The Digested Twenty-first Century
Page 27
Apparently you have to look as though you care about Hurricane Katrina when you get to New Orleans, but after a few sensitive pieces to camera, I’m soon on my way again and chatting to Morgan Freeman in Mississippi. It really is amazing all the different people you meet on your travels.
The middle of America is really very dull but I stay awake for the sake of appearances and eventually I find my way up north in Illinois where, to my great surprise, I found myself doing live improv on stage in Chicago. As you do. Many of these northern states are very cold and I couldn’t understand some of the local accents as they sounded Danish, but I did fit in some down time in Montana with Ted Turner and Jane Fonda.
I pose briefly in a cowboy hat in somewhere called Nebraska and chunter merrily on my way through Oklahoma and Texas, before heading north again to ride on a speedboat in Utah and thence to San Francisco to dine with Jony Ive, the inventor of the iPod, and stock up with 30 of all the latest models to help me pass the time on the pointless, but comedically necessary, sasquatch hunt in Orgeon. There’s just time for a quick tour of Alaska, where I fail to bump into my old friend Michael Palin, and to hum the theme tune to Hawaii Five-0 on Waikiki beach and then I’m done.
So what have I learned? That Americans have very rum pronunciations and that they are all different but are quite nice if you say you are Stephen Fry and are making a television show. But someone’s got to do it – and it did give me some respite from Alan Davies crawling up my botty on QI.
Digested read, digested: Stephen in Fryland.
The Last Supper
by Rachel Cusk (2009)
At night I would be woken by unearthly groans from outside my window, inchoate monologues imperceptible to less sensitive souls. We were living in Bristol at the time and I was increasingly feeling the pain of the city’s history of slavery, a subject on which I would frequently digress to my Bulgarian cleaner. I needed to escape the disenchantment.
I was also stuck for anything to write about, so a prolonged summer holiday in Italy seemed an ideal prescription.
Our friends are sorry to see us go, for their lives will be so much less fulfilled without us, but I have a higher duty to my restless mind. The children are aghast to find there is no organic muesli on board the ferry, but I wave their concerns aside as I wonder at the pastel shades of the leatherette banquettes that would not have been out of place in a Tintoretto masterpiece.
We motor slowly through France at a steady 8mph, yet still I feel as if the world is escaping me as I seek to write down every inconsequential detail while the children draw Old Masters in the back. We stop for the night at a decaying chateau and the Monsieur asks whether the children would like to eat pizza. For a while I am annoyed, but then decide, after much agonising reflection, that he is right. Now is not the moment to induct minors into the specialités du terroir.
I throw the Italian phrase book to the floor in disgust. Some of the words are not as I imagined they would be and it feels as if my sensibilities have been brutally desecrated, but I manage to compose myself by the time we arrive at our palazzo near Arezzo. At last I feel alone in the process of liberation.
There is a knock and a Scottish man called Jim announces himself. I am perturbed to find I am not the only foreigner in Tuscany but contain my ire and wave him in. He invites us to dinner and I do not want to go for I fear the other guests will not be worthy of me. Yet the children point out he has a face like a Giotto painting so I reluctantly acquiesce.
In one of the more adumbrated recesses of the palazzo, I find a book about Piero della Francesca that tells me little I do not already know. That night I have a dream and I am impelled to seek out Constantine’s Dream. What does it mean to dream? I do not know but in an instant I realise that Piero and I are as one in our quest for a truth beyond human concerns.
As April gives way to May, I manage to contain my disappointment that Vasari had not been able to comprehend the violation of spatial perception and our days are immersed in existential games of tennis with Jim, and I take delight in seeing that my children, whom I have barely noticed for weeks, have become spiritually resolved at some deep level through their PlayStations of the Cross.
In Florence, I gasp at Raphael’s sublimation of the self. How quite unlike myself! Yet I sense a longing in his paintings, as if the question Raphael is constantly asking is ‘Who am I?’ How sad he should have to wait more than 500 years for me to tell him.
My book is almost complete. Jim sends me a love letter, unable to bear the pain of my departure, yet we must go briefly south. Naples is a broken place, somewhere only Raphael could mend, and we hasten north once more to the Vatican, where Catholicism’s empty promises fail to cure my blisters. A phone call informs me the South Koreans have paid far too much for the rights to one of my books – not a mistake they will make with this one – yet even so we are running out of money.
The signpost points towards Paris, but I hate being given directions so we turn off to spend our last night abroad in a pension among the yellow-white fields of the Charente. The children are disturbed by Madame’s Salle de Jeux. I, too, shudder at the lifeless froideur of the mannequins Madame has created and imagine an artist immersed in an empty, onanistic self-congratulation. Madame catches my eye and we give each other a smile of mutual recognition.
Digested read, digested: The Last Straw.
PHENOMENON
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
by JK Rowling (2007)
Harry Potter took off his Invisibility Cloak as he entered the Dursleys’ house in Privet Drive. He was back where it had all started six books previously. It had seemed much more fun in the beginning. No Muggles queuing up at midnight; no Winnebagos on the film set; just him, Ron and Hermione and a box of magic tricks. Now, he felt a little jaded. Still, he thought, if I can keep it together for another 600 pages, I’ll be off the hook. Free to pursue a different acting career.
His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Arthur Weasley, Ron, Hermione and 10 other familiar characters. ‘We’ve got to get you out of here,’ said Arthur. ‘The protective charm runs out when you are 17, and You Know Who and the Death Eaters will be after you. Six of us are going to take some Polyjuice potion to create some decoy Harrys.’
Harry knew he was up against it this time. A favourite character from an earlier book had been killed off within the first 80 pages. That Rowling woman meant business. ‘OK,’ said Harry, grimly, as Ron and Hermione embraced. ‘There might have been time for that kind of adolescent awakening in books five and six. Now, it’s time to get serious.’
Hermione recovered her customary poise. ‘You’re right, Harry,’ she replied. ‘The Ministry has been taken over by Voldemort, and the Order of the Phoenix is compromised. Nowhere is safe. You must continue your quest for You Know Who’s Horcruxes.’
The scar on Harry’s forehead burned, but an intense migraine was a small price to pay for giving the reader a chance to find out what Voldemort was doing and catch up with more back story.
It was the morning of Fleur’s wedding to Bill Weasley and Harry, Ron and Hermione were examining the strange bequests they had been left in Dumbledore’s will.
‘Why have we been given this effing rubbish?’ Ron laughed. ‘I’ve told you before that book seven is not the place for jokes and swearing,’ Harry answered sternly. Just then he saw Ginny passing. He didn’t know why – though he suspected it was something to do with letting the reader know that although he was a goody-goody on the outside, he was a rampant horny hetty on the inside - but he kissed her passionately. ‘Stay safe for me,’ he whispered knowingly.
‘I’ve found a strange mark in this book,’ exclaimed Hermione. ‘What do you think it means?’ Harry frowned. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he murmured, ‘but my scar will start hurting again soon and we’ll find out.’ Sure enough, the tingling sensation soon returned.
As he came out of his dream, which revealed yet more back story about Dumbledore, Harry intoned solemnly:
‘It’s the sign of the Deathly Hallows. We must find them and the Horcruxes.’
Harry, Ron and Hermione had criss-crossed the country getting out of ever-tighter scrapes with wizard spells, but still Harry felt no nearer to knowing what to do. Yet he had the strange feeling everything was becoming clearer.
‘I’m leaving you two,’ Ron declared one day. ‘I need to create some narrative tension.’ Harry was lost again but a Patronus spell led him to the Sword of Gryffindor. He had to step naked into an icy pool to retrieve it. ‘I knew getting the lead part in the school production of Equus would come in handy,’ he thought.
‘I’m back,’ said Ron, as Harry’s scar continued to reveal yet more of the seemingly endless back story. Sometimes Harry didn’t know if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead, as so many old characters flashed through his mind. ‘Don’t worry,’ said the figure of Dumbledore. ‘This time, no one knows what’s going on either.’
So Harry made his way back to Hogwarts to face Voldemort. It would end as he had always known it would. With everyone wondering what JK would do next.
Digested read, digested: Harry Potter and the End of the Gravy Train.
Acknowledgements
The Digested Read has always been a collaborative effort. So thank you to all the editors and sub-editors over the years who have guided, supported and saved me from hideous errors. Both of judgment and fact. Thank you to all the literary festivals in Britain and around the world who have invited me to go off message. Thank you to all the publishers and authors who have treated me with far more generosity than I have treated them. Thank you also both to the column’s fans from Britain and around the world and to its critics. You have all made me think hard about what I am doing and kept me honest.
Names must be mentioned, though. At the Guardian, in order of appearance: Felicity Lawrence, Michael Hann, Toby Manhire, Ian Katz, Kath Viner, Lisa Darnell, Claire Armitstead, Paul Laity, Justine Jordan, Clare Margetson, Emily Wilson, Malik Meer, Tim Lusher, Robert Hahn, Melissa Denes, Andrew Gilchrist and Liese Spencer. My illustrators: Neal Fox, Matt Blease and Nicola Jennings. At Constable & Robinson: Andreas Campomar and Charlotte Macdonald. My agent: Matthew Hamilton. My family: Jill Coleman, Anna Crace and Robbie Crace. The biggest thanks must go to Professor John Sutherland, the friend who taught me how to read properly. This book is dedicated to him.
Index
Amis, Kingsley 169–70
Amis, Martin 62–4, 119–20
Armstrong, Karen 250–2
Auster, Paul 24–6, 204–7
Barnes, Julian 55–7
Bennett, Alan 3–4
Berlin, Isaiah 207–9
Blair, Tony 139–41
Bogarde, Dirk 179–81
Bourdain, Anthony 291–2
Bragg, Melvyn 11–13
Brown, Dan 266–9
Bryson, Bill 313–14
Chua, Amy 225–7
Chung, Alexa 99–101
Clark, Alan 172–4
Clarkson, Jeremy 114–16
Coelho, Paulo 236–8
Coetzee, JM 74–6, 204–7
Cooper, Jilly 85–6
Corden, James 152–4
Coward, Noël 176–9
Cox, Brian 251–2
Crichton, Michael 255–7
Cusk, Rachel 316–8
Dawkins, Richard 164–6
de Botton, Alain 218–220, 253–5
de Courcy, Anne 132–4
de Jour, Belle 127–9
Deaver, Jeffery 278–80
DeLillo, Don 7–9
Don, Monty 306–7
Druckerman, Pamela 230–2
Dubner, Stephen J 214–16
Dylan, Bob 125–7
Eggers, Dave 71–3
Eliot, TS 199–202
Eliot, Valerie 199–202
Elizabeth, Queen Mother 197–9
Ellis, Bret Easton 47–9
Elton, Ben 111–13
Epstein, Joseph 202–4
Eugenides, Jeffrey 57–60
Faulks, Sebastian 31–3
Ferguson, Niall 245–6
Fielding, Helen 101–4
Foer, Jonathan Safran 15–16
Forsyth, Frederick 264–6
Franzen, Jonathan 49–51
Fraser, Antonia 137–9
Frey, James 35–7
Fry, Stephen 314–16
Galbraith, Robert 285–7
Gill, AA 296–8
Gladwell, Malcolm 238–41
Grylls, Bear 147–9
Haffenden, John 199–202
Harris, Joanne 94–6
Harris, Thomas 271–3
Hawking, Stephen 246–8
Heller, Zoë 9–11
Henri-Levy, Bernard 192–4
Hitchens, Christopher 248–50
Hollinghurst, Alan 52–4
Hollywood, Paul 308–9
Hornby, Nick 107–9
Houellebecq, Michel 18–20, 192–4
Isherwood, Christopher 195–7
Ishiguro, Kazuo 13–14
James, EL 92–4
Johnson, Rachel 87–9
Jones, Liz 82–4, 162–4
Juska, Jane 122–3
Knausgård, Karl Ove 160–2
Larkin, Philip 187–9
Lawson, Nigella 298–300
le Carré, John 282–5
Lessing, Doris 26–8
Levitt, Steven D 214–16
Mankell, Henning 275–8
Mantel, Hilary 17–19
Márquez, Gabriel García 60–2
Martel, Yann 4–5
Maupin, Armistead 33–5
McCarthy, Cormac 21–2
McDermid, Val 273–5
McEwan, Ian 28–30, 42–4
McKenna, Paul 222–4
McNab, Andy 261–2
Middleton, Pippa 232–4
Mooney, Bel 220–2
Moore, Charles 156–9
Moran, Caitlin 227–9
Morgan, Piers 129–32, 184–6
Morrison, Blake 120–2
Mosley, Diana 182–4
Mullin, Chris 149–51
Nabokov, Vladimir 40–2
Nesbø, Jo 280–2
Oliver, Jamie 294–6
Palin, Sarah 134–6
Paltrow, Gwyneth 303–5
Parsons, Tony 109–11
Pearson, Allison 81–2
Pelzer, Dave 213–4
Picoult, Jodi 89–92
Price, Katie 96–8
Proulx, Annie 144–6
Ramsay, Gordon 292–4
Rankin, Ian 262–4
Raphael, Frederic 202–4
Redzepi, René 301–3
Richards, Keith 142–4
Roth, Philip 23–4
Rowling, JK 321–3
Self, Will 64–6
Shawcross, William 197–9
Sher, Anthony 174–6
Shriver, Lionel 45–7
Smith, Zadie 66–9
Sting 124–5
Strauss, Neil 216–8
Taleb, Nassim Nicholas 234–6
Tartt, Donna 6–7
Tynan, Ken 170–2
Waters, Sarah 37–40
Widdecombe, Ann 79–80
Wodehouse, PG 189–191
Wolf, Naomi 154–6
Wolfe, Tom 69–71