuyama and other western triumphalists, at a period of rest—the end of history—when most of us, certainly those living in the democratic west, could enjoy sustained peace and prosperity. If history had taught us anything, it was that all schemes to remake the world were doomed to fail. We would have to learn to live with inequality and imperfection. Free-market liberal democracy was the only legitimate form of government, because it offered the greatest possibility of wealth, health and happiness to the greatest number of people, and, what was more, no two democracies had ever gone to war against each other. This was the founding myth of our new world order.
The internet and the cellphone, the growth of cheap air travel, the sustained stock market boom created a kind of euphoria that not even the genocide in Rwanda or the wars of secession in the former Yugoslavia could diminish. We had entered the age of globalisation when everyone, it seemed, just wanted to have fun and to become rich and in which everyone could speak the common languages of pop music and football.
Today we are once more living through what Don DeLillo, at the recent Hay-on-Wye literary festival, described as a “period of darkness”. The events of 11 September 2001, the collapse of the so-called new economy, the catastrophic spread of Aids throughout much of Africa, China, Asia and European Russia, the emergence of new wind-borne viruses such as Sars, the devastating potential of science and technology, the opaque and oppressive power of multinational corporations, the dominance of the media, the fear of bioterrorism, the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the instability in the Middle East, and the hard truth of American power have all contributed to a souring of mood and vision.
Some may see hope in a new era of liberal imperialism but, in truth, there is a terrible tension in the world. Fewer and fewer people believe in the benefits of progress or in grand schemes to remake the world for the better. It is rare to meet anyone, especially scientists or philosophers, who believe that the future will be better than the past. It will be different, for sure, but better? Instead, there is a new quietism, a resignation even. Influential figures such as Martin Rees, one of our most distinguished astronomers and a former president of the British Association for the Advancement of Science, are convinced that we may have entered our final century on the planet. Through the website www.longbets.org, Rees is waging $1,000 that more than one million people will be killed in a single act of bioterrorism, or bio-error, by 2020. Is this claim no more than an elaborate stunt to advertise his latest book, Our Final Century? Or is he deadly serious about the threat posed by the new mobile terrorist kill ing squads of the 21st century?
In Our Final Century, Rees shows how science has developed its own momentum and it is as if we are no longer able to control it. Rather, science controls us, challenging our most fundamental sense, as J G Ballard has written, of who we are and what we might become. If we once thought that science would liberate us from all mundane constraint—making our lives freer, happier and less complicated—we now believe the opposite: that we are, in some way, prisoners of science, powerless to prevent its hold over our lives. For science increasingly alters the way we think about the world and about ourselves: we know that it can be a source of both liberation and destruction. Once you have invented anew technology—such as e-mail, or a precision-guided missile—the temptation to use it becomes irresistible, which may partly explain the American enthusiasm for war. Just look at our toys, boys!
What does the left have to say about all of this? Chastened by Thatcherism and a long cycle of defeat and internal dispute, the British left has long ceased to believe that History was moving in its direction, or that there was, in the classic Hegelian sense, a clear purpose and pattern to events. In retreat from the economic imperatives of the free market, the left, throughout much of the 1980s, concentrated less on macro than on micro issues—issues of race, gender and sexuality. Eschatology was supplanted by pragmatism. Evolutionary biology and advances in genetic science further conspired to undermine traditional liberal humanism: there is, after all, something called human nature, and we are all driven by impulses and forces that we can never fully understand. This, together with the general acceptance that we are no longer in control of, but subject to, the random drift of events, has resulted in a new pessimism about government and its influence over our lives.
In The Sense of an Ending (1967), Frank Kermode reminded us that there was nothing new about apocalyptic thinking. “It is commonplace,” he wrote, “to talk about our historical situation as uniquely terrible and in a way privileged, a cardinal point in time. But can it really be so? It seems doubtful that our crisis, our relation to the future and to the past, is one of the important differences between us and our predecessors. Many of them felt as we do… Perhaps if we have a terrible privilege it is merely that we are alive and are going to die, all at once or one at a time. Other people have noticed this, and expressed their feelings about it in images different from ours, armies in the sky, for example, or a palpable Antichrist; and these we have discarded.”
Kermode was broadly right, I think, to point out how prone we are to exaggerate the monumentality of our own particular moment, and our tendency to distort and embellish each crisis so that it must become a pre-eminent crisis, distinct from what has gone before. And yet I cannot help feeling that our world-historic moment is, in one important sense, different. The generation that grew up after the Second World War and experienced the onset of a consumer society and the freedoms of the 1 960s was perhaps the most optimistic in history. Everything around them seemed to be changing so rapidly and, on the whole, for the better. These children of the space age believed in progress, in the liberating potential of science and technology, and in the promise of the future, even if that future was shadowed by the bomb nobody dared use. They believed all this because science was such a progressive force in their own lives; it was the means through which they were able to escape the domestic drudgery and social immobilit y of the recent past.
It doesn’t really feel like that today. The imminent end of Concorde and the experiment in supersonic travel, as well as the recent space shuttle disaster, have served to reinforce the conviction that we are marooned on this earth. If there is life out there in distant galaxies, it is, humanly, unreachable. Our ambition may be infinite but its expression will remain a slave to limit. This planet earth is, in effect, all we have and shall ever know. Our natural condition is therefore one of ontological shipwreck: we can send messages out into deepest space but they will never be received.
Yet the unease of the present makes this a rather good moment to be a writer or artist. Art at its best should reflect the times in which we live. It is a representative medium—nature’s mirror. The purpose of an ambitious novel or film is to document the present, to offer a sense of the defining particulars of the age—its tensions and preoccupations, its corruptions and opportunities. It should carry an imprint of the culture in which we live. If nothing else, it should bring us news of what it means to be here, now.
This year both Don DeLillo, in Cosmopolis, a study of the last hours of a young, jaded billionaire bond dealer in New York, and Margaret Atwood, in Oryx and Crake, her portrayal of a world destroyed by war and scientific irresponsibility, published novels shadowed by a sense of an ending. Both writers had begun their novels before the events of 11 September 2001, but found that, in the aftermath of the attacks on New York and Washington, their vision had darkened and that they were writing not about the near future, but parables of the present.
In Oryx and Crake and, indeed, in Michel Houellebecq’s great novel Atomised, genetically engineered clones have replaced the flawed and deluded Homo sapiens as the dominant creatures on the planet. Humans, we understand, were simultaneously so intelligent and so foolish that they were able to invent the means of their own destruction—namely, in the case of Atwood’s novel, a super-Ebola GM virus.
Visions of apocalypse have long been the preoccupation of science fiction. But through the novels of Atwood, DeLillo and Douglas Coupland (his latest, Hey Nostradamus!, is about a spree killing at a school in Vancouver), through current films such as Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later and Richard Kelly’s Donnie Darko, and through television dramas such as the BBC’s recent The Day Britain Stopped, which convincingly imagined the complete collapse of the British transport infrastructure, the themes of so much science fiction—solitary survivors on a contaminated planet, catastrophe, genetic modification, superbugs, post-apocalyptic landscapes, bioterrorism—are becoming part of our mainstream entertainment culture. These works offer artistic expression of what, for many of us in the age of al-Qaeda and nanotechnology; are our most subterranean fears and anxieties.
Directed by Boyle from a script by Alex Garland, 28 Days Later is set in a recognisable England in which all but a few people have been killed by a virus, which escaped into the general population following a raid by animal rights activists on a Cambridge laboratory. Those that have been “infected” by the virus but are yet to die roam a decaying urban landscape, driven only by vulgar motivation. One scene early in the film shows a young man waking from a coma to find himself completely alone in a London that, 28 days earlier and before he was injured in a road accident, was vibrant and boisterous with people. There is a stunned, dreamlike quality to his wanderings through these empty city streets.
The hero of the film is an emblematic last man, familiar from the fictions of J G Ballard. He meets up with a young black woman and, accompanied by an orphaned girl, they travel north in search of a fortified settlement where, it is believed, a group of soldiers—who, like them, are uninfected—are living in frightened isolation. 28 Days Later dares to imagine what the world might be like without any people in it; it is a cautionary film, which, as with the dramas of the 1970s about the bomb, is concerned with strategies of human survival in a desolated world, where the future has been put on permanent hold. There is, however, nothing implausible about this film. How can there be, when President Bush goes on national television to deny that he has been infected by anthrax?
In the remarkable Donnie Darko, a disaffected adolescent living in small-town suburban America is visited by a giant rabbit, which may or may not exist. The rabbit warns him that the world will end in—yes, you guessed it—28 days. The film—as, before it, did Coupland’s hallucinatory novel Girlfriend in a Coma—combines a zany pop-cultural sensibility with a stranger and more sombre realisation that the world is somehow out of joint and that something has gone drastically, irreversibly, wrong. The disturbed student spends much of the film dreaming of destruction. He longs for a single apocalyptic event that will cleanse the world and allow him and everyone he knows to redeem the mistakes of the past and to start all over again. When that event eventually arrives, the agent of change in his life and those around him is far more frightening and mysterious than even he could have imagined.
The pop soundtrack of Donnie Darko is from the 1980s—gloomy British bands such as Echo and the Bunnymen, Joy Division and Tears for Fears—but the new Radiohead album, Hail to the Thief, would have been just as appropriate. Radiohead are, by some distance, our brainiest and most consistently experimental rock band, and Hail to the Thief—enraged, despairing, ironic, visionary—is, in mood and attitude, at one with the apocalyptic turn in our contemporary culture. What is significant about so much of the new apocalyptic thinking is that it is largely an expression of youthful perplexity rather than of late-middle-age reaction. The new apocalyptists are young, smart, fashionable and, above all, driven by eschatological anxiety. They are also Romantics: their fantasies of the end often have a peculiar beauty—Donnie Darko and 28 Days Later are among the most visually sumptuous films of recent times.
The result of all this experimentation is that the boundaries between science fiction and literary fiction are collapsing. Soon none of us will be able to distinguish between realism and science fiction, between the plausible and the implausible in art—because, after the events of 11 September 2001 and what has happened since, nothing in the world seems implausible any more. Anything is possible—including the Big End.
June 2 2003 / New Statesman
To understand the impact Morrissey and his band The Smiths had on British popular culture when they first emerged in the autumn of 1983, one must first recall the atmosphere and mood in the country during that particular year. Margaret Thatcher, strengthened by victory in the Falklands war, had confidently defeated a weakened and fractious Labour Party in the summer general election; the energy of punk and new wave had long since dissipated; the pop charts were dominated by the pompous extravagance of Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran and Culture Club; American influences were becoming omnipresent; and Kelvin MacKenzie’s relentlessly vulgar Sun newspaper was a mirror in which the nation saw reflected its own base aspirations. In other words, Britain had not yet fully remade itself as a vibrant, cosmopolitan entity; it was still suspended uneasily somewhere between the hegemony of the postwar consensus politics that had led to the stasis and disenchantment of the mid-to-late-1970s, and the worst excesses of the Thatcherite counter-revolution. It was a bad time for all but the most triumphalist of the new right.
What was so intriguing about Morrissey, who is now 44, was his absolute rejection of the modern impulse for change. He was, unusually for a young aspirant rock star, a deeply reactionary figure, who, during the lonely years of his adolescence on a Manchester council estate, had created his own idiosyncratically nostalgic world-view. He was, emphatically, a Little Englander. His heroes were neglected actors like Charles Hawtrey (of the Carry On films), writers such as Thomas Hardy, or semi-forgotten former icons like the young Diana Dors, Viv Nicholson, Billy Fury or Sandie Shaw (all of whom he used as cover stars on his record sleeves).
Morrissey was interested in the lives of little people, those excluded from the affluence and bombast of the new Britain, and in literate eccentrics like Oscar Wilde and Truman Capote. He dressed, against the then trend for opulent display, with dishevelled flamboyance—he wore flowing shirts and old jeans—and he turned national health spectacles and hearing aids into fashion accessories. His hair, cut short at the back and sides, was worn in an extravagant quiff, like the French actor Jean Marais in Cocteau’s Orpheus. His sexuality was ambivalent, he was whimsical, and his extraordinarily fluent conversation had a camp burnish.
The words he used in his songs—handsome, miserable, gruesome, charming, blessed—were unusual for the medium. To listen to his best songs today—“This Charming Man”, “There is a Light That Never Goes Out”, “How Soon Is Now?”—is to recall exactly how you felt and what you were doing when you first heard them. That power to prompt instant recollection is the undeniable attraction of even the most banal pop music.
Growing up in and around Manchester during the 1970s must have been a miserable and alienating experience. Bernard Sumner, the frontman of the band New Order, has since spoken of the boredom, of how everything in and around the city centre seemed to be in decay or actually falling down, how there was nowhere for ambitious young people from traditional-working-class families to go and nothing for them to do, and how it seemed to be raining all the time. The Manchester sound of the late 1970s, as exemplified by Joy Division and early New Order, was suitably cold and austere. It was music for mourning, perfect for a decaying post-industrial urban landscape.
Yet Morrissey made of this same northern landscape a magical poetry. Through his simple, melodic songs, he achieved a peculiar alchemy in which the unkempt houses and darkened streets of the Whalley Range estate of his childhood were transfigured, becoming in the process places of romance and possibility. The recurring motifs in his songs were bus stops, darkened underpasses, double-decker buses, cemeteries and factory gates. The mood of his songs was one of persistent longing. The word “love”—certainly love fulfilled—seldom appeared in his lexicon.
Morrissey’s songs are really about the impossibility of ever finding true intimacy with another person. In this, they reflect his own life. He told Lynn Barber, when she interviewed him last year, that he had never been at all interested in physical relationships. “There are some people on the planet who aren’t obsessed with sex. I’m one of them. I wasn’t interested in sex when I was 17, I wasn’t interested when I was 27, I wasn’t interested when I was 37, and I’m even less interested now… It’s a great privilege to live alone.”
It would be a shame if all this made Morrissey appear unusually gloomy, because he is, after all, a very witty writer. His songs, particularly in the last phase of The Smiths and throughout his faltering solo career, have been consistently amusing. The titles alone—“Girlfriend in a Coma”, “Rusholme Ruffians”, “Vicar in a Tutu”, “Bengali in Platforms”, “National Front Disco”—are delightfully odd. And it is hard to think of a funnier line than this, from the song “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now”: “What she asked of me at the end of the day/Caligula would have blushed.”
The Smiths were, from the beginning, a classic four-piece: singer, drums, bass and guitar. They were a product of the independent label Rough Trade and they had a robust political independence. Morrissey’s songwriting partner, Johnny Marr, was a musician of range and flexibility. His guitar could at one moment sound soft and jangly and at the next as hard and jagged as anything by Keith Richards. Morrissey’s deep, mournful voice, though often repetitive, was an excellent complement to Marr’s guitar.
The Smiths, as is the way of these things, split up acrimoniously in 1987, having had 14 hit singles. Five years later, bass player Mike Joyce successfully sued Morrissey for more than [pounds sterling]1m in unpaid back earnings. When Lynn Barber met Morrissey on tour last year in America, he was still complaining about the injustice of the court’s decision. Nor had he any intention of returning to the England he had once elegised with such perspicacity. Perhaps he is still hurt by the accusations of racism that were levelled against him by the NME and others after he began, during live performances, to wrap himself in the Union Jack and to embrace in his songs and public statements a darker, more defensive English nationalism.
In truth, there is nothing sinister about his songs, even the most wryly provocative such as “National Front Disco” or “Bengali in Platforms”. Indeed, the notion of a National Front disco is itself inherently comic: at such an event you would surely encounter the kind of dysfunctional comic grotesque to whom Morrissey has always been attracted.
Today Morrissey lives alone off Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles. He has no record contract, but he still tours and remains wealthy from his Smiths’ royalties. He claims not to have spoken to Johnny Marr for more than a decade.
Pop music - no matter how original or sophisticated - is essentially an expression of late adolescence or early adulthood. Morrissey embodied, more than any other pop artist of his era, the frustrated yearning and idealism of that often difficult period of transition from youthful rebellion to resigned maturity. His romantic provincialism was, at the time, a splendid antidote to the empty consumerism of the mid-1980s. He was an inspiration for every awkward, fretful youth who had ever spent too long alone in a darkened bedroom. His was a voice of charm and sanity in a crazy time. There has been no one quite like him, before or since.
December 16 2002 / New Statesman
In 1936, W H Auden spent a summer in Iceland with his friend and fellow poet Louis MacNeice. The letters and poems they wrote that summer and sent home to Richard Crossman and Christopher Isherwood, among others, offer not only a fascinating record of their own youthful enthusiasms and obsessions but also a record of Iceland itself, a country which was then perhaps the most isolated, impoverished and introverted in Europe.
For the adolescent Auden, Iceland was “holy ground”: a landscape of mystery and dreams. When he finally arrived there, at the age of 29, the reality he encountered “verified his dreams”, but there were infinite irritations. In his letters home, Auden mocked the mediocrity and shabbiness of the architecture, the gloom of the locals, and the awful food—the bitter soups, the dried fish, the overcooked mutton and, a speciality, the rotten shark pickled in sour milk. This was a time of great upheaval in Europe—the civil war had begun in Spain, Hitler was ascendant—but Auden could discover little of what was happening elsewhere in the world. “Reykjavik,” he wrote, “is the worst possible sort of provincial town as far as amusing oneself is concerned, and there was nothing to do but soak in the only hotel with a licence.”
When Auden returned to Iceland in 1964, he found that things had changed beyond all expectation. The country was now a fully independent republic and a member of Nato; military occupation, first by the British and then by the Americans, had brought a greater prosperity and outward curiosity. But the Icelanders, Auden noted, “have not—not yet—become vulgar”.
What, one wonders, would he have made of contemporary Iceland? To visit the country today, especially the vibrant capital, Reykjavik, is to discover that the vexed word “globalisation” might have some meaning after all: there are restaurants specialising in “fusion”, Mexican, Chinese and “Californian-Tuscan” food; there are designer boutiques and sports bars with banks of screens showing English football; there are hectic nightclubs, elegant coffee shops and internet cafes; there are strip malls, cinemas showing the latest Hollywood releases and bookshops open until midnight, where you can buy any European newspaper of your choice on the day of your choice. Everyone you meet speaks English with an impressive, idiomatic fluency. Young people look very much as they do in New York or London: cool, aloof and knowingly fashionable. In fact, you could be in any modern city anywhere in the developed world were it not that alcohol were so prohibitively expensive and the surrounding landscape so thrillingly, disorientatingly strange.
The most popular time to visit Iceland is during the long white nights of summer, when the bars and clubs of central Reykjavik never seem to close and the days can often be warm and dry. But summer in Reykjavik is a time of oppressive congestion: there are too many backpackers in search of the local “vibe”, as celebrated in the novel (and subsequent film) 101 Reykjavik; too many people believing that they will encounter Bjork, Damon Albarn or Jarvis Cocker in a coffee shop—in truth, several years have passed since Albarn lived in the city, and Bjork is now resident in New York.
Early winter in Iceland, before it becomes too cold, is different. I visited in late November, before the pre-Christmas rush, and it was a thrill to hire a car and drive out along empty roads to what is known as the Golden Triangle—the area where, within a few square miles, you find spouting hot springs, including the Great Geyser, the Gullfoss waterfalls and a surrounding near-lunar landscape of canyons, craters and caves.
In summer, tourists are bused out to the Golden Triangle in their breathless thousands; but when I was there, on a wet, misty Monday afternoon, I was quite alone as I stood, in baffled contemplation, beside Gullfoss falls. The black-barren lava fields, the sheer cliffs and gleaming glaciers, the geothermal springs and surging waterfalls, the pristine glacial valleys and high mountain lakes, the volcanic disturbance and threat of earthquakes, the persistent smell of sulphur, the complete absence of trees: travelling through Iceland you never cease to marvel at the strangeness of this landscape, or cease to wonder that people live here.
The Guardian journalist James Meek has described Iceland as being like “one of those science fiction dystopias portrayed in the films of the 1960s and 1970s, when everyone lives comfortable, prosperous, safe lives providing they do not question society’s darker secrets”. It is a good description because there is something genuinely mysterious about this country that defies neat explanation. Despite the rotten weather, the darkness (in winter, there is virtually no daylight at all), the continual sleet and sea fogs, life in Reykjavik is very comfortable. The economy may still be over-reliant on fishing, but there is full employment, life expectancy is among the highest in Europe, the liberalisation of the financial markets has produced a new entrepreneurial spirit among the young and educational standards are high. Above all. Iceland is the closest we have to a genuinely classless society in Europe.
Yet still the intelligent young are leaving, particularly for America. Icelandic literature, beginning with the incomparable sagas written in the 13th and early 14th centuries, is simultaneously preoccupied with themes of arrival and departure. Indeed, there is an entire literature of exile—and the longing for home among Icelanders is profound.
How could it be otherwise, when the landscape of home is so sublime and so sacred?
October 1 2002 / Granta, 79
Early in 1943, an operative of the Office of Strategic Services or OSS, the wartime precursor of the CIA, made his way to an unkempt attic apartment on the fifth floor of a building in Creston Avenue, the Bronx. The operative, Walter C. Langer, was compiling what would become the world’s first psychological profile of Adolf Hitler, and that day he took with him Gertrude Kurth, a psychotherapist who was also acting as his translator. Together they climbed the stairs to see a seventy-one-year-old doctor who two years earlier had fled from Austria to New York: a Jew, Dr Eduard Bloch. Dr Bloch had an interesting story to tell. He had known Hitler at first hand; nearly forty years before he had been the Hitler family’s doctor. He had treated Hitler’s mother, Klara, during her final illness, as well as the young Hitler himself for various routine ailments. Obviously, in any study of Hitler’s personality the evidence of such an intimate witness to illness and trauma-his mother’s death had grieved Hitler deeply-could be important. No less interesting-though its relevance to Langer’s research might be debatable-was Dr Bloch’s account of how he had escaped the usual fate of Austrian Jews in 1940. Hitler personally, he told Langer and Kurth, had intervened to allow his departure.
In other words, he was a Jew who had been saved by Hitler-from Hitler. This became the conundrum of his life.
What Bloch told Langer in his two interviews with him-a second conversation occurred a few weeks later-can be found in the OSS’s Hitler profile, a 300-page document which was declassified only in 2001, and which, with its disquisitions on Hitler’s voice, eye-colour, childhood and uneasy sexuality, prefigured an entire industry of lurid psycho-historical speculation. Titled A Psychological Analysis of Adolf Hitler: His Life and Legend, the document is organized into five parts: 1) Hitler-as he believes himself to be; 2) Hitler-as the German people know him; 3) Hitler-as his associates know him; 4) Hitler-as he knows himself; 5) Psychological analysis and reconstruction (with a long concluding subsection on his ‘probable behaviour in the future’). There is an extensive bibliography and a complementary sourcebook, in which Langer discusses the reliability of much of the evidence on which he has been working.
From his comments in the sourcebook, it is clear that Langer was as sceptical as he was intrigued by the doctor’s remarkable story. It wasn’t the first time Bloch had told it. Soon after he reached New York in January 1941, Bloch had given a long, detailed interview about his experiences with the Hitler family to Collier’s, the weekly magazine. The interview was published over two weeks in March that year in the form of a piece in the first person (‘as told to J. D. Ratcliff’). America was then neutral in the European war; Pearl Harbor was still nine months away. By the time Langer met Bloch, however, Hitler was no longer a merely disquieting transatlantic phenomenon. The world had come to know him, as Langer wrote in his introduction to the profile, for his ‘insatiable greed for power, his ruthlessness, cruelty and utter lack-of-feeling, his contempt for established institutions and his lack of moral restraints’.
Langer didn’t doubt that Hitler would one day be defeated, and moral order restored. But how to prevent ‘similar eruptions’ in the future? There was only one clear answer: ‘We must discover the psychological streams which nourish this destructive state of mind in order that we may divert them into channels which will permit a further evolution of our form of civilization.’
A meeting with Bloch offered Langer an opportunity to paddle in these psychological streams, to return to the primal scene of Hitler’s childhood and adolescence and to what the British historian Hugh Trevor-Roper later called ‘the darkest, the most formative, and therefore in some sense, the most interesting period’ of Hitler’s life. Langer believed that Bloch was particularly well placed to provide insight into the years, sometimes since mythologized as the missing years, when, from 1908 to 1913, Hitler was a striving but unsuccessful young painter in Vienna. And what did Bloch tell him? That Hitler had been ‘a nice pleasant youth’.
‘Favours were granted me which I feel sure were accorded no other Jew in all Germany and Austria,’ he told Langer. Hitler had honoured an earlier promise of gratitude for the doctor’s care of his mother; he had helped him escape persecution in Austria and smoothed his passage to America. There is no other reported instance of Hitler intervening to save the life of, or of extending compassion to, a Jew, certainly not once he took power in Germany. In this, Bloch was uniquely chosen.
Dr Bloch was to remain forever a stranger to America. It wasn’t his natural home, nor did he wish it to be-it was where his life narrowed and reduced. To the end, he was a cosmopolitan servant of the old Habsburg empire, who is revealed in photographs to have an old world dandyish charm-a wide-brimmed hat, stiff collars, elaborate double cuffs, a cigarette in hand, a moustache that twisted at the edges like a bow tie. This is what we know about his early life. He was born in 1872 into an assimilated bourgeois Jewish family in Frauenburg, a small German-speaking village in southern Bohemia-which, he said, had been ‘under three flags’ in his lifetime: Austrian, Czechoslovakian and German. He studied medicine in Prague and then, once qualified as a general practitioner, he joined the Austrian army as a military doctor. In 1899, he was ‘ordered to Linz’, the provincial capital of Upper Austria and the home town of Adolf Hitler, where, on completing his army service, he decided to stay on; in 1903, he married a local Jewish girl, Emilie Kafka, a distant relative of Franz Kafka, and opened his own public practice.
In the course of this story I went to Linz, and there the town archivist, Dr Joseph Mayrhofer, showed me a photograph taken on a March day in 1938 when Hitler returned to his home town after an absence of thirty years. As a young man, he had dreamed of rebuilding the town on a monumental scale, so that Linz would become one day not just an architectural rival to Budapest and Vienna, but the city on the Danube, a place of colossal dimensions. In the photograph Hitler stands in his open-topped, six-wheeled Mercedes-Benz at the head of a motorcade which is moving along the main street, the Landstrasse. A crowd in the street salutes the Führer; even people in the windows above have raised their arms. A closer inspection of the picture shows that it was taken as the motorcade reached 25 Landstrasse, which means that Hitler was about to pass directly beneath the upstairs window of a fine baroque house, 12 Landstrasse, where Eduard Bloch happened to be watching. The two men had last seen each other after the funeral of Klara Hitler, at the end of 1907.
In the photograph, Hitler’s face seems to be fixed in that very direction, upwards, to his right, and ahead. Who is it he sees up there? What absorbs him? Dr Bloch thought he knew. ‘It was a moment of tense excitement,’ he told Collier’s. ‘For years Hitler had been denied the right to visit the country of his birth. Now that country belonged to him. The elation that he felt was written on his features. He smiled, waved, gave the Nazi salute to the people that crowded the street. Then, for a moment, he glanced at my window. I doubt that he saw me but he must have had a moment of reflection. Here was the home of the Edeljude who had diagnosed his mother’s fatal cancer; here was the consultation room of the man who had treated his sisters; here was the place he had gone as a boy to have his minor ailments attended to. It was a brief moment. Then the procession was gone. It moved slowly into the town square-once Franz Joseph Platz, soon to be renamed Adolf Hitler Platz. He spoke from the balcony of the town hall. Historic words: Germany and Austria were now one.’
Edeljude: a noble Jew. Bloch told Langer of how in 1937 a group of local Nazi supporters from Linz had visited Hitler at his mountain villa at Berchtesgaden in the Bavarian Alps. ‘The Führer asked for news of Linz,’ Bloch said. ‘How was the town? Were people there supporting him? He asked for news of me. Was I still alive, still practising? Then he made a statement irritating to the local Nazis: “Dr Bloch,” said Hitler, “is an Edeljude-a noble Jew. If all Jews were like him, there would be no Jewish question.”’
Dr Bloch and his wife Emilie reached New York from Lisbon on January 8, 1941, aboard a small Spanish liner, the Marqués de Comillas. Their daughter and only child, Gertrude (Trude), had reached New York with her husband eighteen months before. She earned money as a cleaner while her husband, Frank Kren, who like Bloch had practised as a doctor in Linz, studied for the qualifications that would enable him to work as a doctor in America. The Krens lived with their two young children, George and Joanne, in a five-room flat at 2755 Creston Avenue in the north Bronx, which also became home to Bloch and his wife. Bloch, unlike his son-in-law, was too old to continue as a doctor, and he spoke only rudimentary English. He spent many of his afternoons at the cinema, watching westerns. And then somehow he came to the attention, or brought himself to the attention, of Collier’s magazine. Perhaps, as an obscure old man in a strange country-in Linz, he had been a known and respected individual in the middle class community-he wanted to claim some importance, some celebrity. In the Collier’s pieces, he speaks as though he were already famous. During his passage across the Atlantic, for example, he describes an episode when his ship was stopped by ‘British control officers’ aboard a trawler. The passengers were assembled in the main lounge and their papers examined by the British officers. ‘There was a feeling of tenseness,’ Bloch said, as the officers made their way down the line. Finally they reached Bloch. ‘The officer in charge took my passport, glanced at it and looked up smiling. “You were Hitler’s physician, weren’t you?” he asked. This was correct. It would also have been correct for him to add that I am a Jew.’
This is an unlikely incident. Hitler had not seen his former doctor since Christmas 1907; even in Linz, Bloch was no more than a local hero, best known for being what the town archivist, when I met him, called a ‘poor person’s doctor’, a compassionate friend to the hard up. Beyond Linz, how many people could have heard of him? The officers aboard a British trawler heaving up and down in mid-Atlantic, three days’ sail from the coast of Portugal? Perhaps the Collier’s rewrite man is to blame-or perhaps not: Walter Langer, in the OSS sourcebook, often expresses scepticism about Bloch’s reliability as a witness. He notes at one point: ‘Dr Bloch’s impressions of the family’s life-“quiet, the only bone of contention being Adolf, who refused to become an official and wanted to become an artist; his mother backing him against his father”-seem to be based on his reading of [Konrad] Heiden’s biography  rather than on actual knowledge’. Elsewhere, as Bloch talks about Hitler’s time in Vienna, Langer notes that his memories are here ‘obviously very much mixed up with his reading’. Yet, for all his scepticism, Langer quotes extensively from Collier’s and was intrigued enough by Bloch to visit him a second time ‘to get more facts from him which seem of importance’. These included information on Hitler’s sisters, on his performance at school and on whether he had had ‘some trouble’ as a teenager, an incident that ‘was hushed up’ involving young girls or boys. Bloch had heard about the incident, confirmed that it involved girls, but suggested that it was ‘nothing too serious’. He also confirmed that Hitler had ‘no physical deformity, and definitely no tuberculosis, though tuberculosis was hereditary in the family from the father’s side’.
How reliable was Dr Bloch? Perhaps reliable in one important way: he does not seem to have been a revisionist witness, adjusting his experience of Hitler and his family to suit Hitler’s later beliefs and behaviour and his then current position as the civilized world’s greatest enemy. Largely, he spoke as he had found. He never once condemned his former patient: if anything, he exhibited an understandable touch of wonder at what the mature Hitler had achieved, the improbability of it all. Nor did he ever disparage Klara Hitler, whom he consistently portrayed as a gentle, modest woman, attentive to her children and religiously devout: ‘Outwardly, his love for his mother was his most striking feature,’ he told Collier’s. ‘While he was not a “mother’s boy” in the usual sense, I have never witnessed a closer attachment. Some insist that this love verged on the pathological. As a former intimate of the family, I do not believe this is true.’ To the OSS, he described the ‘reciprocal adoration’ of mother and son as most ‘unusual’.
After the first OSS interview, according to the psychotherapist Gertrude Kurth, Bloch followed her and Langer down five flights of stairs to stress once again, and by now in the street, what ‘a nice pleasant youth’ Hitler had been. More than fifty years later, when Kurth was interviewed by Ron Rosenbaum for his book Explaining Hitler: The Search for the Origins of his Evil, she could not forgive Bloch for the awful innocence of his remark. ‘Outside in the street,’ she said, ‘Langer and I laughed and laughed at that-bitter laughter.’
Bloch died in 1945. According to his grandson, George Kren, he was to the end of his life ignorant of the full horror of what had taken place in central and eastern Europe between 1939 and 1945. That may be true. Less easy to explain, however, is his reluctance to condemn the man who had forced his family’s displacement and that of many other thousands of Jewish families-all this he had experienced and witnessed for himself. And yet, as he told Collier’s, ‘Even today I cannot help thinking of him in terms of his grief and not in terms of what he has done to the world.’
We will come later to the details of what Hitler did for Dr Bloch. The first question is: what did Dr Bloch do for Hitler? What effect did Bloch’s treatment of Klara Hitler, as she succumbed to breast cancer, have on her son?
Klara Hitler had been a widow for four years when she visited Bloch at his surgery in January 1907. Her husband, Alois, had been twenty-three years older, her second cousin, and married twice before (both wives died). Her first three children had died in infancy. Another son, Edmund, Adolf’s younger brother, died of measles at the age of six. As a child, Adolf was weak and sickly; his mother feared that he would not live to maturity, and, after Edmund’s death, she became extraordinarily devoted to her only living son, the soft, maternal buffer into which he was propelled by the rage and aggression of his father. Perhaps Adolf was strengthened by her attachment. After all, as Freud said, ‘A man who’s been the indisputable favourite of his mother goes through life with the feeling of a conqueror’.
During his examination, Bloch found a tumour the size of a hen’s egg in Klara’s right breast. ‘I thought immediately of cancer,’ he told Collier’s. He did not, however, tell Klara of his immediate fears; instead he called her ‘children’-presumably Adolf, who had recently returned from Vienna, his sister, Paula and their elder half-sister, Angela-to his consultation room, where he ‘stated the case frankly’. Their mother, he told them, was very sick. ‘Without surgery, there was absolutely no hope of recovery. Even with surgery there was but the slightest chance that she would live. In family council they must decide what was to be done.’ Bloch described how Hitler reacted to what he heard. ‘His long, sallow face was contorted. Tears flowed from his eyes. Did his mother, he asked, have no chance? Only then did I realize the magnitude of the attachment that existed between mother and son.’
Klara Hitler’s mastectomy was performed four days later by Dr Karl Urban, the chief of the surgical staff at the Hospital of the Sisters of Mercy in Linz, who was recognized as one of the most experienced surgeons in Upper Austria. After examining Klara, he agreed that she required immediate surgery if her life was to be prolonged. (The Nazis later persecuted Urban: together with his son, a brain surgeon, he was forbidden from practising medicine.)
Bloch was present during surgery at the family’s request. Klara was discharged from hospital on February 5, 1907 and enjoyed a brief recovery; Bloch would meet her out walking by the river or see her shopping at the market. But by midsummer the cancer had metastasized; she was once more in severe pain and there was little he could do for her, beyond reducing her pain with regular morphine injections.
‘I shall never forget Klara during those days,’ Bloch told Collier’s. ‘She was forty-eight at the time; tall, slender and rather handsome, yet wasted by disease. She was soft-spoken, patient; more concerned about what would happen to her family than she was about her approaching death. She made no secret of these worries, or about the fact that most of her thoughts were for her son. “Adolf is still so young,” she said repeatedly [he was eighteen]. On the day of December 20, I made two calls. The end was approaching…so the word that Angela Hitler brought me the following morning came as no surprise. Her mother had died quietly in the night. The children had decided not to disturb me, knowing that their mother was beyond all medical aid. But, she asked, could I come now? Someone in an official position would have to sign the death certificate… Adolf, his face showing the weariness of a sleepless night, sat beside his mother. In order to preserve a last impression, he had sketched her as she lay on her deathbed… I sat with the family for a while, trying to ease their grief. I explained that in this case death had been a saviour. They understood. In the practice of my profession it is natural that I should have witnessed many scenes such as this one, yet none of them left me with quite the same impression. In all my career I have never seen anyone so prostrate with grief as Adolf Hitler.’
The most complex explanation of the effect of Bloch on Hitler during this time comes from Professor Rudolph Binion in his book Hitler against the Germans. Binion is half psychologist and half historian-a psycho-historian-and he identifies Bloch as the latent trigger for Hitler’s anti-Semitism. Bloch, after all, replaced Hitler’s dead father, Alois, in Klara’s bedroom; Bloch saw his mother naked; Bloch, in Binion’s view, increased her suffering through the excessive application of iodoform, a strong-smelling antiseptic which is toxic when absorbed into the bloodstream in high doses.
Bloch makes no mention of iodoform in his interviews. Binion discovered it in Bloch’s patient records, which he found in a National Socialist party archive-Bloch’s papers had been seized by the Gestapo before he left Linz. The records for 1907 showed Binion that Bloch had used iodoform gauze to cover the open wound left by her mastectomy. The treatment, Binion argued, was poisonous, with side effects which would have included insomnia, muscle spasticity, extreme thirst, severe migraines, fever and visual disturbance-all consistent with Klara’s symptoms as described by Bloch, by Hitler, and by Hitler’s closest friend from adolescence August Kubizek.
Ergo, according to Binion, a dedicated Freudian, Hitler nurtured an unconscious hatred of Bloch. He unconsciously blamed the suffering of his mother on the doctor’s incompetence. To Hitler, he became not just a Jewish poisoner, he was poison itself. Hitler would speak later of the need to remove the ‘Jewish poison from the breast’ of the German nation. Professor Binion is unequivocal: Hitler relocated his mother in Germany.
Throughout his life, Bloch, Freud’s fellow countryman, took a simpler view. He told Collier’s of how, a few days after Klara’s funeral, Hitler and his two sisters had visited him at home on the Landstrasse. ‘They wished to thank me for the help I had given them. There was Paula, fair and stocky; Angela, slender, pretty but rather anemic; and Adolf. The girls spoke what was in their hearts while Adolf remained silent… Adolf wore a dark suit and a loosely knotted cravat. Then, as now, a shock of hair tumbled over his forehead. His eyes were on the floor while his sisters were talking. Then came his turn. He stepped forward and took my hand. Looking into my eyes, he said: “I shall be grateful to you forever.” That was all. Then he bowed.’ Later, Bloch claimed that Hitler sent him several postcards and sketches from Vienna, including a postcard on which Hitler had painted a hooded Capuchin monk raising a glass of champagne. The picture was captioned: prosit neujahr (‘A toast to the New Year’). On the reverse, he had written: ‘The Hitler family sends you the best wishes for a Happy New Year. In everlasting thankfulness, Adolf Hitler.’ When I spoke to Bloch’s grandchildren, George and Joanne, they said that their grandfather had indeed kept these souvenirs, but that they had been taken by the Gestapo when they confiscated his medical records.
Gratitude: that was what Bloch felt certain Hitler had felt. Otherwise, why the postcards? Otherwise, why in 1940 would Bloch and his wife have been granted passports and permitted to emigrate unhindered to America?
Klara Hitler is buried in a small churchyard in the market town of Leonding, which was once a small, isolated agricultural village but today is part of the south-western suburbs of Linz, which lies surrounded by wooded hills in the Danube valley. The Hitlers themselves had once lived in Leonding, in a cottage that backed on to the cemetery. It was in Leonding that the family patriarch, Alois Hitler, a retired minor customs official in the Austro-Hungarian bureaucracy, died suddenly from pulmonary bleeding as he sat drinking in a tavern on January 3, 1903. The Hitler family plot lies under a big tree by the graveyard wall. On the morning I went there I saw that flowers had been laid at the foot of the headstone-white lilies and red roses. There was no sign of greater pilgrimage; in the 1930s Nazi flags had been laid over the grave, and visits became popular again, I was told, just before the reunification of Germany. But neither was there any sign of desecration. On the headstone, the photographs of Klara and her husband, Alois, were undamaged. A brief inscription recorded the dates of their deaths.
I’d gone to Linz to find out more about Bloch. My hotel, on the square in the old quarter of the city, was only a short walk away from his old house at 12 Landstrasse. From the window of my room, I could see the Rathaus, the town hall, from where on March 12, 1938 Hitler had addressed an estimated 60,000 people on his homecoming to Linz. Later that night, encouraged by the mood of celebration in the town, he declared the Anschluss of Austria, which he saw as predetermined, the fulfilment of his long-standing ambition to unite the German Volk. On April 10, the Anschluss was ratified in a mass vote.
Hitler had great plans for Linz. During the war, he commissioned the architect Hermann Giesler to lead its redesign and rebuilding: new bridges, avenues and public squares, a new city hall, sports stadium, theatre and opera house, its own monument to Bismarck and, most spectacularly of all, a 160-metre high Gothic ‘Tower on the Danube’, in which the Führer’s parents were to be reburied in a vaulted crypt. There was also to be a new art gallery in which to display the great works that had been looted from public and private collections during the Nazi conquest of Europe.
During his final weeks in the Reichskanzlei, when the war was lost and the Soviets were rampaging towards Berlin, the sleepless Hitler would return repeatedly to the underground room where Giesler’s model of the new Linz was still taking shape; pictures of Hitler at this time-some, uncharacteristically, of him wearing spectacles-show the fierce concentration with which he studied Giesler’s plans and models, though he must have known long before that Linz would never be rebuilt, that his home town would remain forever provincial.
Today the Nibelungen Bridge across the Danube, linking the old main square of Linz with the northern suburb of Urfahr and completed before Germany’s reversals on the Eastern Front, remains the chief monument to Hitler’s mission to rebuild Linz. It replaced the old iron bridge across which Dr Bloch used to travel in his carriage on his daily visits to the dying Klara Hitler at the family’s three-room apartment at 9 Bluetenstrasse. Bloch later spoke of how the apartment afforded fine views of the surrounding hills; but these views have since been altered by a sprawl of office blocks, shopping malls and high-rise concrete car parks. This was the result of the Allied bombing and postwar redevelopment of Linz, a city which, until the signing of the State Treaty in 1955 gave independence to the newly neutral Austrian state, was occupied north of the river by the Soviets and by the Americans in the south.
A hundred years ago, when Bloch began to practise there, the dominant political culture of Linz was a kind of provincial patriotism: conservative, folkish, agrarian, clerical, anti-Slavic and Judaeophobic. It was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Dual Monarchy, but, close to the Bavarian border, it leaned away from the cosmopolitanism of Vienna and towards Germany. Many Upper Austrians felt uneasy about the absorption of their German identity in the polyglot amorphousness of Dual Monarchy; they increasingly looked west to the new unified German state for leadership and security. Newspapers such as the Linzer Fliegenden and the Linzer Post supported the pan-Germans and published caricatures of the Yiddish-speaking ‘Eastern’ Jews-the so-called kaftan Jews-who were moving west to escape Tsarist pogroms and the insularity of shtetl life. The city council was intermittently under the control of the pan-Germans, as were many of the local guilds, student groups and institutions of wider civil society. In a population of 60,000, only one per cent were Jews.
After the Anschluss, the Nazi elite was determined to modernize and industrialize Linz-the industrial base of the old Dual Monarchy had been in Czech Bohemia. In 1938, work began on a huge iron, steel and coking works-the ‘Hermann Goering Works’-which once completed became an important engine of the war effort. Within six months of the Anschluss, unemployment in Linz had been eliminated. In the years that followed, and partly by exploiting the resource of slave labour at the nearby Mauthausen concentration camp, Linz became one of the leading industrial centres of Europe. Today heavy industry is still responsible for much of its affluence-and for thickening its skies with smoke. Its economic transformation remains one of the great successes of National Socialism, as the right-wing Austrian populist Jorg Haider likes to remind his supporters, omitting to mention that a large part of this prosperity has its foundations in slave labour. The present popularity of Haider’s Freedom Party is often cited as an example of how Austria, unlike Germany, has failed to engage properly with its wartime history. Every autumn in Linz, for example, war veterans still meet to celebrate what some Austrians consider to be their national sacrifice. It was during one such meeting of veterans-this time in Klagenfurt, in the southern province of Corinthia-that Haider made a notorious speech urging his audience not to feel ashamed of themselves or of their country. They had, he said, only fulfilled their patriotic duty.
Talking to people in Linz, it seemed to me that Austria remained a humiliated and troubled state. Austrian schoolchildren have been taught to believe that their country was the first victim of Nazism. Perhaps, given Austria’s immediate postwar history, it is a necessary untruth. As one young academic told me: ‘It’s very hard for people of my generation to tell our parents that they were wrong, particularly after the way so many of them suffered in the war in the East and under the Soviet occupation. [The 45th Linz Infantry Division sustained desperate losses on the Eastern Front.] It’s hard to tell old people that their lives were a mistake.’
In this city, Bloch was nowhere. He’d slipped away when men were putting the finishing touches to the Hermann Goering Works. There was only his signature on Klara Hitler’s death certificate, and the picture in the city archive; Hitler in the Landstrasse, looking-maybe-towards the dear doctor’s house.
But Bloch had a child, Trude, and she had a husband, Frank Kren, and they had children, George and Joanne. Before I went to Linz, I had traced Bloch’s two grandchildren. George Kren was a historian, retired from Kansas State University and living in a small town outside Kansas; Joanne, now Joanne Harrison, was a retired nurse who lived in Ewing, New Jersey. George and I had talked on the phone and exchanged emails. He said he was working hard to complete what would be his final book, a Holocaust study, and that he was translating a short memoir that had been left by his grandfather. I told him how interested I would be to read that memoir. He said nothing. I sensed a reticence about his grandfather, and in retrospect more than that: what now seems to me a reluctance to corroborate Bloch’s story and even a suspicion of his motives for telling it. ‘It was not so hard to get out of Linz for Jews,’ George said once. ‘Certainly not when I left for England in 1938.’ Another time, he described his grandfather as ‘a bit of a showman. He was a real character all right.’
George and Joanne had left Austria on the Kindertransport, on one of the trains that saved the lives of thousands of Jewish children. They travelled at night through Switzerland and France and then sailed across the Channel to Harwich, where they arrived in April, 1939. They stayed at first with a family in the East End of London and then moved south to Brighton, where they were separated from each other. In 1940, they were reunited with their parents in New York, shortly before their grandparents came to stay.
‘How did you find living in England?’ I asked George.
‘I’ll tell you about it when we meet.’
Kren had returned several times as an adult to Linz. He liked the tranquillity of the place, and recommended a restaurant that I should visit-high up on the Postlingberg heights, where there is also a baroque pilgrims’ church, built in the late 1730s. You reach the summit of the Postlingberg on what is one of the world’s steepest railways, completed in 1898. The air is thin and bracing up there. As dusk settles you watch the burnished blue of the distant Alps disappearing slowly into the surrounding darkness and follow the lamp-lit river below on its journey through the Danube valley.
In Collier’s and with the OSS, Dr Bloch never talked about what Linz was like before the Anschluss-perhaps because he wasn’t asked. The impression he gave of his life there was one of happy fulfilment. All that changed when, in the spring and summer of 1938, official anti-Semitism began to affect his friends and patients. Jews were, progressively, banned from hotels, restaurants, parks and certain clubs and associations; Jewish lawyers and doctors were forbidden to practise; Jewish shops, homes and offices were marked with what Bloch called ‘the yellow-paper banners now visible throughout Germany-jude’.
On November 10, 1938-‘Kristallnacht’-a ruling was issued that those Jews who had not yet emigrated, or declared (like Bloch’s daughter and her husband) their intention to do so, were to leave Linz within sixty-two hours. But Bloch, who was reluctant to leave, discovered that an ‘exception’ was to be made in his case. The Gestapo had visited previously to ask him to remove the yellow signs from his home and office-‘the first suggestion that I was to receive special favours’. Then his landlord ‘went to Gestapo headquarters to ask if I were to be allowed to remain in my apartment. “We wouldn’t dare touch that matter,” he was told. “It will be handled by Berlin.”’ Bloch told Collier’s that he took that as a sign that Hitler had remembered. He had remembered his promise of gratitude to the Noble Jew.
During one of my phone conversations with George, I mentioned this episode. His tone hardened. ‘My grandfather documented all that fairly accurately,’ he said, briefly.
‘Can you recall yourself what it was like to live in Linz as a child?’
‘When you think of Linz at that time,’ he said, ‘you must remember that not just Hitler, but also Adolf Eichmann and Franz Stangel came from the town. That might give you some idea of its atmosphere.’
I was never to meet George Kren. Shortly before I was due to set off from England for Kansas to see him, I’d emailed him. The message bounced back. Perhaps he’d changed his address? I called Kansas University where I knew he still kept an office. A secretary said that ‘Professor Kren had sadly passed away’. It turned out that he had been suffering from emphysema, something which he had never mentioned to me. He died without completing his final book, which I was told his wife was preparing for publication together with a collection of his academic essays. There was no mention of Bloch’s memoir. When I called his wife at home in Kansas, she didn’t want to talk about Bloch at all. ‘That was all before my time,’ she said. ‘There’s not a lot I can say about that anyway. You should speak to his sister.’
I called Joanne. ‘My brother really hated our grandfather,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why. To me, Dr Bloch was the nearest thing I ever met to a saint. But my brother, well, sometimes I wonder if in some strange way he blamed our grandfather for the Holocaust. He was obsessed with the Holocaust, he couldn’t let it go.’
‘Why was he obsessed?’
‘He was a very bitter man. Life soured him. He hated his experiences in England-but I had a good time-and blamed that, I think, for his later unhappiness in America. He always felt out of place in the States, especially during his school years. He was very restless, very angry. He looked at the dark side of life all the time. He kept on looking into the darkness until he could no longer look away.’
‘What about his Jewishness-wasn’t that a source of consolation?’
‘No. I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘He was nothing. He believed in nothing. His funeral was held in a nondescript room with a few friends. He wasn’t a believer.’
‘What about you?’ I said. ‘Are you a believer?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I believe.’
Joanne said we could meet if I came to America, and the day after I got to New York I called her at her home in Ewing. She had disappointing news. ‘I’m afraid I’m gonna have to cancel out on that,’ she said. I explained that I had come all the way from London to meet her. ‘No, I don’t want to speak about any of that.’
I couldn’t understand. Before on the phone she had been animated and candid about her memories of her grandfather and brother. The next day, I tried again; her refusal was adamant again. I decided to hire a car and drive out to Ewing the next day and do the simple, reportorial thing: knock on her door. Her husband opened it and invited me inside. Then Joanne came in from the kitchen, a small, slim woman with wavy grey hair and the unmistakable eyes of her grandfather. We had tea. It was a long time before I left.
Joanne Harrison was proud of her grandfather: she had never doubted the truth of his story. She was familiar with Binion’s thesis about Hitler’s unconscious hatred of Dr Bloch; her mother, she said, had considered legal action against ‘that man’ (Binion) until she realized that you could not libel the dead. (I later discovered that Trude Kren had written a letter to Der Spiegel in July 1978 which praised Bloch’s compassion and loyalty to the Hitler family and mentioned Adolf’s postcards from Vienna.) But something else also became clear: Joanne was no longer a Jew. There was a small ornamental cross on her mantelpiece. Her piety (‘Oh yes, I believe’) was Christian. She and her husband were evangelicals. How had this happened? Because, she said, she had never felt Jewish: ‘Even at home in Linz, we used to celebrate Christmas. My mother was a disciple of Rudolf Steiner. She discovered his teachings when she was sixteen.’ Then, during her brief stay as a child refugee in England, she had been told that she must attend church every Sunday, with the words ‘because this is what we do in this country. You’re not in Austria now.’ Her mother, too, had converted. After her husband, the doctor Frank Kren, died, she had gone to live in an evangelical Christian community in upstate New York. Joanne remembered a conversation between her mother and her grandmother, Emilie Bloch, just before Emile died. ‘She turned to my mother and said now we shall see who’s right: you or me. By which I think she meant that she would at last be able to discover whether Christ was the Messiah, as my mother believed, or not.’
Joanne hinted that her own absolute faith was the source of much of the conflict between her and her brother, who, as she repeatedly stressed, ‘believed in nothing’. She hadn’t attended his funeral. ‘His high intelligence isolated him from other people,’ Joanne said. ‘He was very hostile to our parents, hostile to Dr Bloch. I think he thought Bloch was too close to our mother, or something like that. Maybe he thought there was something sexual between them. Who knows what it was…’
She started again. ‘It was the Holocaust, I think. He couldn’t put it away. Deep down, I know he was really a good person-’
Joanne knew nothing of a memoir or a diary kept by Dr Bloch. Nor could she understand why, if her brother owned such a document, he would have waited for more than forty-five years before beginning to translate it. ‘He never mentioned a memoir to me,’ she said. ‘And I wasn’t aware that my grandfather was ever working on anything like that, not when we all lived together in the Bronx.’ Might it be that there was something in the memoir-more generosity towards young Hitler, perhaps-that George Kren didn’t want to confront? The thought hadn’t occurred to her.
Joanne’s husband, John Harrison, brought out the intricate family tree which he’d been working on for many years. The one important date missing from his research was that of Dr Bloch’s death; all they knew was that he had died from cancer in 1945 and was buried ‘somewhere on Long Island’.
So much about Eduard Bloch-as with his most famous patient-resists explanation. We can now know so very little of him; in the memory of his granddaughter, work was what had mattered most-‘He loved being a doctor, loved his work’-and that had vanished once he left Linz, was vanishing even when he still lived there. After the Anschluss, once the persecution of the Jews began, Bloch was permitted to treat only Jewish patients; as their numbers reduced, so his routine of more than thirty-seven years was destroyed. He was being prevented from doing what he knew best-from working. He seems to have found little or no consolation in religious belief. His fear grew. Joanne recalled how one day late in 1938 her father, Frank Kren, was arrested and imprisoned. He was, she said, guilty of no crime other than his Jewishness. In desperation, Bloch told his daughter, Trude, to show the local Gestapo the postcards that Hitler had sent from Vienna thirty or so years before. The move worked. ‘My father was soon released,’ she told me. ‘After that, we had no more trouble.’
In the Collier’s interview, Bloch described how a Gestapo agent later visited his wife at home, when he was out, and confiscated the postcards, his ‘souvenirs of the Führer’. The next day, Bloch went to the Gesellenhausstrasse hotel, a Gestapo base, and requested their return. An officer asked him whether he were under suspicion for any anti-Nazi activities. ‘I replied that I was not; that I was a professional man with no political connections. As an afterthought he asked if I was a non-Aryan. I answered without compromise: “I am 100 per cent Jew.” The change that came over him was instantaneous. The cards, he said, would be retained for safekeeping.’ Bloch never saw them again.
Still, he did escape. This is his story, as he told it and as his granddaughter believes it. At some point after the Anschluss, Bloch attempted to find out if, unlike other Jews in the town, he and his family would be able to take their savings with them if they got out. ‘Getting any local ruling on such a matter was out of the question. I knew that I couldn’t see Adolf Hitler. Yet I felt that if I could get a message to him he would perhaps give us some help.’ So Bloch sent his daughter to find Hitler’s now widowed half-sister Angela, who was living in Vienna. Because Angela was out, Trude left her father’s written request for help with one of her neighbours; later that evening, the neighbour contacted Trude to say that Angela had received her message, that she ‘sent her greetings and would see what she could do’.
By good fortune, Bloch told Collier’s, ‘Hitler was in Vienna that night for one of his frequent but unheralded trips to the opera.’ He was ‘sure’ that Angela had met up with her half-brother and passed him the message. Bloch, it seems, never doubted Hitler’s good intentions towards him. Soon after, he sold his property, and eventually left for America with ‘sixteen marks’ and a letter of recommendation from what he called the ‘Nazi organization of physicians’. The letter said that because of his ‘character, medical knowledge and readiness to help the sick’ he had won ‘the appreciation of his fellow men’. His final act in Lisbon, just before he left Europe forever, was to post a letter to the Führer which he had written in Linz. Collier’s published it a few months later-perhaps Bloch retained a copy, or could reproduce it from memory; it seems an elaborate thing to have invented.
Before passing the border I want to express my thanks for the protection which I have received. In material poverty I am now leaving the town where I have lived for forty-one years; but I leave conscious of having lived in the most exact fulfilment of my duty. At sixty-nine I will start my life anew in a strange country where my daughter is working hard to support her family.
Yours faithfully, Eduard Bloch
Before I drove back to New York, Joanne Harrison showed me some photographs of Dr Bloch-of him on his wedding day in 1903, white gloves, white tie, dark morning suit; of him alone in his surgery on the Landstrasse, hunched in white-coated abstraction. She also showed me a facsimile copy of his application for American citizenship. His eyes, according to the form, were blue, his ‘race’ was ‘German’, his complexion was light, he weighed 165 pounds and he was five feet six inches tall. As ever, in the accompanying passport-sized photograph, he was wearing a stiff collar and thickly knotted tie, his wavy grey hair brushed back from the accordion creases of his forehead. But this time his expression was more melancholy-a certain downturn of the mouth and a sad shine in his eyes. The best was behind him then.
I asked Joan a last question, as difficult to ask as, I thought, to answer. How did it feel to have a Jewish grandfather who owed his life to the friendship, or gratitude, or mercy, of Adolf Hitler? In a voice just above a whisper, she said: ‘Hitler kept his promise to us, didn’t he?’
She paused, perhaps aware that she was echoing the words of Dr Bloch himself. ‘Which means…’
‘Which means, what?’ I said.
‘That there must be some good in everybody, in Hitler, in those people who flew the planes into the World Trade towers. You have to believe in the possibility of goodness, don’t you? Who knows what Hitler went through as a child to make him the person he became.’
Ron Rosenbaum, while researching his book Explaining Hitler, met and interviewed the world’s leading authorities on Nazism, only to conclude after more than 400 pages that in fact there was nothing to conclude: Hitler remained resolutely inexplicable, unknowable, what Joachim Fest had previously called an ‘unperson’. The mystery of Adolf Hitler, then, is that there is no real mystery: he was no more than the sum of his atrocious actions. He was what he said and did what he thought. To search for what is hidden in his life-his sexuality, his secret hurts and slights-is to ignore what was manifest about him. The error of the pioneering OSS profile, of Ron Rosenbaum’s book and so many others like it, is to assume, as Joanne Harrison did, that the ‘real’ truth about Hitler must lie buried somewhere, probably deep in childhood trauma. If it is, we shall never know.
On my final day in New York, I took the subway up through Harlem and deep into the Bronx, where I found the apartment building on Creston Avenue where Walter Langer had visited Bloch: red brick, dishevelled, Z-shaped fire escape, air-conditioning units scarring the outside of the building. Recent arrivals from Latin America and the Spanish Caribbean had made this once-Jewish neighbourhood their own.
How did Bloch feel as he reflected on his life and tried to find meaning there? What did he know of the fate of the Jews left behind in Europe, including members of the extended Kren family who, his granddaughter thought, had gone to the camps some time in the 1940s? Today Bloch lives on in the margins and footnotes of the Hitler industry-a victim of the cruelty of posterity, and the last of his own particular line of Jews.
August 1 2002 / The Guardian
When I lived in Harlow, in the 1970s, a trip to the town centre - known locally as The High - was always something to cherish. Built on the highest part of the town, it seemed to offer everything an energetic young boy could want in those days: department stores, an Olympic-size swimming pool, a hi-tech sports centre, a dry-ski slope, a skating rink and a golf course set in a landscaped park through which a river meandered. It even had its own water gardens, at the gateway to which was a Henry Moore sculpture of a family - which, my father told me, symbolised all the new families that had started in the 1960s when Harlow was known as “pram town”.
I remember how, on one autumn afternoon, some friends and I slipped illicitly into the high-rise town hall and took the lift up to the observation tower that afforded superb views across the surrounding landscape. There, laid out before us, was the hard geometry of the town in which we lived, with its centrally planned network of roads and avenues, its dense housing estates and abundant green spaces. We stayed up there for the whole afternoon, until it was almost dark, watching the amber glow of the lights as they came on in the distant houses below.
In those days Harlow was a vibrant place, with utopian yearnings. It was one of the new towns built after the war, centrally planned but with its own distinct local identity. It had new model housing estates - many built using experimental materials and modish techniques - a “central business district”, designated “green wedges”, pubs named after butterflies and roads named after political heroes (Mandela Avenue, and so on). It had a leftwing council, a progressive, liberal intelligentsia, which congregated around the excellent local playhouse, eight comprehensive schools and a well-funded network of children’s playschemes and recreational sports facilities (Glenn Hoddle emerged from the Harlow leagues). It was a well-organised town, with a tough, resilient, wised-up local population, many of whom were aspirational former East Enders.
Just outside the town centre was a football stadium, the home of Harlow Town, who, for a brief period in 1979, became the most celebrated non-league club in the country by beating Leicester City, among others, on their way to the fourth round of the FA Cup. Harlow eventually lost 4-3 away to Elton John and Graham Taylor’s Watford in a thrilling game that was shown on Match of the Day. I was in the crowd that afternoon when, for large parts of the game, my home team dominated.
In retrospect, that match was the high point of my time in Harlow. Not long afterwards, my parents moved away, already alarmed by what they saw as the precipitous onset of decline. Today, Harlow Town football club operates in straitened circumstances, forlornly struggling to recapture the promise of the late-70s, when many locals believed that the team, once they had moved to a new stadium, would one day find their way into the Football League. It never came close to happening.
In a powerful sense, then, the fortunes of the football team closely reflect those of the west Essex town itself: Harlow, according to a report by MPs published this week, has, like so many postwar new towns, suffered from decades of underfunding and neglect. It is a town in trouble. It has ageing infrastructure, an ageing population, acute housing shortages and entire estates that need either urgent repair or demolition.
Never go back, they say, but this week, having read the MPs’ report, I decided to return for the first time in more than a decade. I wanted to find out why the dream had failed. To find out what exactly had gone wrong. I wasn’t shocked by what I found, but I was disappointed. The town, built to a master plan by Frederick Gibbard to provide cheap, efficient housing and a pleasant semi-rural environment for the urban poor of north-east London, today feels like the kind of place you want to pass quickly through on the way to somewhere else: a place that has been forgotten, shut out from the swagger and affluence of the Blair years.
The town centre is no longer a place to cherish. I return to Harlow on a Tuesday, which used to be market day, a riotous, bustling occasion. But there are very few stalls operating here now, and the once vibrant shopping precinct is sluggish. Where there were once major department stores and stylish independent shops, I discover only amusement arcades, budget stores, fast-food joints and an obligatory table-dancing bar. “A friend of mine tried 12 years ago to set up a stall selling electrical goods on the market,” says local security guard Brian Payne, gesturing towards the desultory marketplace. “The demand was so great he couldn’t get a site. He could have 10 stalls there now, if he wanted.”
What had gone wrong?
“The out-of-town shopping centres killed the town centre,” he says. “That and the fear of crime, particularly at night.”
The local Labour MP, Bill Rammell, has his constituency office on Market Square. The “B” is missing from his name on the sign leading to his dusty office, but he seems far from unwell: he is candid, robust, but ever alert to any potential slight against the town in which he has lived and worked for most of his life. “What’s the reason for your visit?” he asks, before I have time even to introduce myself.
On the way to his car - he wants to show me some of the most deprived areas in the town - he says: “Look, Harlow might not be Hampstead, but nor is it the accepted cliche of the metropolitan journalist. In my opinion, the new town idea of proving affordable accommodation for working people in an attractive environment worked - I’m a product of it. But successive governments have let us down. They haven’t recognised the extent of our infrastructure problems. If you build everything at the same time, particularly using experimental techniques, then everything is going to go wrong at the same time.”
To support his argument, he takes me to an estate called the Briars, where many of the flats and houses are either falling down or semi-derelict. There is trash and junk sprawled across the pavement and graffiti sprayed on the sides of houses. It is a humid afternoon and young children are out playing, oblivious to the squalor. This is an area as deprived and wretched as any inner-city estate.
When I lived in Harlow, this area was known as the “concrete jungle”, because of the density and claustrophobic concentration of the flat-roofed, box-like estates. The atmosphere was menacing, particularly at night, but it was never that dangerous. I used to come to the concrete jungle with my friends, to let off fireworks in the underground garages and generally to create mayhem. At the age of 15, I bought my first pint in the local pub, the Chequers - on the day of the wedding of Prince Charles and Diana.
In the Chequers today the atmosphere is much as before - edgy and suspicious. But I meet someone I used to know, a former member of the ICF, the hardcore hooligans who follow West Ham. He has been in and out of prison during the past 15 years.
What does he think of Harlow?
“It’s a shit hole.”
Why does he stay?
He doesn’t know. It’s not as if he has no experience of the world: he spent his early childhood in colonial southern Africa, after all. What does he think of some of the local estates?
“The whole town is decaying,” he says, adding, in a strange echo of Rammell: “If you put a load of houses up at the same time, they’re gonna fall down at the same time.”
Across the way from the Chequers used to be my old school, which was closed down in the 1980s and is now a business centre. Once a grammar school, it wasn’t a bad place - discipline was, on the whole, fine. But it was in thrall to an insidious egalitarianism. The senior masters - several of whom were veterans of the Spanish civil war - were authentic socialists. They did not believe in streaming: the human animal, I was once told, is a blank sheet of paper on which anything could be written. Which should have meant that we were therefore free to create our own destinies, to remake ourselves in whichever way we chose. Except that, if that were so, why was no one at my school encouraged to strive academically for the best? I recall how a senior master mocked one of my best friends, Michael Barrett, who today is a distinguished academic research scientist, for saying that he would go to university only if he could go to Oxford or Cambridge. “People like you don’t go to Oxford or Cambridge,” the master chuckled, his fat-fingered hands settled smugly on his swollen stomach.
Poverty of ambition, that was perhaps always the trouble with Harlow, then and now: at my school you excelled if you were “hard” (ie you could fight) or you were good at games. I did all right. I was good at games, and my best friends were hard enough. Today, the Harlow schools have no sixth forms, and at least 15% of children living locally go to schools outside the town. “These tend to be the children from the middle-class families,” Rammell says, sadly.
Before returning to London, I visit the town hall - which is now condemned and soon to be demolished. The water gardens have already been demolished, but will at least be relocated as part of planned regeneration. The Henry Moore statue has disappeared. “I’m afraid the head was knocked off the statue and stolen,” Rammell explains.
Can the town ever thrive again, or is it a symbol of the failed idealism of the socialist planning of the consensus politics of the immediate postwar years? The MPs’ report is at least official recognition that something urgently needs to be done. There is other good news, too: the severed head from the Henry Moore statue has been found and will, I am told, be restored to its rightful place once the regeneration of the town centre is complete. One hopes the wait will not be too long.
July 30 2002 / The Guardian
The X-Large nightclub in the southern suburbs of the Austrian city of Linz has long been popular with young students, travellers and migrants from eastern Europe. It is one of the few places in Linz, the provincial capital of upper Austria, where immigrants regularly meet to dance and drink in what is, after all, a city not exactly renowned for its urgent nightlife. Nor is it renowned for its openness towards, and tolerance of, outsiders.
But until last weekend any suspicion of “the Other” had not yet found violent expression. All that changed when a bomb exploded as clubbers were leaving X-Large in the early hours of Saturday morning. The bomb wounded 27 people in what police believe was a politically motivated attack. It is too early to say whether the bomb was the work of a lone fanatic or a more sinister grouping. What is certain is that Linz remains, like much of Austria, deeply riven and troubled about its past and indeed its present in a unified Europe.
I have recently returned from a working trip to upper Austria and was surprised to meet so many people there for whom the European Union was not so much an enlightened organisation as a malign bureaucracy. They were deeply opposed to any further enlargement of the EU - after all, they said, the Balkans have already begun intruding into southern Corinthia, the Austrian province that borders Slovenia and is the power base of the rightwing populist Jörg Haider. Austria, said a group of students at the University of Linz, was already “full up”, which may or may not have been a deliberate echo of the rhetoric of the late Pim Fortuyn in the Netherlands.
Linz lies in the Danube valley, surrounded by wooded hills. It is an oppressively closed, introverted city, as it has been for much of its history. Even in the late 19th century, when imperial Vienna was a great cosmopolitan metropolis, the predominant culture of Linz, with its proximity to the Bavarian and Czech borders, was a kind of provincial patriotism - conservative, folkish, agrarian, anti-Slavic and Judaeophobic.
Linz is also the home town of Adolf Hitler, the town he dreamed his whole life of rebuilding so that it would one day become not just an architectural rival to Budapest and Vienna, but the city on the Danube, a place of colossal dimensions. It was to Linz that he hoped to retire with Eva Braun, once his “work was complete”.
In the main square of the old baroque quarter of the city stands the Rathaus, or town hall, from where on March 12 1938 Hitler addressed an estimated 60,000 people on his homecoming after an absence of 30 years.
Later that night, exhilarated by the mood of celebration, he declared the Anschluss of Austria, which he saw as preordained, the fulfilment of his long-nurtured ambition of a romantic union of the German Volk.
Hitler later commissioned the architect Hermann Giesler to lead the design and rebuilding of Linz, which, as well as new bridges, galleries and opera houses, was to have its own 160ft gothic “Tower on the Danube”. “Budapest is by far the most beautiful city on the Danube,” he said. “But I am determined to make Linz a German town on the Danube which surpasses it, and by so doing to prove that the artistic sense of the Germans is superior to that of the Magyars.”
Today the Nibelungen bridge across the Danube, linking the old main square of Linz to the northern suburb of Urfahr, completed in the early 1940s before the catastrophic reversals on the eastern front, remains the chief monument to Hitler’s mission to rebuild Linz. There is also the iron and steel works built during the second world war as part of a wider process of industrialisation in upper Austria.
The economic transformation of Linz was one of the great successes of the Nazi period, as Jörg Haider often reminds his compatriots. What is never mentioned, however, is how much of the prosperity of Linz was built on the exploitation of slave labour from the occupied territories in the east, those same territories from which the young people injured in the blast at the X-Large nightclub, and others like them, are arriving every week in search of work.
One of the police investigating the nightclub blast told me he was confident that there would be no further attacks. In truth, however, there was nothing but doubt in his voice. “We live in very uneasy times,” he said. “I hope, I really hope, that this will not be the start of something.”
The right is increasingly in the ascendant throughout Europe, adept at exploiting unease about asylum seekers, globalisation, multiculturalism and the perceived failure of pro-EU centrist consensus politics. One hopes, in such an environment, that the police officer was right and that there will be no further outrages in Linz. But having visited the city, and spoken to so many of its disaffected young people, I fear the worst is still to come.
June 5 2002 / New Statesman
Baise-moi is a road movie with a twisted difference. Two young women, one of whom has been raped, embark on a journey through France, sustained by murderous fantasies of revenge. Their aim is clear: to have sex with and then kill as many men as possible, which they do, again and again, in unrelenting and lurid detail. That’s about it. These women have the self-satisfied ferocity of a black widow spider: they simultaneously satisfy their sexual and murderous appetites in scenes of appalling degradation. This, I suppose, is meant to be a kind of freedom.
Baise-moi—directed by two women, Virginie Despentes and Coralie Trinh Thi—has just opened in Britain and is perhaps the most extreme and disturbed film ever to have been passed by the censors. Like many modern French films, with artistic aspirations or otherwise, it collapses the boundary between pornography and mainstream cinema at a time when there is no longer anything new or challenging to be said about pornography: the sex in the film is actual rather than simulated, and the violence has all the suffocating appeal of a snuff movie. Baise-moi labours to shock. Its website has a section entitled “The controversy” and statements of denunciation are worn like badges of honour on the posters and advertisements. Yet what is most shocking about Baise-moi is not, in the end, the violence, but what it signifies about the cultural emptiness—what Tom Paulin has called the “moral void”—of France in the age of Jean-Marie Le Pen.
The film has been acclaimed as a work of radical feminism—which may say more about the confusion and relativism of modern feminism than anything else. Rachel Holmes, the academic and writer, said on Newsnight Review that she enjoyed it because it refused to satisfy the male gaze. “These women kill like men. There is nothing here that we haven’t already seen in a Tarantino or Scorsese. What there is in this film is women killing men, but talking about it like women. After the first shoot-‘em-up scene, when they have committed this murder, doing it in a cool, if you like, masculine way, they have a conversation about it…I went to see the film in a foul mood and came out finding it utterly cathartic. It’s one of the most feminist movies I have seen in a long time.”
Which means, I presume, that the film satisfied that one particular female’s gaze. Yet, more seriously, what does it mean to be feminist, you wonder, when a work of pornography in which the human animal is reduced to being no more than a monolith of base motive, in which women giggle while men writhe in pain in an orgy of blood and semen, is described as feminist? Is this what more than three decades of gender wars have been reduced to: cheap sloganeering about the male and female gazes?
Another French film on current release is The Pornographer, directed by Bertrand Bonello. It is a baffling, soft-edged elegy to the sexual libertinism of the late 1960s, and tells the story of an aged director of skin flicks who, late in life, decides to make one last film. The Pornographer has been passed by the censors, although a 12-second segment, in which a man ejaculates into a woman’s face, will not be shown at British cinemas—in this country, we have never agitated to have our hard-core sex freely available at mainstream cinemas, preferring the furtive, subterranean experience of purchasing a video from an out-of-town dealer, or the illicit thrill of a Soho basement.
The Pornographer—like Catherine Breillat’s Romance (1999), with its excited portrayal of scenes of actual penetration—is propelled bywhatit believes to be a radical agenda: it wants to destroy the last taboo of mainstream cinema, which is to show the penis erect and engaged in real sex acts, and so verisimilitude is prized above all else. But there is nothing radical or subversive about sex, even when it comes wrapped in the aesthetic designs of the new French cinema. In the age of the internet, lads’ magazines and the video, when men of all ages are free to hold the remote control in one hand and their penis in the other as they surf the late-night cable channels, we have become inured to the tyranny of the sexual image, to the hard concentration on, and the endless cheap exploitation of, the human body, with its grunts and groans, its juices and ecstatic releases.
There is nothing transcendent or rapturous about the couplings portrayed in Romance, Baise-moi or The Pornographer. In the new French cinema, sex is always sordid. It is always separated from love and companionship. It is, as Shakespeare wrote, “Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame”. Perhaps that is the purpose of these films, in which images of sex and death are so tightly inter woven: to show us as we really are, with all facades and artifice removed, to remind us that we are really nothing but flesh and blood. Their vision is resolutely anti-humanist, in line with much current thinking in philosophy and science which seeks to show that all schemes to remake the world—socialism, environmentalism, liberalism—are doomed to fail; that history has no direction or meaning; that progress is a myth; that the human animal is hard-wired to find meaning in a universe where there is none; that life on earth is a fluke and amounts to little more than an unceasing struggle for survival; that there is, needless to say, no God.
Watching the dead-eyed actors moving in time to the commands of the directors—actors tricked into believing that their work is engaged and artistic—you understand that what you are seeing in these films is a reflection of a wider nihilism in French society. The French may be celebrated for their hauteur and difference, for their robust struggle against the homogenising forces of les Anglo-Saxons; but they are also a nation in thrall to cheap effects—pornography, populism, political posturing. With the defeat of Lionel Jospin by Le Pen and the increasing boredom and atomisation of the electorate, the French exception is beginning to resemble nothing so much as a peculiar kind of defeat, one located in an isolated and reactionary anti-Americanism. Such a wilful sense of difference and the American Other has had disastrous manifestations in foreign policy, illustrated most damagingly by the cultivation of Robert Mugabe, the interventions in Rwanda that contributed in no small part to the genocide of 1994, and the stubborn insistence on carrying out nuclear tests in what is left of the old francophone Pacific island colonies. All this has alienated the French young from their ruling elite, an elite now dependent on the aged and discredited Jacques Chirac to defeat the aged and foolish Le Pen. Whatever happened to modernity and renewal? Perhaps what France required long ago was its own version of Margaret Thatcher, after all.
I have just read XCiTes (Flamingo, [pounds sterling]7.99), a fascinating collection of essays, interviews and new fiction edited by Georgia de Chamberet. The book offers an insight into a France that is urban, polyglot, multiracial and multicultural. But there is nothing inspiring about the stories included here, for all their ambition and linguistic invention. They are mostly set in nightclubs and seedy bars and are, on the whole, about different forms of self-abuse. Their titles—“Fuck Me” (the inspiration for Baise-moi), “Transient Bliss”, “Trashed”, “The Gallery of the Insane”, “Into the Void”, “Lost in Music”—should in themselves suggest that we are once more entering the moral universe of the new French cinema: emotionally illiterate, blurry, narcotised, corrupted. The characters portrayed in these stories are recognisable archetypes, too bored to vote or to care about mainstream politics, intent merely on seeking escape from the stale burden of consciousness.
The great chronicler of the moral and cultural emptiness of modern France is Michel Houellebecq, perhaps the most talented and contrary writer in Europe today. Many contemporary French writers play with the idea of nihilism; Houellebecq means it, both in his life and work. In person, Houellebecq, who is in his mid-forties, is a dissolute presence, sickened by a life dedicated to cigarettes, alcohol and trips to bizarre, anarchic sex camps in the Paris suburbs, which he satirises ruthlessly in his marvellous novel Les particules elementaires (published in Britain two years ago as Atomised).
Gerry Feehily, an Irish literary critic based in Paris, met Houellebecq at a party last year. “He was surrounded by all these glamorous publishing women and journalists, but he looked utterly wasted and dishevelled,” he told me. “When I spoke to him, he seemed to be shaking; there was this distant, faraway look in his eyes as if he wasn’t quite there. But at the same time you could see that he was utterly contemptuous of everything and everyone around him. Sometimes you have the feeling that he really hates France and everything about it.”
Atomised tells the story of two brothers, Michel and Bruno, who are born to the same progressive mother, a 1 968er in outlook and lifestyle. The brothers are later separated by the fragmentation of their family life; bullied and humiliated at school, they endure a miserable adolescence. They both enter early adulthood as disturbed, isolated figures. “I’d like to believe that the self illusion,” Bruno tells Michel, “but if it is, it’s a pretty painful one.” So begins the brothers’ journey to find meaning in a world of disappointed aspiration, a journey that takes Bruno into compulsive promiscuity and the sexual demi-monde of Paris, and Michel into molecular biology and experiments into the very foundation of what it is to be human.
Houellebecq has thought hard about what it means to live in a post-Christian universe. He believes we are living at the end of an age of reason. What lies ahead is a fall into chaos and ennui, as represented by the rise of Islamo-fascism in the east and decadent consumerism in the west. Christian doctrine, he writes, accorded unconditional importance to every human life from conception to death. But today the “agnosticism at the heart of the French republic” has facilitated the “slightly sinister triumph of the determinist world-view”, of a world without the possibility of transcendence. But still the value of human life continues to preoccupy the liberal conscience. Which in the “last years of western civilisation contributed to a general mood of depression bordering on masochism”.
Houellebecq is a former communist and was once a leading contributor to the progressive literary journal Perpendiculaire, from the board of which he was eventually banished after he refused to be held accountable for the racism of his character Bruno. In recent years—even before Atomised, which as the Economist wrote, was “not so much published as detonated”—he began, like Celine before him, to occupy a position of perpetual opposition, to both left and right, similar to the editorial line of the now defunct LM magazine in this country.
More specifically, he has emerged as a combative critic of the revolutionary excesses of the late 1960s, a period which, he believes, laid the foundation for modern lassitude and despair. In Atomised, Bruno and Michel are forced to evaluate the codes by which their parents’ generation lived—the licentiousness, the irresponsibility, the refusal to conform. Houellebecq—like many younger French novelists, for whom he is the commanding presence, an influence and inspiration—works out of a sense of profound crisis: did we as a nation take a wrong turn? What if our pursuit of sexual satisfaction and freedom was really a kind of imprisonment? Have the costs of living through the revolutionary period of the 1960s been too great to wider society?
With the publication last year of his most recent novel, Platform (out here in the autumn), Houellebecq has become a figure of even greater controversy and discord in France. Platform is a study of sex tourism in Thailand and is full of witty, unhinged attacks on liberal-left orthodoxies and on religious fundamentalism (it was published in France before 11 September). From his new home on the south-west coast of Ireland, he continues to detonate missiles of contempt against France, Islam and what he calls the “evils of globalisation”. He is an emblematically modern French figure, because he appears to believe in nothing and is opposed to everything. The only respite in his work is a kind of intense erotic abandonment, a wilful surrender to preposterous desires. His novels, though among the most accomplished to have been written in the past 20 years anywhere in the world, share a vision of France that also finds expression in the anti-humanist themes of Baise-moi and much of the new French cinema.
“The generation that has grown up since the Second World War, the generation of our parents, was the most optimistic in history,” Houellebecq told the writer Andrew Hussey, author of a fine biography of Guy Debord. “They believed in progress, the consumer society, sexual happiness and they were naive and wrong to believe in such things. This generation is different because it knows that pleasure is not the same thing as happiness, that pleasure is the opposite of happiness. That, to me, is an unassailable moral position.”
So that, then, is the challenge confronting the political class in France: how to reach a generation that no longer believes in the possibility of progress or indeed of happiness? Small wonder that Le Pen’s bootboys are on the march.
March 27 2002 / The Guardian
Every year, in ever-decreasing numbers, people from the former Soviet Union, most of them elderly, make the long journey to Treptower Park in the eastern suburbs of Berlin. There stands a monument to the Soviet dead of the second world war and, in particular, to the estimated 300,000 Soviet troops killed in the battle for Berlin in the spring of 1945, at least 5,000 of whom are buried in the park. The monument is a socialist-realist heroic fantasy: an “unknown soldier”, raised on a plinth 36ft above the ground, surveys the flat, monotonous landscape before him. He supports a frightened child in one hand and brandishes a sword in the other, while at his feet is a fractured swastika. The memorial crypt inside the plinth is made from marble removed from Hitler’s Reich Chancellery.
In Treptower Park on a cold, snowy morning, I recently met an old woman who told me her brother had been killed in the final weeks of the war defending what she called the “lost city” of Königsberg, the old capital of East Prussia, which today, as Kaliningrad, is in a troubled Russian enclave on the Baltic. She had her own name for the monument in the park: “the site of the unknown rapist”, she called it, in recognition of the atrocities visited on German women during the last months of what became, as Hitler prophesied it would, a “war of total annihilation”.
Later, I bought a copy of Günter Grass’s new novel, In Retrogression, which merges fiction, memoir and reportage to tell the story of what is being called “Germany’s Titanic” - the sinking by a Soviet submarine of the cruise liner Wilhelm Gustloff in January 1945. There were more than 7,000 people aboard the liner - most of them German refugees escaping from the chaos on the eastern front - when it was hit by three torpedoes in the freezing waters of the Baltic, west of the port of Danzig (now Gdansk). The ship was designed to take a maximum of 2,000 passengers, and it sank rapidly. Grass imagines the final moments of those on board: their panic, their despair, the clamour and the screaming.
That Grass, an icon of the left and lifelong critic of German revisionism, should have returned at this time to such an emotive subject has inspired animated conversation in Germany. After all, it was Grass, during the reunification celebrations of 1990, who said: “Whoever thinks about Germany at this moment should not forget Auschwitz.” In Retrogression is being read not only as an elegy for the estimated 6,000 people who died that night in the icy black waters of the Baltic, but as a signifier of what Die Welt is calling the “normalisation of Germany”.
This so-called normalisation is a complex and tortuous process but, in essence, what it means is that no understanding of the Nazi period and its long, dislocating aftermath can be complete without acceptance of Germany’s own suffering. Nor, without normalisation, is it possible to contextualise nazism, to draw comparisons with, say, Soviet communism and other regimes of historic tyranny. Hitherto, certainly since the leftist rebellions of the 1960s, the emphasis has been on the crimes and unique evil of the Third Reich, on the Holocaust, on German culpability and on rituals of mourning and memory. Which means that the Germans have never allowed themselves to comprehend the full effects of the war on their collective consciousness, their own sense of loss.
There are other signs of normalisation, too, that bespeak a renewed confidence to address the past. The Social Democrat politician Alwin Ziel has suggested, for instance, giving the name “Prussia” to the new state that would emerge from the proposed merger of Berlin and Brandenburg. He is supported by the essayist Hans Magnus Enzensberger, among others, but has also been widely condemned, though he seeks to resurrect Prussia in name only. Elsewhere, in Bavaria, Edmund Stoiber, the leading rightwing challenger to chancellor Gerhard Schroeder, has been vilified by younger Germans for demanding an apology from the Czech Republic for the postwar expulsion of ethnic Germans from the Sudetenland, a wound that still festers.
“Normalisation means opening up the whole of the history of that period, and that includes what happened in the old GDR, when Germans killed Germans, what happened in Dresden, East Prussia and so on,” says Walter Rothschild, a British-born rabbi who is now a leading member of the Jewish community in Berlin. “The Jews have long occupied the role of victim; but it’s time, I think, to acknowledge that the Germans were victims too, for Jews to say: ‘Yes, we hear your pain, we understand.’ It may need the last of the survivors of the camps to die before that can happen. There’s still so much of the past to work through, so many psychological traumas, before we can accept the broader perspective.”
One of the great unwritten narratives of the second world war concerns the ejection immediately after the war of between 13 and 14 million ethnic Germans from their ancient homelands in Pomerania, East Prussia and Silesia, as the borders of Poland and the Soviet Union were shifted westward. The “ethnic cleansing” of these displaced Germans, as well as those from the Sudetenland, resulted in more than two million deaths and what is still the largest single refugee movement in European history. Yet it remains scarcely known outside Germany. “In the immediate aftermath of the war and revelation of Nazi crimes, there was little sympathy for Germans,” writes the Oxford historian Mark Almond in the preface to Ursula Lange’s new book East Germany: What Happened to the Silesians in 1945 (Book Guild). “But the passage of time should open our eyes to the great sufferings inflicted on civilians whose only crime was their nationality.”
The wait for British eyes to open may not be long - in April, Anthony Beevor publishes Berlin: the Downfall, 1945 (Viking/Penguin), his follow-up to the surprise bestseller Stalingrad. He has produced a narrative of suffering and destruction, in which the gang rape of German women and the slaughter of children as the Soviets rampaged towards Berlin are vividly described. The truth of what happened during the Soviet onslaught against the Germans has long been repressed in Russia, marginalised as the inevitable consequences of war, though privately Soviet veterans joke about “two million of our children being born in Germany” and one former major is quoted by Beevor as saying that “our fellows were so sex-starved that they often raped old women of 60, 70 or even 80 - much to these grandmothers’ surprise, if not downright delight”. Beevor concentrates, too, on the expulsions from East Prussia: “It was the abrupt and total destruction of a whole region, with its own marked character and culture, emphasised perhaps because it had always been at the extremity of Germany on the Slav frontier.”
In the early 1950s, the plight of the German expellees - most of whom were absorbed into the largely agrarian states of Bavaria, Lower Saxony, Schleswig-Holstein and Mecklenburg - was a source of rightwing revisionist agitation. A political party and a ministry for expellees were established to fight for their cause during a period of deep shock and silence in Germany. The late WG Sebald has written, in Air War and Literature (to be published next year by Hamish Hamilton), of his youthful wanderings through a purgatorial landscape of bomb-ruined cities, and of how so little was spoken and understood about the catastrophe that had unfolded in the German Reich. The Germans were, he said, wilfully blind: when they turned to take a backward view, particularly of the years 1930 to 1950, they were always both “looking and looking away”. They could not comprehend the scale of their humiliation and defeat. They wished only to forget.
There’s little doubt that a terrible retribution was exacted on Germany at the end of the war, and only now, through the long perspective of suffering, are Germans beginning to understand and accept what happened to them, both as perpetrators and victims. Should we fear German normalisation? In many ways, Britain, with a postwar identity constructed from images of heroic resistance - the Battle of Britain, Dunkirk, Churchillian rhetoric - has yet to embark on its own journey of normalisation, a process that would include a final reckoning with our own war crimes: the bombing of Dresden, say, or the closing of our borders to Jewish refugees, or our botched policies in Palestine.
Instead, we remain entombed in the past, enthralled and mesmerised by the figure of Adolf Hitler. Not a week passes, it seems, without a new portrait of the Führer or one of his henchmen being broadcast, or another psychobiography speculating about Hitler’s supposed homosexuality, coprophilia or monorchidism being published, as if the truth or otherwise of such things will help us to understand German fascism.
“When I think of Adolf Hitler,” wrote the Viennese satirist Karl Kraus, in a celebrated phrase, “nothing occurs to me.” Today everything - anything - occurs to us when we think of Hitler, as if we see reflected in the mirror of his life and times an image of our own lost certainty and present confusion. We may no longer know who we are in this country, or where we’re heading, but we know that we’re not Nazis.
“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” wrote Pope. No one could accuse modern Berliners of having too little knowledge about the past. Their city, with its shattered churches and sites of dereliction, its Chicago-style glass towers coexisting uneasily with Soviet-era tower blocks, its rebuilt Reichstag and its magnificent new Jewish Museum, is the embodiment of what Mikhail Bakhtin called a “chronotope”, a place allowing us to roam through time and space, to see the past in the present. Berlin is at once a mausoleum, a city of ghosts, and a vibrant modern metropolis. It’s abnormal, and yet one of the most normal places I’ve ever visited.
Above all, Berlin reminds us definitively that without the living presence of the past, a better future can never be created. If that, in the end, is what normalisation means, we should welcome it.
October 15 2001 / New Statesman
Two centuries ago, the great philosopher Immanuel Kant also envisaged a world community. Jason Cowley welcomes a neo-Kantian in Downing Street.
“All wars are so many attempts to bring about new relations among the states and to form new bodies by the break-up of the old states to the point where they cannot again maintain themselves alongside each other and must therefore suffer revolutions until finally, partly through the best possible arrangement of the civic constitution internally, and partly through the common agreement and legislation externally, there is created a state that, like a civic commonwealth, can maintain itself automatically.”
Immanuel Kant, 1784
“Round the world, 11 September is bringing governments and people to reflect, consider and change… There is a coming together. The power of community is asserting itself… I have long believed this interdependence defines the new world we live in.”
Tony Blair, 2001
Everyone who is anyone in the world of letters has been scrambling to offer their interpretation of the world-changing events of 11 September. We have endured Martin Amis’s hyperbolic take on the collapse of the twin towers, all “sharking” planes, “world flashes” from the near future and “species-shame”. We have endured the hawkish pomposity of the well-known thriller writer Robert Harris, delivered in weekly despatches in the Daily Telegraph, for which he was no doubt hired as a lone maverick counter-intuitive voice, though he has emerged as someone capable only of attacking the left from the right, as it were. We have had Ian McEwan’s subtle meditations on the hijacked passengers’ expressions of love at the point of extinction, as well as far too much “expert” geopolitical analysis and the odd apocalyptic prediction or two.
But so far there has been no seminal essay, no work of insight and prescience to rival Francis Fukuyama’s essay The End of History, which so perceptively defined the mood of western triumphalism at the end of the cold war in 1989, while offering a persuasive philosophical explanation for the collapse of our old bipolar world.
In the absence of such a text, Tony Blair’s speech to the Labour Party conference deserves to enjoy a radiant afterlife, not least because of its curious and unexpected revival of a form of Kantian liberal internationalism, as expressed in his hope for the future harmony and interdependence of nations. “This is a moment to seize,” he said. “The kaleidoscope has been shaken. The pieces are influx. Soon they will settle again. Before they do, let us reorder the world around us… ‘By the strength of our common endeavour, we achieve more together than we can alone’.”
Much has been made of the urgent tone of the speech - its messianic fervour and missionary zeal - and considerably less, if anything, of its philosophical foundations. This is to be regretted, because when Blair speaks of a “common thread of principle” uniting all nations, of “reordering” the world, of eradicating global poverty and ignorance, and of rebuilding a new interdependent world order from the wastes of conflict, he thrillingly, perhaps unconsciously, shares a vision of the future with the great Enlightenment philosopher Immanuel Kant (1724-1804). Kant’s essays Perpetual Peace (1795) and Idea for a Universal History with a Cosmopolitan Intent (1784) once provided the philosophical inspiration for contemporary liberal internationalism, and certainly influenced the foundation of both the League of Nations and the United Nations.
That Blair should discuss such ideas while he prepared to support the bombing of Afghanistan is not as absurd as it first seemed. Kant believed that war was the engine of history, a paradoxical mechanism for beneficial change as men reluctantly submitted themselves to the rule of law in order to avoid a relentless cycle of destruction: “The means that nature employs to accomplish the development of all faculties is the antagonism of men in society, since this antagonism becomes, in the end, the cause of a lawful order of this society.”
Kant saw how war weakened and impoverished nations, how it “stunted the full development of human nature”. He saw, too, how the ruinous effects of successive Conflicts could, because men are ultimately rational and self-interested, be turned to the advantage of human society, leading to greater concord and agreement between states. In time, they might lead towards a universal “civic constitution”, a prototype League of Nations (Kant was writing in the late 18th century, when there was no discernible world community).
In 1784, reflecting on centuries of turmoil in Europe, he found it “hard to suppress a certain disgust when contemplating men’s actions upon the world stage” - the kind of disgust one feels now, as the most technologically sophisticated nation on earth bombs one of the most primitive into bewildered submission. One finds, Kant continued, “in spite of apparent wisdom in detail that everything, taken as a whole, is interwoven with stupidity, childish vanity, often with childish viciousness and destructiveness”.
But Kant was far from despairing; rather, like Tony Blair, he believed in the possibility of progress and understood that war and conflict, though regrettable, were largely the inevitable expressions of what he called man’s “unsocial sociability”, and of a natural desire to protect one’s own local and international interests.
Kant was a teleologist. He believed that there was a direction and purpose to the development of history, that history was always moving towards its telos, its ultimate goal or end - and that end, as he saw it, was a perpetual peace between mutually interdependent democratic states under the rule of law, what he called a “civic commonwealth”.
Underscoring the Kantian notion of history is the idea of progress and, in particular, the idea of scientific progress, through which one generation adapts and improves on the discoveries and errors of those who have gone before. Which means that the history of ideas can be compared to the history of technology - ideas follow successively on from one another, being refined or rejected, just as you cannot invent a microwave oven before you have invented an electric power generator.
It does not necessarily follow that an advanced society is morally superior to an underdeveloped society; yes, microwaves are handy, but you cannot have an H-bomb until you have an A-bomb. However, the more advanced a culture, according to Kant, the greater the opportunity for the greatest number of people to fulfil their potential, their telos. In less advanced societies, such as Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, where life is rigidly ritualised and education for women forbidden, fewer people have the capacity to reach their potential, and thus religion remains a powerful attraction. As Nietzsche wrote, in Human, All Too Human (1879): “People to whom their daily life appears too empty and monotonous easily grow religious; this is comprehensible and excusable, only they have no right to demand religious sentiments from those whose daily life is not empty and monotonous.”
One of the great sadnesses of the contemporary Islamic world - and perhaps the underlying reason for its prevailing failures -is its loss of faith in the progressive nature of scientific knowledge. Unable to free themselves from metaphysical explanations of the world, many Muslims have ceased to dare to know, which for Kant was the true definition of enlightenment. “Enlightenment is man’s emergence from his self-imposed nonage,” he wrote. “Nonage is the inability to use one’s own understanding without another’s guidance. This nonage is self-imposed if its cause lies not in lack of understanding but in indecision and lack of courage to use one’s own mind without another’s guidance. Dare to know.” That there is no successful modern Islamic state to rival the superabundance, diversity and freedoms of the west is another source of puzzlement and disenchantment to a people who, after all, were blessed with what they saw as the last and definitive revelation of the great monotheistic religions.
Kant’s writings on history were hugely influential on Hegel, and indeed indirectly on Marx, both of whom identified history as developing through patterns of conceptual connections. For Hegel, history proceeds through the successive resolution of contradictions, as every complex situation creates its own internally conflicting elements, which in turn give rise to new states of affairs that are themselves undermined by their own internal contradictions, and so on in perpetuity. For a Marxist, the goal of history is a classless society, and history is propelled not by a kind of Hegelian universal consciousness (Geist, or world spirit), but by the interplay of economic forces. Here, the class struggle replaces the Hegelian dialectic and Kant’s “unsocial sociability” as the engine of history.
The spectacular failure of communism to remake the world for the better, the rise of fascism in Europe and the perceived ineffectiveness of the League of Nations and the United Nations in countering further conflicts contributed to diminished interest in Kantian universalism during the great stagnation of the cold war. But Kant’s ideas remain persuasive and powerfully relevant, not least because, apart from occasional lapses into mysticism, he is, again like Blair, a liberal optimist, defining progress in human terms, rather than in accordance to any divine plan. (Nevertheless, like a good Aristotelian, he does at one stage in Idea for a Universal History unfortunately suggest that the history of mankind “could be viewed on the whole as the realisation of a hidden plan of nature in order to bring about an internally - and for this purpose also externally - perfect constitution; since this is the only state in which nature can develop all faculties of mankind”. This is where Kant and Blair seem to diverge, be cause nowhere does Blair speak of history’s “hidden plan” - though, as a Christian, he no doubt grapples daily with his own intensely felt eschatology.)
Like Fukuyama, Kant believed that history would eventually reach a state of rest, in which liberal democracies adhering to the rule of law would find it impossible to go to war with one another and would thus work together towards the universal goal of world peace. For Fukuyama, history has ended (by which he means history as a battle between rival world-transforming ideologies, not the innumerable small details and events of everyday history, such as the fall of a government or a plane crash) because the universal movement towards the realisation of human potential has found its ultimate expression in liberal democracy as the only viable system of government. That authoritarian Islam has emerged as the great counter-narrative to secular liberal democracy does not invalidate Fukuyama’s central thesis, nor, I think, is he wrong to suggest that, once a society adopts the scientific method “as a primary means for obtaining knowledge, it is set on an irreversible path towards market economics and liberal democracy”.
Fukuyama’s triumph was to resurrect the discredited Kantian idea that there is a coherent direction to history, a discernible progressive pattern to human events - an idea to which Blair evidently adheres. This is not to say that earlier stages of history will not repeat themselves, or that there will not be future wars or comparable falls into chaos and irrationality. Nor is Fukuyama’s thesis predictive, deterministic or utopian-he concedes it is unlikely that the whole world will ever be united at the end of history, in a universal coalition of harmonious states. Rather, Fukuyama simply suggests that, in the absence of transcendental imperatives, liberal democracy, for all its huge disparities and variations, remains the only possible form of political legitimacy, the model that offers the greatest possibility of wealth, health and happiness to the greatest number of people.
Which returns us to Kant and to his idea that in war lies the possibility of future peace, perhaps even a perpetual peace. “In the end,” he writes, “war itself will be seen as not only so artificial, in outcome so uncertain for both sides, in after effects so painful in the form of an ever-growing war debt that cannot be met, that it will be regarded as a most dubious undertaking. The impact of any revolution on all states on our continent, so closely knit together through commerce, will be so obvious that the other states, driven by their own danger but without any legal basis, will offer themselves as arbiters, and thus they will prepare the way for a distant international government. . .”
Almost 200 years after his death, Kant’s dream of an international government remains as distant as ever, especially when nightly we see the grotesque spectacle of bombs and food parcels being simultaneously dropped on the blighted people of Afghanistan. Yet while there is a neo-Kantian in Downing Street, and one who is an important figure on the world stage, an attempt to work out what Kant called “the civic union of the human race” remains an intriguing, if necessarily remote, possibility.
July 2001 / Atlantic Monthly; Prospect, Issue 65
In 1993 Philip Roth published Operation Shylock: a confession, a hysterical exploration of the disintegrating self. No writer had been more adept at exploiting postmodern ideas of the instability of the self and the slippage between autobiography and fiction, but this time it seemed as though Roth had reached a terminus, the point at which his stylised self-obsession had become a poetics of despair. As John Updike wrote, “this cultivation of hypothetical selves has become an end game.”
At the time of the publication of Shylock there was talk of Roth having suffered a breakdown and the novel reads as if it were written, if not exactly while he was in therapy, then in a kind of rapture of self-absorption: a Jewish-American writer called Philip Roth travels to Israel after a period of ill health to track down an imposter, a fanatic who is also called Philip Roth and who is scheming to lead the Jews out of the promised land. When Roth finally meets his avenging double, he is startled: “His face was the face I remembered seeing in the mirror during the months when I was breaking down. His glasses were off and I saw in his eyes my own dreadful panic of the summer before, my eyes at their most fearful when I could think of nothing else but how to kill myself.”
Shylock is a technically audacious, disturbing and, at times, very funny book; but it is also relentless, opaque and wearisomely self-congratulatory. In fact it reads how it is: the culmination of Roth’s fictional obsession with his own life. “Making fake biography, false history,” he has said, “concocting a half-imaginary existence out of the actual drama of my life is my life.” In Shylock the American Roth may or may not be working as a spy for Mossad; he may or may not be married to an English actress called Claire (Roth at the time was married to Claire Bloom, to whom the book is dedicated); and his career may or may not be identical to that of the actual Philip Roth, whose picture peers beakily from the dust jacket. In an elaborate preface, Roth suggests that Shylock is “as accurate an account as I am able to give of actual occurrences that I have lived through during my middle fifties and that culminated, early in 1988, in my agreeing to undertake an intelligence-gathering operation for Israel’s foreign intelligence service.” This was a period when, as it turned out, Roth was indeed falling apart: his marriage was disintegrating (it exploded in 1996 when Bloom published a memoir, Leaving a Doll’s House, in which she condemned Roth’s misogyny and narcissism); he suffered some kind of mental collapse after taking the sleeping pill Halcion; and was being tormented in Jerusalem by an anti-Zionist imposter using his name.
But then, in a note at the end of the book, Roth reports that the confession we have just read is false. So have we read a confession or not? As always, it seems, Roth was adopting a strategy of complete disclosure interwoven with complete disavowal. “I write fiction and I’m told it’s autobiography,” he has said. “I write autobiography and I’m told it’s fiction.”
In Shylock he was writing about himself for no one but himself. He had nowhere else to go-except, as it turned out, to go back to the beginning, to a time when he was more interested in the world than in himself. The result was something unprecedented in the history of modern letters: in his seventh decade, when most of his peers were entering the long twilight of their careers, Roth began to get better. He began to write better books: his best books-and none of them were explicitly about himself. Rather, he began writing the kind of state-of-the-nation novels that we in Britain have long since ceased to expect from our writers, in which national history is recast and the big picture is animated.
Roth began his comeback with Sabbath’s Theater (1995), the story of an arthritic 64-year-old former puppeteer called Mickey Sabbath who is driven to near madness by the death of his Croatian lover, Drenka, a woman so fabulously promiscuous that she once enjoyed four different lovers in a single day. It is a work of sexual frenzy: debauched, febrile, invigorating. We see Sabbath masturbating on Drenka’s grave as he recalls the self-obliterating ferocity of their sexual relationship and we follow his journey into the past and descent into Lear-like nothingness. We see him wandering the streets of New York, lost in the sublime of his own mind.
If Sabbath’s Theater was a study of tormented consciousness, the trilogy that followed-American Pastoral (1997), I Married a Communist (1998), and The Human Stain (2000)-were different again. Here were novels of public protest, drawing inspiration from the epochal changes in post-war US society. Their pessimism of tone and implicit conservatism have led many in the US to assume that Roth had followed Saul Bellow in becoming a man of the right, in revolt against the tarnished freedoms of the 1960s, a period which did so much to form him as a writer and an individual.
Roth’s old fictional alter ego Nathan Zuckerman narrates the trilogy, living in semi-reclusive retreat from the world and his own turbulent past. Zuckerman was always childless but now, in his late sixties, after a life of tormented sexuality, he has become impotent and incontinent too. But these novels are not about him. “My seclusion is not the story here,” he says in I Married a Communist. “I don’t want a story any longer. I’ve had my story.”
So Zuckerman is less an active presence than a vehicle for other people’s stories; he becomes a device, the ideal chronicler who hospitably listens to the stories of others so as to remind us that, as Thomas Mann once put it, “in our time the destiny of man presents its meanings in political terms.” Each of the novels is angry and elegiac. Each has a tragic dimension and has as its hero an aspirant everyman who is ruined through becoming entangled in a web of public politics and private deceit.
American Pastoral is about a Jewish businessman called Seymour Levov who, as a youth growing up in Zuckerman’s neighbourhood in Newark, New Jersey, was known locally as “the Swede” because with his blond hair, blue eyes and vigorous athleticism he could not have seemed less like a Jew. The Swede was a schoolboy hero of Zuckerman’s: a sports star who lived the American dream, marrying an Irish beauty queen with whom he settled down to a life of affluent contentment. Early in the novel, Zuckerman runs into the Swede in a New York restaurant. They have not seen each other for decades and they begin chatting. Zuckerman is struck by Levov’s conventional simplicity: his life has been a chain of smooth successes, “just great, right in the American grain.” But not long afterwards, at a high school reunion, Zuckerman meets the Swede’s brother. The Swede is now dead; he was suffering from cancer at the time of his meeting with Zuckerman. Slowly we learn more about the Swede’s life: that in 1968 his beloved 16-year-old daughter, Merry, a member of the antiwar group called the Weathermen, blew up a post office, killing a doctor. After that she went on the run, withdrawing deeper into the underground, beyond the reach of the law and of her parents. The Swede’s marriage was destroyed by the vilification of his daughter; his business faltered and then failed. Meanwhile, the Vietnam war goes on and resentment seethes.
Zuckerman is astounded by his misreading of the Swede-“Never was I more mistaken about anyone in my life.” In an act of imaginative appropriation, he decides to retell the story of the Swede’s collapse. In so doing, he returns to the neighbourhood of their youth and finds that the once quiet, harmonious streets of Newark have become a moronic inferno of violence and racial hatred. This then is not so much an American pastoral as a counter-pastoral; what Roth calls the “indigenous American berserk.”
I Married a Communist follows a similar trajectory. Once again, Zuckerman meets an old acquaintance, this time it is his former schoolteacher, Murray Ringwold. He has news of the terrible fall of his brother Ira Ringwold, who was widely known as the actor Iron Rinn, star of a popular radio series. The communist of the title, Ira is destroyed twice over-by the betrayal of his wife, the actress Eve Frame (a thinly disguised portrait of Claire Bloom) and by unsubstantiated denunciations in a time of McCarthyite paranoia. Growing up in Newark, Ira had been something of an inspiration and surrogate father to the young Zuckerman, who recalls his own journey into political awareness while offering an authentic portrait of a 1940s and 1950s America, often soft-edged with melancholy. (Throughout his career, Roth has returned to the lost Newark of his boyhood, where he grew up the son of an insurance salesman, as if he were retracing his own steps in search of when his life took a wrong turn.)
John Updike has written disparagingly of what he calls the “blocks of talk” in Roth’s books-the hectoring, didactic dialogue and the speechifying excesses. Large sections of I Married a Communist are static, unfurling in pages of unbroken dialogue as Murray relays his brother’s story. Too much of Ira’s life is told, not shown-his early political engagement; his courting of, and subsequent battles with, Eve Frame, whose bourgeois indulgences represent all that he once loathed; his wartime experiences in Iran, which radicalised him. As a result, we struggle to feel the pathos of Ira’s fall; we simply have to take his brother’s word for what happened.
I Married a Communist may be flawed-written perhaps too quickly-but it remains, like all of Roth’s recent work, a powerful attempt to show how individual idealism is dislocated and then destroyed by the forces of senseless history. Ira longed to become his “own uncorrected first self,” a new man in the communist model; but Roth reminds us that hopeful provincials such as the Swede and Ira are never truly free: they are always liable to be “impaled on their moment,” caught in “the traps set for them by their era.”
The Human Stain is the most urgent and most contemporary of the trilogy: set in the summer of 1998, the “summer of Monica” and a president’s humiliation. It is essentially a novel about that most incendiary of issues, both in the US and increasingly in Britain: race. Coleman Silk is a distinguished Jewish professor of classics at Athena college in New England. He is imperious and remote, “an autocratic ego” who is sceptical of the theoretical turn in the liberal arts. His colleagues have long nurtured resentment of him and seize their opportunity to topple him when he describes two long absent pupils as “spooks”-meaning ghosts. In the tense, riven world of American academe, his remark is misunderstood as a racist slight as these pupils are black.
When Silk meets up with Nathan Zuckerman he is defeated: his wife has died, he has been denounced as a racist and forced to leave Athena and a former female colleague is pursuing him ruthlessly. His only compensation is that, with the help of Viagra, he has been enjoying a passionate relationship with an illiterate cleaner (how often Roth’s characters find lovers among the poor and uneducated). When Silk dies suspiciously in a car accident, Zuckerman discovers that he was not born a white Jew, but a fair-skinned African American, that his whole life had been an elaborate deceit, an attempt to evade the truth about his racial identity. Zuckerman’s role in the novel, as in American Pastoral, is to listen and then to recreate the story of Silk’s counterlife, which once more returns him to the Newark of both his and Silk’s adolescence.
Coleman Silk’s attempt to escape from his own biological narrative is at once a metaphor for the American dream of being reborn, of remaking yourself in a new land, and also a continuation of the question raised in the first two books of the trilogy as to how free the individual is when confronted by the inexorable forces of history. Roth’s view of history is dark, dystopian and deterministic: the Swede, Ira Ringwold and Coleman Silk are all essentially decent men who have been destroyed by forces outside of their control, the forces of history to which they are remorselessly fettered.
They are also victims of the “tyranny of propriety” in American public life: the Swede is wounded by the contempt of those who blame him for the monstrosity of his daughter; Ira is publicly eviscerated after his wife publishes a confessional memoir which alleges that her former husband was a Soviet spy, just as Claire Bloom published a memoir about Roth; and Silk is destroyed by academics so sanctimonious that they have allowed little policemen to live inside their heads. And yet these three men are in a way culpable, authors of their own decline, because they have allowed themselves to believe in the possibility of America, in the immigrant’s dream of affluent fulfillment: searching for secular redemption they longed to become the engines of their own self-creation, freed from the past. But Roth reminds us, again and again, that the founding dream of America is an illusion; paradise was lost long before it was ever found.
Roth’s latest novel, The Dying Animal, is different from and yet an extension of the trilogy’s preoccupation with recent political history. It is narrated by David Kepesh, a callous libertine on the book chat circuit, whom we last encountered in The Professor of Desire (1977). Before that, in the parable-like The Breast (1972), a baroque farrago which must count as one of Roth’s worst novels, Kepesh mutated into a gigantic breast. Now, in this new book, he has fallen in love with, well, a breast-a pair of them, to be precise. They belong to one of his students, a wealthy, charming 24-year-old Cuban-American, Consuela Castillo, whose thrilling desirability enchants, infatuates and tortures Kepesh.
We first meet Kepesh eight years after his affair with Conseula began, and we discover that he has been wounded by the experience, that he thinks about this woman, whom he no longer sees, continually. He often masturbates to the memory of her body and his jealousy is undiminished by the years of her absence.
Consuela and Kepesh’s relationship is bathed in a flow of body fluids and copulation. Roth is a self-styled “extremist writer.” Almost from the start he splashed in a pool of obscenity, indulging his desire to offend-not least the Jewish community in which he grew up, with his depictions of ordinary secular Jews struggling to adapt to a life of superabundance and temptation in assimilationist America.
Kepesh is a product of 1960s rebellion. Long ago he renounced any pretence at living what he sees as a conventional life, one constrained by monogamy and routine relationships, and he is used to sleeping with his students, with any number of women. But Kepesh’s relationship with Conseula is different. For a start, he is maddeningly jealous of her youth, of the boyfriends she has had and may have, when he, an aged and shrunken star of the ephemeral microphone, is dead. Or worse, impotent. And it is death, which gives this novel its remarkable charge and compulsion (and its devastating denouement).
In The Dying Animal, sex is Kepesh’s protective shield, which enables him to affirm his solitude, to live under extremes of isolation and threat. But it is not enough. Kepesh, at the end of his life, has been humbled, forced to re-evaluate the codes by which he has lived-the licentiousness, the irresponsibility, the refusal to conform. Later, when Conseula becomes (cruelly and schematically) ill with breast cancer and seeks help from Kepesh, the professor has to choose between self-affirmation and some kind of fellow-feeling.
The Dying Animal is full of startling inversions and political reversals. Here we re-encounter Kepesh, the old sexual adventurer, at a moment of profound crisis: What if my life has been wrong, he seems to be asking himself? What if my perpetual pursuit of sexual satisfaction was a kind of defeat? Have the costs of living through the revolutionary period of the 1960s been too great to wider society?
Roth is here presenting a portrait of the emptiness of the 1960s and an argument against them. In this, he shares a thematic preoccupation with the maverick French writer Michel Houellebecq, a former communist whose novel, Atomised, is a corruscating denunciation of the decade of sexual liberation, which, he thinks, destroyed the traditional family, “the last unit separating the individual from the market.” In Houellebecq, as in Roth, the freedoms of the radical decade have turned out to be a kind of imprisonment; battles were won but the dead are everywhere, victims of the fallout from the counter-culture.
The Dying Animal has received a mixed reception in the US, with Roth once more accused of indulging his libidinal anguish. ZoÃ« Heller, in the New Republic, booed the loudest. “To hold Roth accountable for the dispiriting strain of… womanphobia that runs through his novels is not idly to confuse Roth with his characters. It is, rather, to acknowledge that one of the areas in which a writer most nakedly asserts himself or herself is in the choice of subject. Roth’s implied moral commentary on Kepesh is all very well, but if he did not believe that an old goat’s agonising about a pneumatic 24-year-old was not representative of the human dilemma-was not deserving of our sympathetic attention-he wouldn’t be writing about it, would he?”
Roth may, as Heller suggests, reveal his moral prejudices through returning fanatically to the same subjects-the fragmentation of family, the failure of feminism to liberate men and women from mutual antagonism, the corruption of rampant individualism-but at least his chosen subjects are inherently interesting, they matter. In fact they are as one with the faultlines running through modern political discourse, whether in the anguished dialogue taking place between liberals and social conservatives within the Labour party in Britain, or the recent moral confrontations in France and Germany, where so many senior politicians are being forced to account for the excessive irresponsibility of their revolutionary youth.
Roth’s women may be a force of chaos, deliverers of destruction-predictably depicted as sexual predators or wounded victims, as vengeful wives or remorseful lovers, complicit illiterates or book-smart academics-but Roth’s men fare little better. Kepesh, Zuckerman, Mickey Sabbath-they are either defeated or in retreat from the world, exhausted survivors who are diminished by illness and guilty memory. So perhaps it is not so much that Roth is a mechanical misogynist as a clear-eyed realist: he sees us as we really are, with the faÃ§ades down-and both suffering and the need for patience are perpetual.
In an interview with David Remnick in the New Yorker last year, Roth spoke of how he no longer listens to the standard criticisms of his work: that he is a self-hating Jew; that he is in thrall to gruesome effects; that his work is ego-ridden and exhibitionistic; that he actually hates women. There was a time, however, when he used to listen too much, especially after the controversy that followed the publication of Portnoy’s Complaint (1969) his semi-pornographic study of a young middle-class Jewish adolescent’s journey into disenchanted maturity (the young Portnoy famously masturbates using a piece of liver).
Portnoy was an international bestseller which made Roth rich. In writing the novel Roth, according to New York magazine, had “kicked the nice Jewish boy bit, the stance of the Jamesian moral intelligence, and unleashed his comic foul-mouthed, sex-obsessed demon. His true self.” For a time he became one of the most famous people in the US, a regular on talk shows and in gossip columns, a writer-celebrity. “To become a celebrity is to become a brand name,” he wrote. “There is Ivory soap, Rice Krispies, and Philip Roth. Ivory is the soap that floats; Rice Krispies the breakfast cereal that goes snap-crackle-pop; Philip Roth the Jew who masturbates with a piece of liver. And makes a million out of it.”
Ever since then it seems Roth has been in retreat from what Saul Bellow called the “event glamour” of contemporary society, from the buzz of gossip and consumerism that so defines our modernity. Today he has withdrawn still further, living alone in semi-reclusive seclusion in rural Connecticut. There, after the painful and very public collapse of his marriage, he has found a kind of autumnal freedom, working to his own austere rhythm, sometimes writing all day and into the night. He has endured major heart surgery, his health has been erratic, but he told the New Yorker-“I have to tell you that I don’t believe in death, I don’t experience my time as limited. I know it is but I don’t feel it. I could live three hours or I could live 30 years, I don’t know. Time doesn’t prey upon my mind.”
It is hard to believe him when he says this-because his recent work is saturated in death and illness, with an imminent sense of an ending. In any event, as Nathan Zuckerman wrote, in a letter to his creator, Philip Roth: “With autobiography there’s always another text, a countertext, if you will, to the one presented.” So why should we accept Roth’s word now when we were encouraged never to believe him in the past?
Certainly, reading the trilogy and Sabbath’s Theater you sense that here is a writer, even at the age of 68, who burns to invent. His fiction has a 19th-century grandeur, an existential frenzy of the kind once familiar from the work of, say, Dostoevsky, Conrad or Céline but which has largely disappeared from the Anglo-American novel. So the more you read of the late Roth, the more you are convinced that, despite his own protestations, he is writing against extinction: he is a writer who works to the sound of death panting behind him-and what death-haunted work he has produced so late in the day.
Speaking in 1960, not long into his career, Roth marvelled at the fantastic nature of modern reality and of how the writer will struggle to compete with the bewildering nature of American history. “The American writer in the middle of the 20th century has his hands full in trying to understand, describe and then make credible much of American reality. It stupefies, it sickens, it infuriates, and finally it is even a kind of embarrassment to one’s own meagre imagination. The actuality is continually outdoing our talents, and culture tosses up figures almost daily that are the envy of any novelist.”
Yet Roth has remained true to his youthful vision of the writing life, his mission to document the defining particulars of his age, to submerge himself in waves of contemporary reality, to cover the world in fiction. No other American writer-not overwriting Bellow, with his anti-hero Herzog; not Updike, with his family of Rabbits and their hick everyman musings; and not DeLillo, with his cast of paranoids-has created characters as memorable or alive as Nathan Zuckerman or David Kepesh, or endowed his books with such philosophical urgency, making us think that the novel still matters.
There is a reason for this, I think. John Updike’s vision of the world is essentially benign; he is a professional writer, comfortable with his talent and affluence and seemingly selecting his subjects with the insouciance of a child-what will it be today, the court of Hamlet or miscegenation in Brazil? He is also a believer in God, so he has his consolation. Bellow, though agnostic, believes in the soul: to him empirical reality is all we can know but not all there is. This other reality is always sending us hints that we cannot receive without art. As for DeLillo, if he believes in anything, it is the power of conspiracies, the mysterious networks and covert connections that shape our lives.
But Philip Roth believes in nothing except the world of his fiction. He is fearlessly beholden to no one. He is a hard nihilist. All political schemes to remake the world, he seems to be saying in recent novels, are doomed. If we are anything, we are liars: the truth about us is endlessly mysterious and we know nothing of those around us. His fictional alter egos, his tortured, superfluous men, are resolutely earth-bound as they muse on the futility of ambition in the face of certain annihilation. Their respite is found in an intense erotic abandon, a willful succumbing to preposterous desires-and, as David Kepesh puts it, to the relentless “stupidity of being oneself,” to the “unavoidable comedy of being anyone at all.” But always in Roth it is too late, the world is already out of joint. As the Swede must discover in American Pastoral, “the worst lesson that life can teach is that it makes no sense.
March 11 2001 / The Independent
Perhaps only Trieste, the cosmopolitan port on the shadowy, disputed borderlands between Italy and the former Yugoslavia, and Lisbon, with its brooding sense of an empire lost, have quite the same atmosphere as Cyprus: the same sense of vivid ghostliness. With its geographic position between three continents and as the troubled juncture between clashing civilisations, Cyprus is a country not of one dividing line, but many.
Drive north for a couple of miles out of boisterous Agia Napa and you soon arrive on the edges of the ghost town of Famagusta, once the most vibrant tourist centre in Cyprus but now a site of monumental dereliction. Soon you can drive no further because you have reached the heavily fortified “Green Line” that runs like a scar across the island, separating Greek from Turk, a scar of war and ethnic hatred.
Tourism on the island had yet another record-breaking year in 2000. The popularity of Agia Napa has contributed to the boom. A former fishing village, Agia Napa suddenly, last summer, supplanted Ibiza as the hedonistic capital of the Mediterranean - a place where the bullet-headed British young come to dance and drink and, they hope, have sex in a kind of frenzy. Mindless b******s, the locals call it.
Today it is eerily quiet in Famagusta. It always is. No one seems to be stirring in the late afternoon sunshine. Peering through binoculars across a nowhere zone of barren scrubland, razor wire, barricades and ruined white-washed cottages, I am startled to see a Turkish soldier looking back at me through his own binoculars. Mounted high on a sentry post, he is the only moving object in a landscape of stillness and desolation. To visit Famagusta is like finding yourself adrift on a film set of a JG Ballard novel: there are empty houses, abandoned shops and hotels, and even a garage, replete with a showroom full of big, gas-guzzling Fords - all largely untouched since the Turkish invasion and de facto partition of the island in 1974.
The young soldier probably wasn’t even born when the ethnic Greek villagers of Famagusta fled their homes after the invasion, never to return. As a car pulls up, I watch an old woman get out, approach the UN-patrolled “Green Line”, and begin gesturing forlornly. She used to live in Famagusta, her son, the driver, tells me. Every weekend they drive out from Larnaca to one of the watchtowers that are strung out along these borderlands, from where she looks through a telescope at her old house, which she can neither visit nor reclaim.
Her story is a familiar one: wherever I travelled on the island, on both sides of the line, I met people for whom the events of 1974 had given their lives an ineradicable undertone of mourning. More than 200,000 people were, in the contemporary argot, ethnically cleansed from their homes in 1974, as the Turkish army responded to a coup in mainland Greece by occupying the fertile, more affluent northern part of the island, including the treasured port of Kyrenia. As the terrified Greeks, who constituted more than four-fifths of the population of the occupied areas, fled south, Turkish Cypriots made the journey in reverse, abandoning their homes. The two communities have remained divided ever since. It is hard to believe that only a couple of miles down the road from Famagusta, the bars and nightclubs of Agia Napa will soon be opening for yet another night of licentious abandon.
But that’s the appeal of Cyprus - too often it is caricatured as being no more than a bucket-and-spade destination for the cheap sun and booze crowd, but, in fact, it is one of the most appealing resort locations in Europe, certainly if you like to combine sun and sea with history and a little bit of politics.
I spent virtually all my time on the island line-hopping, as it were, moving between the town and the country, the ancient and the modern, the past and the present - and between sites of Islam and Orthodox Christianity. “Different invasions [have] weathered and eroded Cyprus, piling monument upon monument,” wrote Lawrence Durrell in Bitter Lemons of Cyprus, his travelogue of 1957, in which he obliquely monitored the mounting tensions between Greeks and Turks, and the Greek campaign for enosis, unity with the homeland.
It is still the same: for everywhere you visit there are traces of what has been before, often in the most incongruous locations. In popular Paphos, for instance, which since 1974 has been transformed into a teeming tourist town, you can step out of your bright, shining, air-conditioned, high- rise hotel and within minutes find yourself wandering among Greek and Roman architectural sites of extraordinary richness and variety.
A sense of the proximity of the past is all around you, especially in the small hill villages surrounding the main towns, where you may find abandoned mosques, Roman mosaics or ruined castles. The effect of all this is the same as when you stumble on a pillbox in the English countryside or a trench line in a field in northern France - the past, you realise, is never actually past: it always reverberates strangely in the present. As Durrell wrote, in Cyprus you “never stop stumbling upon many echoes from forgotten moments of history with which to illuminate the present”.
Cyprus has been predominantly Christian since its conversion by Saints Paul and Barnabas in 45AD, but the occupation of the island by Ottoman Turks, in 1571, means that there has been a long Islamic influence and presence, too. Mosques are part of the cultural patrimony of the island and they survive even in the Greek Cypriot enclaves, a reminder of a time when Greek and Turk lived together, if not in harmony then at least in uneasy alliance.
Across the Green Line, however, in the rogue Turkish sector of Nicosia (the last divided capital in Europe) there is very little religious tolerance. All the old Greek Orthodox churches I visited had long since been converted into mosques. It was the same in Kyrenia. (There is a community of elderly Greeks living in the remote Turkish-controlled Karpasia peninsula, the north-east tip of the island, but their numbers are dwindling fast.)
The history of Cyprus is so curious and complex, so much of its growth haphazard and serendipitous, that the streets of its ever- changing towns are like a palimpsest with successive generations failing quite to erase the influence of those who have gone before. A sense of the past is what impresses itself most; and it is this perhaps, as much as the long hot summers and Mediterranean languor, that is the source of the island’s fascination.
On my last day I decided to visit Kyrenia, a privilege denied to anyone with a Cypriot passport or, indeed, with a Greek name. You cannot take your hired car across the border, nor can you stay later than 5pm, unless, of course, you go direct to North Cyprus in the first instance, which, as it happens, is anything but direct as the “North” is not internationally recognised and hence no airline will fly there.
Fortunately, once you cross the line, there are any number of Turkish taxi drivers touting for business at the border checkpoint. Business is swiftly done and you are on your way to Kyrenia, which is certainly worth paying black market rates to visit. With its intimate harbour of small fishing boats and bars, crumbling castle, labyrinthine streets and surrounding mountains, the town is surely the loveliest in all Cyprus. Greek Cypriots have never stopped mourning their exclusion from Kyrenia. I lost count of the times I spent in waterfront bars listening to songs (which had the melancholy appeal of Portuguese fado music) about the loss of Kyrenia.
On this side of the Green Line - despite the settlement of more than 100,000 mainland Turks here since 1974 - it isn’t hard finding someone who remembers a time before partition. My taxi driver, for instance, who was born and grew up in Paphos. His questions were the same as those of the Greek Cypriots I had met. What is it like on the other side? How has it changed?
The sadness of contemporary Cyprus, with its actual and metaphorical lines of division, is that today only a fortunate traveller can attempt to answer such questions.
October 30 2000 / New Statesman
Most of us have a year of great personal or political moment, which, for whatever reason, resonates peculiarly, so that something like a chance hearing of a half-forgotten pop song or a casual newspaper reference to distant events can return us to the sights, sounds and textures of a world of yesterday. To me, there has always been something extraordinarily memorable about 1977, the year of the emerging punk and disco scenes, of the Silver Jubilee celebrations and the “Yorkshire Ripper” murders - something bound up with the country that Britain once was, and irreversibly became.
I’m not alone, it seems, in finding special resonance in 1977; in the past 12 months or so, there has been a curious (and coincidental) confluence of books and films that use the events of this year as the starting point for a series of imaginative retrospectives, exploring themes such as alienation, social dysfunction and the end of a certain kind of England. The best of these include John King’s novel Human Punk, which is about a young DJ from the London suburbs rendered unstable by violence and boredom; David Peace’s Nineteen Seventy Seven, a fictional recreation of the north of England during the time of the Ripper murders; and Whatever Happened to Harold Smith, an amusing, low-budget British film about the adventures of a young man caught between the allure of punk and disco.
What all of these works share, apart from the year of their setting, is a dramatic understanding of the transitional nature of 1977. For it was the year, too, when the postwar Butskellite consensus finally began to unravel, when the failure of the Heath administration, the high inflation of the mid-1970s and then the financial crises of the Callaghan years led the small group of maverick advisers and thinkers gathering around Margaret Thatcher and Keith Joseph to believe that history was at last moving in their direction. In the view of those seeking to mould a new right consensus, the country not only in decline, it was in thrall to an intellectually discredited “Keynesian” orthodoxy, in which equality and social justice were pursued at the expense of liberty; full employment at the expense of ruinously high inflation; and the collective - as represented by union power and big, interventionist government - was prized over the individual.
As Thatcher, once in power, began purging her opponents from the Cabinet, it was fashionable to be on the right again, and ideas that once seemed dangerously subversive acquired a radical chic. The left found itself in an alarmed retreat from which it took more than a generation to recover, but only through accepting many Thatcherite orthodoxies. The right had won the economic argument, if not the cultural one, too.
The early radical Conservatives (or Thatcherites, as they were later known) - many of whom, such as Alfred Sherman of the Centre for Policy Studies, were former Marxists - were propelled by messianic zeal. They wanted to remake not only the Conservative Party, but the entire nation. In 1977, Sherman and the Centre for Policy Studies published a series of pamphlets outlining the way ahead. The unions and the “overmanned” nationalised industries, in particular, were identified as being the enemies of progress in an enterprise economy. If Britain was to be modernised, so the argument went, then the industrial practices and policies of much of the postwar period would have to be reversed.
The feeling, as the political philosopher John Gray has written, was one of “radical discontinuity with the past”. The aim was not simply to return the Conservatives to power; it was to change society irreversibly. And there was something clandestine, almost Bolshevik, about the early Thatcherites: gathering in dining clubs, in think-tanks, or for monthly salons at Jonathan Aitken’s house in Lord North Street, Westminster, they saw themselves as fighting a war of ideas against an enfeebling postwar consensus. They saw themselves as mould-breakers, iconoclasts, even revolutionaries. They were romantics. And some of them were visionaries, too. Among those who attended Aitken’s salons were Richard Nixon, Ian MacGregor (who would later lead the Tory attack against Arthur Scargill and the miners), John Gray, John Aspinall, Roger Scruton, Enoch Powell, Peregrine Worsthorne, Paul Johnson and Tom Stoppard.
In 1977, I had recently left primary school, so I was largely unaware of the currents of change flowing beneath the surface of the country’s political life. What I did understand, however, growing up in the nowhere zone of the Essex-Hertfordshire borderlands, was that Britain in the mid- to late-1970s was an extraordinarily drab place in which to be young: closed, parochial, complacent, tired.
To recall the landscape of my early teenage years is to return to an unrecognizable England: a country that was racist and corrupt, and hostile to any kind of eccentricity or difference; one riven by strikes and social unrest. Britain was then a country renowned for little but its bad food, awful public architecture (one need only visit the “new” towns that were built after the war to realise how little thought went into the planning of our public spaces), police corruption, and industrial malaise. And reading the music press, the NME and other papers as I did then, I knew that others felt the same as I did, felt that the old order was rotten to the core and deserved to be blasted away. What else could explain the anger of the punks, and of the new-wave bands that followed them?
I worked as a paperboy throughout 1977. My main interest then was sport; but I still used to read the headlines on the front pages before pushing the papers through the various letterboxes (and sometimes into the eager mouth of a hostile dog) on my early morning rounds. I understood even then, just as the Queen prepared to celebrate her first 25 years on the throne, that all was not right in the country. For a start, young women kept being murdered. I shall never forget the strange sense of fear and excitement I felt whenever I arrived at the local “paper shop”, to be told by the newsagent - a severe, bald-headed former gold prospector - that “he’s struck again”. I always knew what he meant: that he was speaking about the Ripper. The Yorkshire Ripper. He seemed to haunt all of our imaginations in 1977.
I recall, on several occasions, returning home from school with friends to ring the police hotline, on which you could hear the “Ripper’s voice”. He had a Geordie accent and was taunting the officer in charge of investigations (the call was later revealed to be a hoax). David Peace, in his novel, captures well the atmosphere of unease and suspicion that surrounded the Ripper murders, which darkened still further when Peter Sutcliffe (who was not caught until January 1981) began, for the first time in 1977, to murder non-prostitutes. Peace is very good on the corruption of the West Yorkshire police and on evoking the stink and decay of the industrial landscape through which the Ripper moved. The newsagent, “Vic”, was one of Thatcher’s “little people”: a small, independent businessman who was insurgent on all fronts. He felt that the country, as he put it, had “gone to the dogs”, and never wearied of telling anyone willing to listen about who was to blame - Labour and socialism, needless to say.
Amusingly, Vic had an adolescent son, a giant man-boy, who played centre-half for the best youth football team in our town and of whom his father was inordinately proud (I later found out that the boy was adopted). Until, that was, he became a punk and began turning up for his paper round (which was much shorter than the rest of ours) with his hair spiked, wearing painted boots, ragged tartan trousers and a ripped leather jacket. This seemed to disappoint his father.
But he ought not to have been too hard on his man-boy, because father’s and son’s rebellions were rooted in the same mutual disgust with the mediocrity and complacency of 1970s Britain. In this respect, I think, punk can be seen as a right-wing, consensus-smashing and counter-revolutionary ideology. There were avowedly left-wing punk bands, such as The Clash. But, more often than not, the more interesting punk and new-wave bands - Sex Pistols, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Joy Division - experimented with fascistic imagery and, like the Thatcherites, were set on breaking violently with the past. There was a darkness to their vision that was resolutely anti-Utopian: they knew, like believers in original sin, that they inhabited the worst of all possible worlds.
Punk was, essentially, a movement of working-class disaffection. It was the music of rebellion and simplicity. Anyone could be a punk: you didn’t even have to be an accomplished musician, or have access to expensive recording equipment. You simply required attitude, a few battered instruments and a rage to be different. “Punk stripped rock music down to the basics, and that was fantastic,” said Tony Wilson, the founder of the influential, independent Factory Records and the Hacienda nightclub in Manchester.
Many of the punk bands, Sex Pistols included, experimented with nihilism; but Joy Division - whom Wilson managed and whose singer-songwriter, Ian Curtis, committed suicide in 1980 at the age of 23 - meant it. Joy Division were never strictly a punk band - even in 1977, when the members were novices and their music had a hard-edged, DIY rawness. There was a complexity and lyrical sophistication to their sound that was quite unlike any other band at the time. Bernard Sumner - the bass player in Joy Division, who later became the frontman of New Order - has spoken of how the melancholy of Joy Division’s sound was an expression of the hopelessness and monotony of the post-industrial landscape of the Manchester of his childhood. “In those days, when you left school, you got a dead-end job that you hated. You grafted, and it rained all the time. There was mass unemployment. The old factories were coming down. Unoccupied buildings, all the windows smashed in. It was virtually a ghost town. You left school and went: ‘Oh, God. This is it.’”
In 1977, many people must have left school and asked themselves the same thing - if this, indeed, was it. Certainly, the Labour government, dominated by the unions, and moving between opportunistic monetarism and disastrous mismanagement of the economy, offered little hope or inspiration. If Labour were left, and were this mediocre, shouldn’t we think about moving to the right? Many did - including a disaffected Ian Curtis, who voted Conservative at the 1979 election, as did Harold Pinter and many other self-styled radicals like him.
One of my most vivid memories of 1977 is of being taken by my parents to central London to watch the Queen’s Silver Jubilee parade. I recall - however inaccurately - a cool, grey day, and impatiently mingling with the crowds lining the route that her absurdly opulent carriage would take. I remember glimpsing the Queen as she passed, waving from her carriage, and my lingering feelings of perplexity and bewilderment. Despite cheering gratuitously, I felt no sense of joy; nor, I am sure, did my parents, who were not so much enthusiastic monarchists as curious to see what all the fuss was about, and eager to be part of it all. But of what exactly? In retrospect, the Queen’s journey through London seems more like a funeral parade than a celebration of a vibrant nation.
More enjoyable was our street party in Essex, the only public event of its kind I have ever attended. Meticulously planned, organised and funded by a residents’ committee, the event was a success, combining street games, theatre, fancy-dress competitions and a night-time disco held at a local school. The only source of discord during the entire day was when, at the disco, a group of lads attempted to bully the DJ into playing the Sex Pistols’ gloriously ironic “God Save the Queen”, the banned single that was, fittingly, the unofficial No 1 in Jubilee week. It began: “God save the Queen/Fascist regime/She makes you a moron . . .”
It scarcely needs saying that the Thatcherite counter-revolution curdled, as most revolutions do, into something unpleasant and rigidly dogmatic. And yet, who can deny, even those on the old left, that there was something thrilling about the way in which a small group of maverick, renegade thinkers were able, through the force of their ideas, to move from the margins of a major political party to win control of its very centre, and in so doing remake the nation?
In its own way, the punk counter-revolution, which enjoyed its apotheosis in 1977 when “God Save the Queen” reached No 1 in the charts, remade the rock business, too. After punk, 1,000 small bands and record companies bloomed, launching an entire “indie” scene. But the energy of the punk scene was, in truth, quickly dissipated once the leading bands became even remotely successful. Because punk, like Thatcherism, was a movement of opposition, contempt and feelings of disenfranchisement nurtured it. As Alfred Sherman has said of his early commitment to radical Conservatism (but his words could equally apply to what Malcolm McLaren did with the Pistols): “Someone had to question the unquestioned, think the unthinkable, set our problems within a broader historical framework.”
In 1977, as women were being murdered in Yorkshire and the Queen was celebrating with a uniquely British pomposity, the nation was falling apart and someone needed to think the unthinkable, politically and culturally. In retrospect, the Silver Jubilee served not as the start of something, but as the beginning of the end. It was the point at which Britain realised it could go forward only by first going backward to dismantle the structures of the entire postwar consensus. The years that followed were often difficult and painful. There were inner-city riots, mass unemployment and a long, dispiriting miners’ strike. But, for better or worse, a sense of continuity in British society had been broken. The country would never be the same again.
August 27 2000 / The Independent
It used to be said that if you wanted to discover someone’s religion in Glasgow, you simply asked which football team they supported: the Protestant blue of Rangers or the Catholic green of Celtic. At one o’clock this afternoon the “Old Firm” Derby between the two sides kicks off at Parkhead in the east end of Glasgow - the start of what has been described as “ninety minutes of hate”. Today’s match has been given a special resonance by the recent appointment of Martin O’Neil, a Catholic Ulsterman, as Celtic manager, and by a summer of simmering sectarian tensions in Belfast (the Shankill and the Falls Roads often fall eerily quiet on Old Firm day).
There is nothing in world football to compare with the sectarian ferocity of the Glasgow Derby - not even the match between Barcelona and Real Madrid, in which the pride of Catalonia clashes with the hated Castilians from the Spanish capital. Last week, as I walked the streets of the “Barrowlands” in the east end of Glasgow, I was aware of a peculiar low-level tension, as if people were embracing themselves for the challenge ahead. Everyone I spoke to, every taxi driver I met, had an opinion about the Old Firm game, about the long years of struggle at Celtic (Rangers have been in the ascendance for more than a decade) and about a century of rivalry.
The east end has long been considered a Catholic stronghold - the impoverished grey towerblocks and decayed streets where many thousands of Irish immigrants settled in the second half of the 19th century (it was from within this community that Celtic was founded in 1888). And yet, intriguingly, the estates next to the Celtic stadium in Parkhead are Protestant enclaves, areas from which Rangers draw their support and from where members of the Orange Order set off to march every summer, in grotesque parody of more murderous rituals across the Irish Sea.
To walk these streets is to encounter the tensions of Belfast transplanted to Glasgow: pro-UVF and UFF graffiti blight the walls and bus-stops; the occasional Union flag hangs from a window, and the blue shirts of Rangers are worn with defiant pride, as they are in the pubs of the Shankill Road. Glasgow has been galvanised by change in the past decade. Slums have been cleared, smart restaurants and boutiques have arrived in Buchanan and Sauchiehall Streets. The arts have flourished, the university has expanded, new businesses have emerged to drive the engine of the local economy. But the areas around Parkhead, with their boarded-up shops and derelict properties, have somehow been forgotten in the rush to embrace a cosmopolitan cappuccino culture, in the desire to create a gentler, more welcoming image for the city. In such places, the old sectarian resentment festers.
Meanwhile, less than half a mile away from the Protestant enclaves, the Celtic squad is preparing at its Barrowfield Road training ground for the big game. It’s an unexpectedly warm morning, and the players appear relaxed, teasing one another like young boys. Nearby, a group of canny, street-smart lads dressed in jeans and Celtic shirts look on through the prison-like bars. When I approach them, they say how much they “hate” Rangers, how much they hate the “Protestant bastards”.
Anyone who has watched an Old Firm Derby understands that such hatred is real. Simon Kuper, in his fine book Football Against the Enemy, describes how one Old Firm clash, in 1975, provoked two attempted murders, two cleaver attacks, one axe attack, nine stabbings, and 35 common assaults. Nowadays, of course, football is calmer, the surveillance techniques and policing at matches immeasurably improved, but the potential for serious violence remains.
When Paul Gascoigne arrived in Scotland to play for Rangers in the mid-1990s, he made a drastic mistake in his first Old Firm match. Celebrating a goal, Gazza was encouraged by teammates to play an imaginary flute before the massed ranks of Celtic fans. Their fury shattered him. It was only later that Gascoigne understood that his act was a provocative symbol of Loyalist supremacy; that to play the “Orange” flute was to risk, if not death, then multiple death threats, as he soon discovered when, days later, a car drew up alongside his own at traffic lights. “This big guy wound down his window and called out to me,” Gazza said. “He went, `Gazza, you better watch what you’re doing up here, man. If you ever play that flute again, we’ll cut your throat’.”
Celtic stadium, which has a capacity of 60,000, is the second largest in Britain. It is, like the larger Old Trafford, a magnificent theatre. As I sat in the Jock Stein stand last week, looking out across the empty terraces and down at the immaculate green turf, in thrall to the cathedral hush of my surroundings, I tried to picture what lay ahead - the sound and fury of today’s game.
I recalled, too, how shocked Margaret Thatcher was said to have been when she was guest of honour at a Scottish Cup final in the 1980s and witnessed Celtic fans waving Irish republican tricolours, heard them jeering at the national anthem and singing pro-IRA songs. Poor old Mrs T - she had obviously never bothered to visit Celtic Park where the Irish and Scottish flags, but not the Union one, are raised proudly above the stadium. Nor had she listened to Rangers fans singing the Sash or mocking the dead IRA hunger striker Bobby Sands.
Later I hitch a lift back to the centre of town with an old chap who turns out to be the father of the former Scotland and Celtic defender Tosh McKinley. McKinley Senior is a terrific character: a passionate Celtic fan (he shows me the tattoo of a green and white hooped Celtic shirt on his left forearm) and a proud father. He recalls how Tosh once broke the nose of Henrik Larsson, Celtic’s talented Swedish striker, in a training- ground brawl. “Tosh didnae want to hit him. But Larsson raised his arm first. If a man raises his arm in Glasgow, ya hit him. Ya hit him before he hits ya. Afterwards Tosh said, `Didnee not know where he is, like, that he’s in Glasgow now. You don’t raise your arm in Glasgow and expect not to be hit.’ “
There are many things, it seems, that you don’t do in Glasgow, certainly not at this time of year - such as wearing the wrong football shirt in the wrong part of town, such as singing the wrong kind of songs or playing the wrong kind of instrument. Back inside Mr McKinley’s car, the right kind of songs are playing: Irish folk songs, in which someone who sounds like Shane McGowan of the Pogues celebrates his love of Celtic and contempt for Rangers. “This one’s great,” says McKinley, leaning across to amplify the sound. “It’s all about big Duncan Ferguson [the despised former Rangers striker, now at Everton].”
The car eventually stops and I jump out. I have journeyed only a couple of miles across town but it is as if I’m in another country. There are no football shirts to be seen and the crowds on Buchanan Street have a kind of metropolitan hauteur. Yet when the whistle blows this afternoon, I shall regret not being there to hear that Old Firm roar as 60,000 people once again spin deliriously into hatred.
June 25 2000 / The Independent
There is something mysterious and unaccountable about Trieste, a certain kind of vivid ghostliness that has struck many visitors to the cosmopolitan Adriatic port.
For a start, it is not really an Italian city at all, although Italian is the language you hear spoken on the streets. There is none of the noise, movement and colour you’d associate with Italian cities, in the north and south, none of the vibrant pavement nightlife - I was in Trieste, for instance, on the night of the European Cup final between Real Madrid and Valencia, and I missed the first 20 minutes because I couldn’t find a bar showing the game (I ended up in a kitsch Irish pub).
Rather, what strikes you about Trieste is a kind of lingering melancholy, for this is a city haunted by its past, as Austro- Hungary’s strategic gateway to the Mediterranean, and by Irredentist struggles and wars of liberation and oppression.
Trieste is one of those city-ports, like Odessa or Gdansk, which ought to belong to no country; indeed there was an attempt after the Second World War to create the “Free Territory of Trieste”, a strategic nowhere zone between East and West, a space for watchfulness and spies and black- marketeering.
Before Trieste was ceded permanently to Italy in 1954, what was known as Zone B of the Free Territory of Trieste was assigned to Yugoslavia; and there are Triestines, some of whom I met on my visit, who still mourn - rather like those haunted Germans expelled from their East Prussian homes after the war - the lost towns of Koper, Piran, Umag and Novigrad which are now divided between Slovenia and Croatia.
Jan Morris, who is writing a book provisionally entitled Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere, served as a soldier in the divided city after the war and still returns there as often as possible. She recalls during the Cold War, the strange excitement of Trieste, with its massed ranks of American and British troops and with the “Iron Curtain being only a couple of miles away and all these people gathering on the border to trade illegally in things like jeans”.
What attracts Morris to Trieste is exactly what attracted me: the sense that when you are there you have reached the end of something, that you are in the last town in western Europe, a town surrounded by water and hills that seems somehow untouched by the homogenising effect of modernity. (I was relieved to find no McDonald’s or Burger King or Starbucks.)
Trieste overlooks the northernmost shores of the Adriatic Sea, and viewed from the surrounding hills, the city itself, with its tall, red-roofed buildings and narrow arterial roads, seems to be pushed to the very edge of the sea by the Carso - the plateau of woods and rocks that rises behind and acts as its ramparts. In winter, the “Bora”, a fierce east-north- east wind, sweeps down from the Carso through the city and out to the Gulf, with gusts sometimes reaching 100mph. As Riccardo Illy, mayor of the city, says, “The Bora is both loved and feared by the Triestini.”
When the Bora has gone, a peculiar stillness settles over Trieste. “I like melancholy places,” Jan Morris tells me, “and Trieste has a special melancholy all of its own, particularly in winter. I like the presence of the sea, the low hills, and when the Bora blows, it leaves behind this strange sense of unfulfilment in the air.”
It’s perhaps no surprise, then, that James Joyce wrote his great short story of unfulfilment, “The Dead”, with its marvellous closing image of the whole of Ireland disappearing beneath a blanket of falling snow, during the 11 years that he lived in Trieste; and Rilke wrote the Dunio Elegies when he was living in a village just outside the city. Trieste, you can’t help but feel, inspires that kind of concentrated, melancholic rapture.
But there is another side to Trieste, if you care to look for it, a rougher, more boisterous side as befits a working port. In Finnegans Wake, Joyce has his own name for Trieste - “Europiccola” - a little Europe, and the city through which he moved as an impoverished teacher of languages was certainly alive with the clamour of Italians, Magyars, Croats, Slovenes, Serbs, Germans, Austrians, Jews, Armenians, Greeks and Czechs, with the heterogeneous peoples of the old Austro-Hungarian empire. Today, the city is quieter, a place of long shadows and sombre piazzas; but it still has a cosmopolitan swagger, with strong Slavic, Teutonic and Latin influences. (The story may be apocryphal, but it is often said that only 10 per cent of the names in the local phone book are Italian, and that more than two-thirds of Triestines have a non-Italian grandparent.)
Architecturally, Trieste has the feel and look of a central European city, with its splendid neoclassical and baroque buildings, most notably the Palazzo Pitteri by Ulderico Moro (1790). Indeed, many of the locals refer to it as their “little Vienna or Budapest”. As a city renowned for religious tolerance, there are some wonderful churches, of all faiths and denominations, my favourites being the neoclassical Catholic church of Sant’ Antonio Nuovo situated at the end of the Grand Canale, and the neo-Byzantine Serb-Orthodox church of S Spirdione, with its pale blue imitation oriental domes and wonderful mosaics by Guiseppe Bertini.
It is only when you are in rare and special places like Trieste, where East meets West, that you begin to understand more fully the conflicts in the Balkans, and how south-east Europe seems forever doomed to be split along the ancient fault line separating Catholic from Orthodox, Rome from Byzantium. It is estimated that as many 6,000 Serbs live in Trieste, and so, perhaps, it’s no surprise to find anti-Nato graffiti, written in English, splattered in yellow paint across walls and buildings. Perhaps it’s wrong to blame the local Serbs: the war was never popular in a city where the population is so ethnically mixed.
That population is an ageing one, so there is none of the youthful exuberance of, say, the Slovene capital of Ljubljana, which is just a 90-minute drive away and has an average age of 25. So you would be foolish to come to Trieste in search of nightlife; in fact, I was in the city three days before I found a decent bar, tucked away in the maze of streets in the old Roman district, with loud music and young people. But even then, the hard dance beat of techno appeared incongruous - how could there be so much life in a city seemingly dedicated to dying?
James Joyce arrived in Trieste in October 1904, leaving in 1915, a period when the labyrinthine Austro-Hungarian empire was unravelling, its disparate peoples inflamed by incipient nationalism. Everyone, it seemed, was in revolt against the long-nurtured assimilationist, multinational ideals of Franz Joseph, emperor of Austria since 1848 and king of Hungary since 1867. Joyce’s Trieste, as revealed by John McCourt in his new book James Joyce: a passionate exile (Orion Media, pounds 16.99) was a cosmopolitan centre of fashion, music and languages, where the Grand Canale was filled with merchant ships unloading their cargo (today, the Canale is occupied only by small fishing boats).
In particular, Joyce was fascinated by the Babel of languages he heard in the streets, and this experience informed his work in fresh and imaginatively unexpected ways. “Later,” McCourt writes, “when writing his own encyclopedia of world culture in Finnegans Wake, Joyce would create an international portmanteau language, rooted in English but brimming with different traditions, in which few individual words could be safely reduced to one single, authoritative meaning. In this respect, the language of Finnegans Wake is like an exaggerated, exploded version of Triestino, that rich, composite dialect which Joyce listened to with rapt attention and learned to speak brilliantly.”
Are the streets of Trieste still raucously Joycean? Not really. Authentic cafe life still exists, where you can eat the mixed Italian, Slavic and Austrian cuisine; but today, above all else, a sense of time past and time passing impresses itself on any visitor, as it does in a similar way in Lisbon, that other ghostly seafaring city more rooted in past than present.
As you walk the streets of Trieste you can sense the quiet resignation of the people. There is no urgency. No one seems to hurry. Why, they even drive slowly in Trieste. And when the sun shines, the old women and men along the seafront don’t so much walk as lumber along, stepping over the lines along which trams once ran, in a period when the city was busier, more purposeful.
Everywhere you look, too, in the splendour of some of the 18th- century buildings, in the rotten jetties of the port and in the faded elegance of the waterfront buildings, you are reminded of something great, of when the city served as an empire’s vibrant port, sending ships out to the Orient.
And everywhere you go, you are never far away from the long melancholy roar of the withdrawing sea. Yet the Triestines seem reluctant to leave their haunted city. Instead, they prefer to stay on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
March 30 2000 / The Times
For too long publishing has been in thrall to novelty. No other artistic medium, not the visual arts, music or theatre, shares a similar preoccupation with newness. There were 110,000 books published in Britain last year and most enjoyed a shelf-life of no more than four to six weeks. Then they were gone, perhaps doomed to enjoy a flickering afterlife in trade paperback, before beginning that brutal journey to the remainder bin - from where only the oblivion of the pulping pit awaits..
If you love books and have ever visited a pulping warehouse, as I did recently, you will understand the strange melancholy that accompanies the witnessing of such mechanised destruction. Watching this happen, one thinks often of the American poet Delmore Schwartz, who, disillusioned by his own literary failure, wrote: “No reputation is more than snowfall; it vanishes.”
It wouldn’t in the least have surprised Delmore Schwartz - who died in 1966 but whose unhappy strivings were immortalised in one of Saul Bellow’s greatest novels, Humboldt’s Gift (1976) - to discover that his work has long been out of print in this country. Indeed, everyone, I’m sure, can think of a favourite writer or book that has disappeared, Schwartz-like, from publishers’ backlists and from public life.
In my own experience, some of the books I value most - Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer, Willa Cather’s The Professor’s House, Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night, the novels of Knut Hamsun, Douglas Reed’s Insanity Fair, Fred Exley’s A Fan’s Notes - are either out of print, or have only recently been reissued after years of neglect.
I was originally lucky enough to find these titles, either in dusty second hand bookshops or in America, where The Moviegoer, in particular, is justly recognised as one of the great postwar novels. It is a study in perplexed wonder. Binx Boiling, a veteran of the Korean War, works as a small-time stockbroker in New Orleans. Nothing much happens to him: he lives alone, has trouble sleeping, goes often to the movies and enjoys random affairs with women. He claims to feel contented by the mere “everydayness” of his routine, yet he knows, too, that something important is missing from his life. The novel enacts a lyrical search for that missing something - which Boiling doubts he will ever find. The Moviegoer deserves to be rediscovered by British readers.
One of the great acts of rediscovery and literary retrieval of recent decades was performed by Virago, under the auspices of its founding directors, Carmen Callil, Ursula Owen, Harriet Spicer and Lennie Goodings. Established in 1973, Virago’s mission was to offer hitherto neglected work by women writers a public place, in properly published editions. Virago quickly established itself as a brand of distinction, a list to trust. Across two decades a new generation of readers was introduced to, or rediscovered, writers such as Antonia White, Rosamond Lehmann, Willa Cather, Ivy Compton Burnett and Sylvia Townsend Warner, all published in those instantly recognisable green jackets.
Now, in April, the Orion publishing conglomerate hopes to do for history and non-fiction what Virago did for women’s fiction, launching a new imprint dedicated exclusively to bringing neglected and semi-forgotten works back into print, at the startling rate of 12 per month. Phoenix Press’s publishing director, Bing Taylor, is one of the most likeable and widely experienced players in the book business, having co-founded The Good Book Guide, worked for the mail-order book club BCA, in children’s and adult publishing and for WH Smith, where he was an impressive president of the Booksellers Association during its centenary year.
He and his assistant, Francis Gotto, have spent the best part of the past 14 months working, as he puts it, as “sort of private detectives, searching for ‘lost’ books and for their copyright owners”. Taylor has scanned centenary lists of influential titles. He has acted on sage advice from his consulting editors, Antonia Fraser and Simon Schama. He plans to offer prizes to members of the public who successfully propose titles for republication. His mission is assuming the obsessive dimensions of a quest. “I spend nearly all my time on the Internet, hunting for leads, trying to track down the descendants of dead authors,” he says, drawing reassuringly on a cigarette.
The most intriguing of the April launch list is The Spanish Cockpit, an eyewitness account of the Spanish Civil War by Franz Borkenau, an Austrian Catholic of Jewish descent who reacted against his early interest in Marxism. Favourably reviewed by Orwell and Rebecca West at the time of publication in 1937, the book has a thrilling immediacy and burns with anger, at the wasted lives and at the folly of ideological engagement.
The Spanish Cockpit was recommended to Bing Taylor by the second-hand bookseller Anthony Rota. After initial research, he discovered that rights hadn’t reverted from the original publishers, Faber & Faber, to the copyright holder, Paul Borkenau, the son of the writer and now a psychiatrist, whom Taylor found through the Internet. Once Faber had expressed no interest in reissuing the book, publication rights reverted to Paul Borkenau, to whom Phoenix paid a modest advance against any future royalties. Only then, after much protracted discussion, was Taylor free to publish - the culmination of a long journey.
Bing Taylor is confident that the Internet, with its global reach and proliferating niche specialisms, will help his project to flourish. “I know that books such as mine are always the last ones out of a rep’s bag. So our best chance is through exploiting the sales potential of amazon.com and bol.com. To that effect, we are developing our own online magazine and website. I’ve long felt that the book trade is too frontlist-orientated; if a book isn’t performing within six weeks, sometimes within two, it’s returned. There is nothing great about newness in and of itself. And I hope there is still room for elegant and informative historical narratives.”
One hopes that there is. For certainly the Phoenix list is impressively eclectic, and includes, among early titles, Crowds and Power, Elias Canetti’s classic study of mass psychology; Martin Gilbert and Richard Gott’s anti-Chamberlain polemic, The Appeasers; Hitler’s Table Talk, edited by Hugh Trevor-Roper; Commandant of Auschwitz, a memoir written by Rudolf Hoess, who was in charge of the Polish extermination camp; and assorted work by Richard Overy, Henry Kissinger, Naomi Mitchison and Vera Brittain.
What is so encouraging about the Phoenix Press project is the implicit recognition, by a major house, of the archival role literature plays, and of how a cult of the new can so quickly become glib and wearisome. The books that many of us treasure most are those read in our formative years, when we turned to history, philosophy, science and literature as a means through which to understand the mystery of the world and our places within it.
The New Statesman, where I work as an editor, has recently established a column, unimaginatively titled “Back-in-print”, which shines a spotlight on important reissues; and The Rights Report, a newsletter for the transmedia industry, has its own column, “Forgotten Gems”, which serves a similar purpose. It would be good to see other publications doing more, not just to promote the latest much-hyped offering, but in helping to reacquaint readers with the literature of the near and far past.
Perhaps things will change if Taylor makes a success of his list, as those at Virago did before him and as admirable independents such as Souvenir Press, Serpent’s Tail and Canongate Books have done since in keeping neglected classics in print. Then the ceaseless flow of new books may at last begin to slow, if not to a trickle.
January 31 2000 / New Statesman
In July, Sweden and Denmark will be joined officially for the first time since the ice age with the public opening of a bridge across the Oresund straight that separates the two countries at the gateway to the Baltic Sea. Late last summer, I stood beneath a weak northern sun, buffeted by winds, and watched as Scandinavian royals and a cluster of Nordic dignitaries, who were all wearing hard hats, celebrated the symbolic placing of the final girder of the concrete and steel, cable-stayed bridge connecting Malmo to Copenhagen on the island of Zealand.
The 16-km fixed road-and rail-link between the two countries across the Oresund straight was finally complete at a cost of 18.3 billion DKK after four years of actual construction work and more than a century of tentative discussion. There were popping champagne corks, loud music, high-wire acrobatics on an adjacent floating platform, and, on the clear cold waters below, hundreds of small boats gathered, blowing their horns to herald the arrival of this towering new icon of science and modernity. And then, as Princess Victoria of Sweden and Prince Frederik of Denmark sweetly swapped kisses, a military aircraft flew low overhead, as if to remind us that elsewhere in Europe, not all that far away, Nato warplanes were blowing up bridges across the Danube.
Building bridges, both real and metaphorical, is one of the most commanding of all human fascinations. The way the word “bridge” is used as a signifier of hope (“a bridge to x”, “building bridges”) and of defeat (“a bridge too far”, “burning bridges”) captures something of the problematic ambiguity of the actual physical structures themselves. According to the sociologist Michel de Certeau, any bridge “welds together and opposes insularities. It distinguishes between them and threatens them. It liberates from enclosure and destroys autonomy.” For Martin Heidegger, a bridge creates a presence from absence: it “does not first come to a location to stand in it; rather a location comes into existence only by virtue of the bridge”. Either way, who can look at the great bridges of the world - at, say, the Brooklyn, the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, the Golden Gate, the Sydney Harbour or the Forth, straddling the Firth of Forth in Scotland like a huge dinosaur - and not think that here are monuments commensurate with our capacity for wonder? Even coming upon an impromptu Bridge - a plank thrown across a river, say - can inspire an odd excitement, a simple desire to walk across it and to explore.
Wordsworth, as he stood on Westminster Bridge, wrote of how “Earth has not anything to show more fair” than the urban sublime laid out there in front of him: the ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples of the hushed early morning city, and “the river gildeth at his own sweet will”. And every great city, as Wordsworth understood, is not complete without its great signature bridges, its points of intersection and connection, its romantic, nature-defying constructions. Small wonder, then, that one of the great novels of the 20th century, Ivo Andric’s The Bridge on the Drina, is, as the title suggests, about a bridge, the 16th-century structure built by the Turks over the river Drina in eastern Bosnia. This was eventually destroyed by the retreating Austrians during the first world war, and then rebuilt, and its complex history becomes, in Andric’s novel, a microcosm of the troubled history of the Balkans themselves. It would be later destroyed again during the Balkan wars of the Nineties that followed the disintegration of former Yugoslavia.
The Oresund Fixed Link, when it finally opens, will complete an ambitious sequence of bridge-building in Scandinavia. The East Bridge - at 1,624 metres, the second longest suspension bridge in the world - was finished in 1998 and links the islands of Zealand and Funen across the Storebalt (or Great Belt). Two bridges built a decade earlier already connect Funen with the mainland of Jutland. “So now,” my Swedish friend said as we stood together on the newly joined bridge, “we shall be able to drive all the way from the north of Sweden to southern Europe if we want.” How Scandinavian, I thought, to be dreaming, at this moment of union, of flight and of escape. Yet the ideal of the Mediterranean, the ideal of the warm south as a source of romance and sensuous possibility and as a release from cold Lutheran rationalism, has long preoccupied some of the greatest northern European thinkers. Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Knut Hamsun, Hans Christian Andersen, Ibsen: they were all ambivalently rooted in, yet longed to escape from, the dark northern landscape that constrained them. They all longed to go south.
The Oresund link is truly a bridge over troubled water. Wars have been fought for control of these seas, not least during the Napoleonic conflicts when the British, inspired by Nelson, defeated the Danish at the Battle of Copenhagen in 1801, and then again in 1807, after a devastating assault that destroyed much of the city. More recently, it was across the Oresund, in 1943, that almost the entire Jewish population of Denmark fled in small fishing boats to escape the Nazis.
The Oresund link itself, like the Channel Tunnel, is a paradoxical icon of both connection and separation, a focus of cross-border co-operation, local differences, potential economic regeneration and protectionist anxiety. The Oresund, like the Tunnel, has important historical resonance: as Calais was once part of England, so Scania (southern Sweden) once belonged to old Denmark. And as the fear of rabies spreading through the Tunnel has been evoked, again and again, by English xenophobes unsettled by the opening of a fixed link to the Continent, so some Danes have invoked lurid images of the Russian or Baltic mafia launching cross-border raids into Copenhagen and beyond from the Swedish side.
In a powerful sense, then, as the anthropologist Eva Darian-Smith has noted, bridges not only connect a former separation, but also mark new and old divisions; they heighten, in the case of transnational links, differences and similarities, what may be gained and lost. Something like this applies to the Oresund Fixed Link, which is considered to be by some Scandinavians, again in common with the Tunnel, a statement of surrendered sovereignty; the British, it seems, may have their island mythology, but the Scandinavians have their sacred islands.
The Oresund bridge - reducing the traditional ferry journey across the Sound from one hour to ten minutes - is part of a wider process of pan-Scandinavianism and, more generally, of a wider dismantling of national borders in northern Europe. In southern Sweden and in Copenhagen, there is excitement about the supposed opportunities offered by what is already being called the Oresund region - an “integrated region” of buoyant economic activity and business investment, overlapping regional identities, of improved public transport, as well as enhanced cultural, educational and economic links. The rate of unemployment in Malmo, for example, is about 12 per cent, but in Copenhagen, which will soon be no more than a ten-minute car ride away, it has dropped to below 6 per cent. Within a generation, people living on either side of the Sound are expected to be working on one side of the bridge while living on the other.
Leif Pagrotsky, the minister for trade in the Swedish government, told me that the Oresund region “could serve as a model of integration for other countries in northern Europe and indeed as a model of cross-border co-operation in the rest of Europe”. His Danish counterpart, Pia Gjellerup, believes that the region, with its expertise in information technology and biomedicine, is destined to become one of Europe’s leading “knowledge centres”, a region of 5.2 million people and a domestic market equalling Berlin, Hamburg and Amsterdam. Well, she sounded convincing at the time.
The Swedes, at present, are generally more sceptical about such forecasts, and some have even seen the bridge as another violation of Swedish territory by the European Union. “Although the Scandinavian peoples are close, some are fearful of losing their distinct local cultures and identities; there is a concern that Malmo will just become a suburb of Copenhagen,” said Anders Salomonson, an associate professor of ethnology at Lund University.
Despite its renewed enthusiasm for the EU, Sweden is still emerging slowly from decades of guarded isolation and neutrality. For a long time, the Swedes, unlike the Danes who joined the EEC in 1973, were distinctly uneasy about their position in a greater Europe, positioned as they were outside Nato and in uneasy proximity to the Soviet Union.
There was persistent discomfort, perhaps even a lingering sense of shame, about Sweden’s role during the second world war: about its failure to support first Finland and then the occupied Norwegians; its complicity with the Germans in allowing troop movements along its west coast; and its forced deportation after the war of Hitler-supporting Baltic refugees, many in German uniform, to the Soviet Union and to certain death (an event that informed the Nobel-winning novelist Per Olov Enquist’s The Legionaries, published in 1968).
So what of the bridge itself? Well, what prevents it, I think, from becoming a member of the club of great bridges of the world is its failure to extend all the way across the Sound. Because of its proximity to Copenhagen airport and its position at the opening of the Baltic, the bridge terminates at an artificial island more than two-thirds of the way across the Sound, from where the four-lane motorway and dual-track railway links descend into an immersed tunnel.
A bridge stretching all the way across the Oresund would have been one of the engineering wonders of the modern world. It would have been an improbable (and ultimately unworkable) act of daring to compare with, say, the building of the Pont d’ Avignon - the first bridge of ambition of the medieval period to rival the masterpieces of Roman construction - or with the long discussed, but never realised, dream of a Channel bridge to span the entire 21-mile expanse of water between southern England and northern France. As it is, the Oresund Fixed Link - with its pylon towers signifying the highest point of the link, and the border between Denmark and Sweden - is a hugely impressive structure. “I believe in that Nordic functionalism that says things should look like what they are,” says the bridge’s architect, Georg Rothne. “I don’t like too much flamboyance. And I wanted the bridge to be, if not S-shaped, then curved, and for the girders to be black. Bright colours would have faded away; but black is very versatile and can serve as a variety of colours, depending on the light and from where you view the bridge.”
The completion of the bridge offers further testament, if any were needed, of our inexorable movement towards a borderless Europe. Soon, as former France President Francois Mitterand once predicted, “no one country will be able indefinitely to run its economy, its society, its infrastructural development independently from the others”. And soon, too, the people of the Oresund region will wonder how on ever managed without their bridge across the Sound.
January 1 1999 / New Statesman
I am in Moscow to attend the Russian Booker prize dinner, which shares more than a passing resemblance to its British cousin - the shortlist is invariably dismissed, the judges traduced and the future of the Russian novel itself called into question. Established in 1992, the inspiration of Sir Michael Caine, the former chairman of Booker plc, it galvanised the Russian novel at the very moment that the country was slipping wilfully into anarchy. Sir Michael is in Moscow again this year (where he is routinely mistaken for the British Cockney actor of the same name), passing the baton of sponsorial responsibility to the Smirnoff Corporation. The dinner is held at the Maly Manezh art gallery; but we arrive late after our taxi, which the organisers insist we take, becomes caught up in the city’s labyrinthine one-way system. And now the roads are becoming clogged with freshly falling snow, so we abandon the taxi to walk. As I leave the car, it dawns on me exactly where we are: no more than 800 yards from the Metropole Hotel, from where we set off 30 minutes ago. And the gallery? Yep, five minutes’ walk away. Welcome to Russia.
The new Russia is passing through its Weimar phase, and its capital city is an intoxicating and dangerous place where taxes and wages go unpaid, where there is hyperinflation and incipient anti-Semitism, where voracious prostitutes patrol the corridors of the best hotels and designer boutiques flourish, where everyone’s second job is cabbying, and mob rule triumphs. Yet little of this is reflected in the modern novel; there is, I am told, no Gogol or Dostoevsky to document Russia’s contemporary extremity. “Our fiction is in great disgrace at the moment,” complained the publisher Natasha Perova. “No one is doing anything new.” The Booker winner, Someone Else’s Letters by Alexander Morozov, was actually written in the late 1960s and shares the preoccupations of that time; the 1997 winner was set even further back, in the days of Stalinist repression. So how soon, then, is now?
The day before the Booker dinner, I lunch at the British Embassy. The ambassador, Sir Andrew Wood, is a congenial host, but you can see the fatigue in his eyes. The night before, on television, I’d seen the severed heads of the four Granger Telecom engineers, lined up like coconuts on the side of a road in western Chechnya. In captivity, the men had grown thin beards; they were unrecognisable from their pale, optimistic passport photos. “The Chechens are scum, wild beasts,” says a guest at the lunch.
Out on the street, resentment of Caucasians seethes - “blacks” as I often heard them called. The resentment arises partly because many of Moscow’s most ruthless Mafia gangs comprise ethnic Armenians, Georgians, Azerbaijanis and Chechens, but also because the Caucasus has long held an exotic fascination for metropolitan Russians. Tolstoy’s late novella, Haji Murat, was about a fearless Chechen warrior, who leads resistance to Russian occupation of the Caucasus in the 1850s and who is likened, romantically, by Tolstoy to a thistle that will not die.
Mikhail Lermontov was attracted, too, to the wild mountain landscape of the region; it is where Pechorin, the “superfluous man” of A Hero of our Time, alienated from the sterility of the modern world, finds a kind of release for his restless energies. Would that the engineers had been so lucky.
From an upstairs window of my hotel I look out, at midnight, over the frozen whiteness of Theatre Square, where a frail dog is wandering aimlessly. Since the economic crash in August, the number of dogs abandoned in the city has increased exponentially, and the Metro is where many of them end up, snoozing in overheated carriages, or scavenging for food outside stations, where they are joined by limbless beggars dressed in soiled combat fatigues, veterans from the Afghan and Chechen wars. But the dog scavenging for food on Theatre Square is in bad shape.
“He is abandoned and soon he will die,” says my friend, the critic Olga Doctorow.
“But that’s just typical Russian pessimism,” I say.
In search of what Gorky once called the lower depths, we set off on a nightclub tour. Our guide is a young novelist, Katya Sadur, and soon we find ourselves in the Hungry Duck. You pass down a damp, unlit corridor, stinking of piss, to reach the entrance, where you are greeted by doormen dressed as militia and carrying machine guns no less. Inside, the electronic dance music is relentless and the smell of sweat is nauseating. Everyone dances on the bar and on the tables. One day, you feel, there will be an apocalyptic, cleansing fire here.
Later, back at my hotel, I’m approached by a beautiful young woman dressed in a thick fur coat. The huge red pillows of her lips are, clearly, collagen-enhanced. She is a hooker all right, but classier than the hunched, thin girls outside the Hungry Duck.
“Would you like to invite me to your room?” she says, in accented English.
“I’m, er, meeting someone for a drink.”
“Well, afterwards then?”
Alone in my room, wondering about her, my eye rest on a passage from Russia in Collapse by Alexander Solzhenitsyn, whom the previous evening I saw speak at the opening of his new play, Sharashka: “Where has this cruel tribe of beasts come from, these filthy grabbers claiming for their own the title of New Russians?”
Perhaps the great man had also visited the Hungry Duck.
November 8 1998 / The Sunday Times
When Sebastian Faulks, in the late 1980s, began telling friends that he planned to write a novel about the first world war, many were incredulous.
Who wants to read about that, they seemed to say. Or, as one colleague bluntly put it, when Faulks mentioned that he was accompanying veterans on a trip to the battlefields of the western front: “I couldn’t think of anything more boring.”
The motivation for the writer Geoff Dyer, who began work, in 1992, on The Missing of the Somme, his study of mourning and memory, was the anxiety that such indifference would mean that, once the last of the Great War veterans died, their lives would be forgotten and their memory would “fade with the generation after mine”. Dyer would agree that the struggle for historic truth is the struggle of memory against forgetting, and he wrote of how, almost from the moment it began, the Great War was overlaid by memory, the truth of what actually happened obscured by a literary cult of doomed youth.
Dyer ought not to have worried unduly: now, as we prepare for the 80th anniversary of the armistice of November 11 1918, writing about the first world war has assumed the exaggerated dimension of a publishing “boom”. Far from being forgotten, the Great War, it seems, is in the process of being over-remembered, our response to it overdetermined by revisionism, nostalgia and commercial opportunism. Among new books offering “definitive” readings of the events of 1914-18 are, To the Last Man: Spring 1918 (Viking), Lyn Macdonald’s account of the final, failed German assault on the western front; John Keegan’s First World War (Hutchinson), a magisterial military history drawing historical parallels with other great conflicts; and Niall Ferguson’s revisionist The Pity of War, in which he suggests that the war was “nothing less than the greatest error of modern history” and that the actual “victors” were not the allies but the central powers. There are, too, countless minor works, including Christopher Moore’s slight travelogue, Trench Fever (Little, Brown), in which he ploddingly follows in the footsteps of his grandfather, an infantryman in the Leicestershire Regiment; Vera Brittain’s Letters From a Lost Generation (Little, Brown); the Virago Book of Women and the Great War, and The Oxford Illustrated History of the First World War.
Novelists, too, are increasingly preoccupied by the events of 1914 to 1918. There is, most recently, Faulks’s million-selling Birdsong (1993), with its vivid description of trench warfare; In Desolate Heaven, Robert Edric’s study of shell shock; and Pat Barker’s Booker-winning Regeneration trilogy, in which she not so much follows the combatants into the trenches of the Somme and Passchendaele as, through the central character of W H R Rivers, a medical psychiatrist, attempts an imaginative reconstruction of the psychological aftershock of 1918, drawing onthe actual experience of figures such as Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon.
What we are witnessing here is something more than a literary fad -it is nothing less than what Stephen Wraysford, the young narrator of Birdsong, calls the “long perspective of forgiveness”, a process through which the past is reclaimed by later generations and the act of remembering becomes as important as what is being remembered. And the 80th anniversary of the armistice is the last significant anniversary in which anyone with direct experience of the Great War will play any part.
There is a problem, however. The first world war is a peculiarly, perhaps uniquely, literary war. The poems of Rupert Brooke, Owen, Sassoon, Edmund Blunden and others are among the first most of us ever read as schoolchildren. The power of these moving, often homoerotic poems, written by an educated, sophisticated young men steeped in the classics and from a largely upper-middle-class background, means that the experience of hundreds of thousands of ordinary soldiers, most of whom rose from impoverished backgrounds without the miraculous gift of literary language and left behind no poems or diaries, has passed unacknowledged. As a result, these poems have helped to frame a popular conception of the Great War as one continuous, remorseless exhibition of atrocity: the Battle of the Somme amplified over four long, desolate years. The popular view of those who took part, too, is of innocent martyrs, young men with “froth-corrupted lungs” led to their slaughter by a blimpish military elite.
Other artistic media have played their part too. The shattered war landscapes of the painter Paul Nash, who enlisted in the Artists’ Rifles in 1914 and whose representations of combat in paintings such as The Ypres Salient at Night and The Menin Road have an experimental vigour so often absent from the Georgian traditionalism of the poets; the several Hollywood films of German Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front, perhaps the greatest novel to emerge directly from the war; the play Oh! What a Lovely War, which was such a countercultural success in the Sixties, and the celebrated and elegiac last episode of the television comedy Blackadder Goes Forth, with its remorseless hostility to Field Marshal Haig and the entire military elite - all these have contributed, as Niall Ferguson puts it, to “the persistence of the idea” that the war was an evil thing. Yet, as Lyn Macdonald told me as we toured the northern battlefields of the western front together recently, the truth is darker and more complicated. It is perhaps even, though she did not say so, closer to Ferguson’s contention that many soldiers actually enjoyed fighting.
I recently chaired a discussion on the first world war between Macdonald and Faulks at the Cheltenham Literary Festival. The festival programme confidently stated that we would be talking about literary representations of the “horror” of war. But as Macdonald - who has spent the past two decades recording thousands of hours of interviews with veterans - told her audience, “horror” is too glib an appraisal. In fact, horror is the one word she has seldom heard any veteran use. Rather, they talk about the boredom of combat, of the long periods of inactivity broken by sudden and abrupt skirmishes, and even of the “adventure” of battle. In To the Last Man, one veteran, a wire-cutter, describes how he relished going out on night patrols into no man’s land because at least, after weeks of indolent frustration, he was contributing something - anything - to the war effort.
“I have nothing against the war poets,” Macdonald explained. “By definition, their work distils the war to the essence of drama. But they focus on terrible events at the expense of the whole truth. What has to be remembered is that most of our soldiers were volunteers; they believed in their country and in the empire. They thought that these things were threatened. They were caught up in the adventure of the experience. Every veteran I have ever interviewed I have asked the same question: ‘Would you do it again?’ And not one has said no. You see, they thought it was the right thing to do. And we did win, of course. Only recently has it been made to look like a pyrrhic victory.”
She is surely right. Yet who would deny that the Great War represented a terminus: the end of Victorian optimism and the beginning of what we now call modernity, a harder, technologised age of mass communication and industrial slaughter, an age in which we hurried towards a second war without ever allowing ourselves time enough properly to understand what had contributed to the the first. The Great War, as Keegan says, “damaged civilisation, the rational and liberal civilisation of the European enlightenment, permanently for the worse”. It marked the beginning of the end of the hegemony of European imperialism, too.
It is a sense of something irretrievably lost, rather than of something won, of the Great War as a narrative of catastrophe, not a noble cauuse, that continues to absorb the popular imagination. Dick Diver, the doctor-hero of F Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night (1934), understands this when, on a journey to the battlefields in northern France, he says: “This western-front business couldn’t be done again, not for a long time…This took religion and years of plenty and tremendous sureties and the exact relation that existed between the classes…All my beautiful, lovely, safe world blew itself up here with a great gust of high-explosive love.”
One cold afternoon, two weeks ago, I walked among the bleached gravestones of the British war dead at the Gouzeaucourt cemetery, behind Gauche Wood, where the South African Scottish fought a valiant rearguard. The ordered tranquillity of the cemetery was so much like an arcadian English garden. As the wind got up across open scrubland, I was surprised by how easily I surrendered to popular convention and allowed my response to what had happened here once more to be prescribed by the poets and by Edmund Blunden in particular. Reflecting on the experience of the western front he had written that “here was peculiar grace”. Nothing, I realised then, and certainly no amount of revisionist interpretation, could ever erase such peculiar grace, nor, it seems, prevent the Great War from floating free of its historical moorings and drifting out into the clear blue sea of unreliable memory.
December 11 1997 / The Times
The old, grey Muscovite, breathless after battling through a scrum of photographers, fumbles for words as he peers down from the podium at the cultural crowd eating marinated salmon in the Maly Manezh art gallery.
Anatoli Azolsky, 67, has just won the 1997 Russian Booker Prize, and he appears humbly flummoxed by his success. The hard lights of nine television stations dazzle him; he clutches his $12,500 (Pounds 7,800) prize cheque (three years’ wages for the ordinary Russian) like a vulnerable child holding his mother’s hand.
Tomorrow Azolsky will be caught up in the kind of spat that is now so much part of the Moscow literary scene. But tonight is his, the culmination of a long journey that began in his years of internal exile under Stalin, years when he wrote without any hope of being published - “writing to the table”, the Russians call it.
Whether this former factory worker was an appropriate symbol of the new literary Russia was a different matter. “Why did he win?” asked the critic and poet Helena Riumina. “This little, white-haired Soviet man with a grey face seems to come from Brezhnev’s time. When he speaks, I hear the old style of a member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the USSR. His phrases are wooden; he doesn’t have his own language.”
That his novel The Cage , a metaphysical thriller about a freethinking scientist’s attempt to forge an autonomous identity, was set under the shadow of Stalinist terror inspired disappointment. At the press conference, I overheard one judge say: “When I hear Azolsky speak, I regret award ing him the prize. He is a man of the past.”
This was an eventful year for the Russian Booker. The shortlist was traduced, the judges mocked, the winner ridiculed and the future of fiction itself questioned. If all this has a ring of familiarity, it should: the 1997 Russian Booker shared more than a family resemblance to its British cousin. Why, it even had its own Martin Amis or Ian McEwan, a virtuoso stylist called Viktor Pelevin, considered to be the outstanding writer of his generation (he is in his late thirties) but who, it seems, is destined to remain out of favour with Booker juries.
The exclusion of Chapaev and Emptiness , Pelevin’s novel about a hero of the civil war that followed the Russian Revolution, enraged everyone except the judges. The critic Konstantin Kedrov captured the mood when he said: “It looks like there are two different talents here: to be a jury member and to be an expert on literature.”
The Russian Booker Prize is in its seventh year. Set up by Sir Michael Caine, then chairman of Booker plc, in association with the British Council, its effect on contemporary Russian literary culture can not be overestimated. It has galvanised the Russian novel at a time when increasing numbers of people are turning away from fiction, preferring to read newspapers, magazines and historical narratives.
“During the Soviet days you would go on the Metro and everyone would be reading books; but now it’s all glossy magazines,” complains Igor Shaitanov, a literature professor at Moscow University and chairman of the 1997 judges.
Professor Shaitanov is dismissive of those cultural pessimists who say that the Russian novel is doomed never to recapture its past grandeur, but he concedes that something has been lost in the rush to embrace capitalism. “We are living in a time of wilful anarchy; freedom has overwhelmed us. When we had the underground and people were writing against the system, writers had a point of focus.”
The problem is compounded by the chaotic state of publishing and the prevailing threat of mafia terror. In August Aleksandr Krutik, 29, a publisher of school textbooks, was assassinated outside his Moscow apartment. His company publishes at least 30 per cent of all school and college textbooks. It is a lucrative market since Russian schools urgently require material untainted by the Soviet past. The criminal underworld of contemporary Moscow, a kind of Wild West of unfettered markets and cruel disparities in wealth, is naturally eager to control educational publishing.
Most novels are published in so-called “thick journals” - cultural magazines such as Novy Mir and Znamya - recalling in style, if not in content, the great literary periodicals of the 19th century. But even these are losing readers.
When the Booker was established, the nominators could scarcely find enough novels to form a long list; this year nine of the 42 entries were published as finished books. So there is progress.
The success of the Russian Booker has inspired imitators, most notably the Little Booker Prize, which honours philosophical essays and works of criticism; the waggish Anti-Booker Prize, set up by Boris Berezovsky, a media entrepreneur; and the Solzhenitsyn Prize, supported by the self-styled saviour of the Slavic people himself.
But, as the critic Lyudmila Lantsova points out: “The Booker will continue to overshadow all other prizes…because it takes skill to make people wait and talk and to create hype around the shortlisted candidates.”
Skill and luck. For always running below the surface of the Russian Booker is a current of confusion. The awards dinner was a model of organised chaos; many more guests arrived than had been expected, and additional tables had to be swiftly laid. The resulting delay was softened by a steady flow of vodka and champagne, provided by co-sponsors Smirnov, and by memorable moments of cultural confusion: Vladimir Smirnov and Jonathan Taylor, the chairman of Booker plc, attempting to have a conversation when neither spoke the other’s language; the delay in proceedings, like an echo on an international phone call, as every public pronouncement had to be translated (or mistranslated); the frisson of excitment when Sir Michael was mistaken for the British actor of the same name.
Best of all was the moment when Sir Michael was asked by a Russian television interviewer to name three “interesting contemporary Russian novelists”. In a deep, resounding voice, he answered: “Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and…” He paused theatrically, drawing on his constant cigarette. Jonathan Taylor helpfully whispered: “What about Pushkin?” But Sir Michael would have none of it.
“No,” he continued, “Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Gogol.”
“Yes,” said the interviewer, “but what about contemporary Russia?”
“I’m sorry,” boomed Sir Michael. “I can’t help you there.”
There is something of the grand Victorian patriarch about Michael Caine. Tall and intimidatingly vigorous, he has a a mischievous sense of humour and the kind of stutter that was once likened to the sound of a battered Morris Oxford refusing to start on a cold February morning.
Without his stubborn determination, the Russian Booker would not exist. Yet Sir Michael is over 70 and “his” prize may eventually have to break free from foreign influence, becoming fully Russian. Sir Michael almost conceded as much in his short speech at the award dinner: “The boat is fully launched and ready to go out alone into the heavy, wild seas of fiction.”
All that is missing is a modern Dostoevsky to document Russia’s contemporary extremity.
February 1997 / Prospect, Issue 16
In George Steiner’s novella, The Portage to San Cristobal of A H, a team of Nazi hunters discovers an aged Adolf Hitler living in exile in a Peruvian jungle. Despite longing to kill him, they offer Hitler the chance to defend himself. His words are reckless, defiant. He taunts them: “I am an old man. My voice tires… You have made of me some kind of mad devil, the quintessence of evil, hell embodied. When I was, in truth, only a man of my time. Oh, inspired, I grant you… with a nose for the supreme political possibility. A master of human moods, perhaps, but a man of my time.”
In October 1996, at a quiet ceremony at the headquarters of the Irish Arts Council in Dublin, Francis Stuart, another old man with a tiring voice, shuffled up to the Irish president, Mary Robinson, stooping low as she placed a gold torque around his neck. The event marked Stuart’s election to the office of Saoi of the Aosd*(r)¡ (wise man of the tribe), an honour bestowed on only three other living Irish writers. The ceremony, for a man who once saw Hitler as “a kind of contemporary Samson,” passed in a haze of congratulation; Stuart received his admirers congenially, including his perpetual champion, Anthony Cronin, a critic who considers Stuart’s autobiographical Black List, Section H to be, after Ulysses, the greatest Irish novel of the 20th century. But once Stuart had returned home, the whisperings against him began. For like Steiner’s Hitler, Stuart was a man of his time-terrifyingly so. Many of his compatriots have never forgiven his decision to live in Berlin during the second world war, from where he broadcast to Dublin and wrote scripts for William Joyce, the notorious “Lord Haw Haw.”
Born in Australia in 1902 of Ulster stock, Stuart lives alone in a small, shadowy bungalow in Dundrum, south Dublin. At 94 and despite his recent honour, he still feels ostracised in his own country. Like Jean Genet, whom he reveres, and Louis-Ferdinand Céline, with whom he has been compared, Stuart knows the anguish of incarceration and the loneliness of the political extremist. Most of his 18 novels are out of print, yet the best of them-The Pillar of Cloud and Redemption-are complex studies in sacrifice and suffering. His fiction remains neglected-most publishers being unable to separate the darkness of the life from the radiance of the work.
Black List, Section H (Lilliput) recounts the story of Stuart’s own life, from his early and unhappy marriage to Maude Gonne’s daughter Iseult and his fighting with the Republicans in the Irish civil war, to his later exile in London and Berlin. It ends with his internment by the victorious allies, though he was convicted of no crime. In a characteristic comment, Stuart writes: “What’s so horrible is to live by established categories.” The cry of the man who chooses to journey beyond traditional moral absolutes in pursuit of a savage freedom.
One of Stuart’s critics is the writer Kevin Myers, who condemns the older writer’s unwillingness to defend or excuse his activities. Stuart is convinced that he did no wrong-that the world has unjustly caged him in its hostility. Myers feels that such sentiments are unjustified. “Stuart voluntarily sided with the most bestial regime in the history of civilisation,” he says. “What’s worse, he has remained unapologetic about it. His decision to stay in Nazi Germany should affect all evaluations of him for the rest of his life, even artistic ones. Otherwise we are treating art in a frivolous way. Beckett was in Paris and joined the Resistance. Stuart, a free man, chose to stay in Berlin and make these broadcasts. As a young man he was part of the Republican movement, so he was no ingé(r)µe.”
In defence of Stuart, Ulick O’Connor, the author, playwright and fellow Aosd*(r)¡ member, suggests that what matters in literature is not how you act or what you believe in, but whether you can write well. The imagination is sacrosanct, the word supreme. “Jean Genet, a great writer, was also a murderer who spent time in prison,” O’Connor says. “Stuart went to Berlin and made some literary broadcasts. And why not? He was a neutral Irishman.”
Transcripts of Stuart’s broadcasts, although hard to find, do exist and have been read by his biographer, Geoffrey Elborn. They reveal his commitment not only to Irish self-determination but to the German war effort. After the Battle of Stalingrad, he said: “If I were a German I would be proud to belong to a nation which could produce such men. As it is, I am glad to be among them…”; and again: “Today I spoke of Liam Lynch and Cathal Brugha, of Yeats and Synge and Pearse, for a nation’s soul is revealed in its poets and soldiers. I would refer again to Stalingrad. The Irish would understand what the German people felt. This has moved Germany more than any other event of the war, for while such victories as the fall of Paris might be attributed to the perfection of the German war machine, this is the triumph of flesh and blood.”
Stuart’s journey to the end of the night is shocking but raises complex questions about connections between great creative gifts and certain kinds of political or ideological damnation. Last summer I tried to explore some of these questions with him. I visited Stuart in his bungalow in Dundrum, and found myself unexpectedly invited to a party held in his honour. A tall, straight-backed man and preternaturally pale, he was impressively alert and articulate. There was nothing vulnerable about him. At ease among his small group of friends-the ubiquitous Cronin, his publisher Anthony Farrell, Finola Graham, the wife from whom he lives apart- he seemed reluctant, at first, to discuss his past. The following morning, though, he was more open about the five and a half years he spent in Germany. Stuart told me he left Ireland not only because he had received an invitation to teach at Berlin University, but because he was attracted to the messianic zeal of Hitler, with its pristine uniforms and cleansing oratory. He travelled across Europe on a false medical certificate, arriving in Berlin in January 1940.
“I saw Hitler…” Stuart began, then turned away, leaving his sentence hanging. There was a short, uncomfortable silence before he continued, adding a parenthetical clause: “I saw Hitler-wrongly as it turned out-as a kind of contemporary Samson. I hated the whole political and social setup in western Europe, but especially what was happening in England and Ireland, and I thought Hitler was in a position to tear it all down. Of course, as soon as I went to Germany I saw that I was wrong. Hitler was a great disappointment to me.”
Asked about writing for Lord Haw Haw and his own broadcasts, he said: “The speeches I wrote for Joyce were all about British atrocities in Ireland. I have written about half a million words in my life and not one sentence has been anti-Semitic. People call me a fascist. But fascists have one-track minds, whatever you say about my mind it is not one-track.
“Another reason why I stayed in Germany is that the sort of writer I am should always be at the heart of what’s going on. I am an ostracised writer, writing for other lonely, ostracised people. For this reason, if for no other, I saw no reason to leave Berlin, especially as I am apolitical and adhere to no fixed moral position. I don’t regret what I did because it made me the writer I am. The only way I can write is by operating outside society.”
Stuart may claim never to have written an anti-Semitic word, but the two writers about whom he spoke that morning with hushed respect, Jean Genet and Martin Heidegger, are remembered for their hostility to Jews. Fascinated by Genet’s life of crime and existential rebellion, Stuart praised the Frenchman’s decision to move to Palestine during the last years of his life, as if such an act, with its implicit anti-Zionism, merited a badge of honour. He described Heidegger, a supporter of National Socialism, as a “modern prophet of the greatest stature.” In passing, he added: “George Steiner-another Jew, as you know-wrote a book about Heidegger that influenced me deeply.”
When I told George Steiner about my conversation with Stuart, he expressed admiration for his work but was troubled by the life. For much of his career, Steiner has meditated obsessively on questions concerning the links between tyranny and creativity, as well as the shadow the Holocaust has cast over European culture. So what of those midnight creatures who flourished as the lights were extinguished in central Europe? Steiner was unequivocal: “I have always felt strongly that it is not our business to condemn writers like Stuart who combine enormous talent with unacceptable politics. And Stuart does have enormous talent: assessing him purely as a writer, I can say that it is with people like Knut Hamsun and Céline that he belongs-that’s mighty big company but very unpleasant. What unites these writers is that they are unafraid, very solitary, and go only their own way. I know very little about Stuart’s activities in Berlin, but I am sure he was not a great help to the Nazis.”
The comparison with the Norwegian Knut Hamsun is instructive. Like Stuart (and Céline), Hamsun is a writer of extremes, whose hatred for democracy and disgust at what he called the “average man” and “the mob” led him to embrace Nazism as an ideology of purity and apocalypse; in 1943, he was notoriously photographed shaking hands with Hitler, whom Hamsun described as a reforming nature of the highest order, believing that the FÜhrer would usher in a “rich golden age of culture” (the photograph was a mirror into which the Norwegian people peered with shame). The compliment was obliquely repaid: Goebbels praised Hamsun’s fiction for the way in which it transcended “good and evil.”
Like Stuart, Hamsun writes of lonely, ostracised figures, fanatics of perpetual indignation for whom social intercourse is a tiresome impossibility and suicide remains a constant preoccupation. Like Stuart, Hamsun’s fiction can be melodramatic, marred by whimsy and a simple-minded mysticism; his late novels, such as Growth of the Soil, and Vagabonds, extol the virtues of intuition over reason. For Hamsun, as for DH Lawrence, the conscious life is no more than a masquerade of death-he locates the self in a biological source, dependent on natural, organic rhythms.
Knut Hamsun was born on 4th August 1859, in Gudbrandsdalen, the son of a poor farmer and tailor. When he was 20, Hamsun went to live in Kristiania (now Oslo), where he devoured literature with an autodidact’s determination. He struggled for more than a decade before eventually finding a publisher for his first (and greatest) novel, Hunger.
Morbidly introspective and isolated, although utterly convinced of his talent, he started work on Hunger in a cold attic room “only three feet from the moon.” After a period as a labourer he went to the US, where he continued to work on his novel. The newness and vibrancy of American speech, with its swaggering rhythms and wised-up exaggerations, may account for some of the remarkable vitality of Hamsun’s style. For a book written in 1889 Hunger feels astoundingly modern. Just how modern can be gleaned from a superb new translation by Sverre Lynstad, which has just been published by Rebel Inc, an imprint of the enterprising Edinburgh independent, Canongate Books. The magisterial omnipotence and long, self-savouring sentences of the traditional 19th century novel are rejected in favour of a dense, fragmented interior monologue. The language is rough, colloquial, coarse. With its streaming syntax, conflation of time sequence and impressionistic style, Hunger anticipates many of the experiments of the modernist novel. Indeed it is a modernist novel. “The whole modern school of fiction in the 20th century stems from Hunger,” wrote Isaac Bashevis Singer. Its antecedents are apparent: Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, with its bored hero, the murderous student-dreamer Raskolnikov; Lermontov’s Hero of Our Time (1840); Turgenev’s disenchanted anarchists; Gogol; German Romantic philosophy.
To the contemporary reader, familiar with almost a century of ironic, confessional first-person narrators, Hunger seems entirely familiar: but to late 19th century readers it must have seemed like nothing they had read before. A study in urban alienation, it is narrated by an irrational, tyrannical Hamsun-like figure wandering through Kristiania like a ghost. The young unnamed narrator moves among the masses from whom he has cut himself off, stumbling into newspaper offices in an attempt to sell his articles to startled, although benign, editors. The starving writer may be demanding, cruel and spiteful, but he is equally capable of compassion and a thousand little kindnesses. Though destitute, he frequently gives away what little money he has. It is difficult not to be moved by the starving writer’s plight, or delighted by his wild misanthropy.
At the end of the novel we see the narrator-his dream of writing unrealised-boarding a ship bound for England, yet we are not crushed by his defeat. The closing paragraph seeks to discover abundance in loss, by locating happiness in the search for glory rather than in its realisation. The young writer will return, as Hamsun himself eventually did, to claim the Nobel prize for literature.
The same mingling of isolation and compassion can be found in Céline, whose thrillingly nihilistic Journey to the End of the Night is one of the great novels of the century. Yet whereas, say, Stuart’s effectiveness as a Nazi propagandist remains obscure, Céline was a help to the Nazis. Born in 1894 of a lowly Parisian family, Louis-Ferdinand Destouches (Céline was a pseudonym) had a brutal childhood. Poor, dysfunctional but restlessly ambitious, he longed to escape from all that constrained him. He eventually found a kind of release in the trenches of the western front, where he was seriously injured and decorated. Journey contains descriptions of the carnage of war that few novels, not even Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front, have matched. After the war, Céline qualified as a doctor, travelled in Africa and America, before returning to Paris to practise in a workers’ clinic.
Published in 1934, Journey follows the hero-narrator, Ferdinand, as he travels from the “fiery furnace” of the western front to the jungles of central Africa, and from New York to the crumbling tenements of Paris, where he works as a doctor among the forgotten and dispossessed. Céline immerses the reader in a torrential flow of language. His delight in obscenity and his prose, shocking and raw, is hard to forget; his metaphors astonish. Céline writes of suffering, debased lives and crushing poverty with ecstatic intensity. His vision of humanity in the grasp of its own weakness is utterly cynical. With fiendish application he leads his characters to the edge of the abyss, then pushes them over. As they fall we hear only the sad echo of their voices-and Céline’s wild laughter.
Céline’s indefatigable rage eventually propelled him into the arms of the Nazis. As a collaborator who fled France at the Liberation and followed the Vichy government to Germany, he wrote vitriolic and anti-Semitic pamphlets and articles before and during the second world war, including this sentence: “It [Hitler’s anti-Semitism] is the side of Hitler that most people like the least… it is the side I like the most.” His biographer, Maurice Bardeche, asks: “What kind of writer is he, who does not accept responsibility for what he has written, when what he has written has led others to their death?” Yet, reading Céline’s preface to the 1952 Gallimard edition of Journey, it seems clear that, on the contrary, he did accept responsibility for his actions. By this time, he had returned to France, where he was once again working as a doctor among the urban poor. His preface reveals a deep sense of mourning and regret, although it is expressed in the near-frenzy recognisable from the novels and pamphlets. Clearly, the price paid for setting himself apart from all external control was too great; he had suffered too much. “So, they’re putting Journey on the rails again,” Céline writes. “If I weren’t under so much pressure, forced to earn my living, I can tell you right now, I’d suppress the whole thing, I wouldn’t let a single line through… I’ve been the cause of too much evil. Just think of all the deaths, the hatreds around me, the treachery, the sewer it adds up to, the monsters.”
Milan Kundera defending Céline in Testaments Betrayed says that what matters to the ostracised writer is sensation, the feeling that he exists, even though in distress. Stuart wrote to affirm his solitude, and owes his best work to his role as an outcast. He would agree with Hume that “reason is, and ought only to be, the slave of the passions.” That his search for sensation took him to Germany at the moment of its supreme disgrace matters less to him than that he made the journey.
Our journey as readers, in contrast, is empty of certainty. For although all attempts at aesthetic evaluation necessarily slide into the political, to judge a writer’s work by his often unsavoury life is to do violence to that work. If we follow the logic of Myers’ argument Stuart, Céline, Hamsun or any other creative monster is literally unreadable. His life is a blanket smothering his art. On the other hand to view the novel as a hermetically sealed object, as Kundera appears to do, is to strip it of the clothes of context and historical resonance. O’Connor’s and even Steiner’s equivocations concerning Stuart’s ultimate collusion with atrocity expose the disconcerting truth that aesthetic evaluation never wriggles completely free of politics: Steiner feels obliged to suggest that “Stuart was not a help to the Nazis,” while O’Connor mutters about Irish neutrality.
The source of Stuart’s rebellion might have been pure but he nevertheless ended up, as Céline and Hamsun did before him, peering blindly into the abyss. Yet, what each writer, in his willingness to blame only himself and endure the consequences, seems finally to have understood as he languished in prison in post-Nazi disgrace, is that if civil society is to survive, self-realisation cannot be the supreme principle. These writers’ chaotic, disordered lives remind us, to echo the poet Andrew Motion, of a painful general truth: that the beautiful flower of art grows, on a long stalk, out of some very mucky stuff.