by Diana Athill
However, we’ve all stopped having flu (touch wood), and darling Mordecai Richler and his wife Florence are back in London so I’m having supper with them on Thursday, and that will be nice.
Lots of love
Diana
(footnote) It was – very. And so was the Whitbread Prize dinner to which I went as guest of honour of David Cairns, whose wonderful and enormous biography of Berlioz won the biography prize. I edited his first volume, 11 years ago (the thing as a whole took him 30 years!). He’s a darling man and we had a lovely giggly evening.
2 MARCH 2000
Darling Edward,
I suppose everyone is right, and gossiping back and forth, which is what one longs to do, would be easier with e-mail – but the old word processor our friend Sally says she’ll bring up won’t do that, and if we can get a word processor for free it seems wanton to pay for something more elaborate. Certainly I can’t see B and me dripping glycerine on ribbons with much success, but to advance more than one step into modern life will probably be beyond us.
How dreadful about Neil’s deafness – god, it’s such a bore. By now I can never hear anything B says without asking him to repeat it (he doesn’t enunciate his consonants very clearly), and it must be worse for Neil because seeing people speaking helps much more than one realizes. I do hope it clears up.
The kind of book-launch you go to sounds much more fun than ours in London. I’ve been to two recently – so cosy and sedate! But I’ve agreed, all the same, that Granta can give me one. Their office is an old piano factory in Islington with a big yard, and they say they want to put up a big tent in the yard and have the party there – towards the end of August, I think. If you are in Europe – even in remote Berlin – you must come. I’ve just done something which makes me feel really wicked: for the first time in my life I’ve ordered a dress, jacket and hat to be made for me for summer best, with the party in mind. There’s an odd but nice woman who has a boutique in this neighbourhood of extreme elegance – everything very simple but made of beautiful material, and she is just getting this season’s materials in from Italy and France. She has measured me and I’m to choose the stuff next week. I haven’t told anybody, least of all Barry – I think because of how really shocked I am by how much I’m enjoying it, and if I’m shocked, just think what he will be!
I gave the book to André a week ago – and he’s just called to say ‘Disaster! I’ve dropped it so all the pages are out of order and they had no numbers’. Of course they do have numbers, but they are at the bottom of the page – but anyway, he’s sure that putting it in order is beyond him, so I said I’d come on Sunday to do it for him, and no, that’s no good, so I must call him on Monday and find out if he’s feeling up to it . . . When I gave it to him he came for it, driven by his faithful Paulo. So André was tucked up in the front of the car beside Paulo, almost invisible – a wizened little face emerging from rugs and mufflers, with his mouth hanging open – and in the back seat Eva, his nurse (they’d been to see his doctor who lives near here). And it was a Bad Walking Day (sometimes he can at least get across a sidewalk and into the front door) so Paulo fetched me out to sit beside André and have a little talk, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open and he couldn’t speak properly – his tongue looked too big for his mouth. Paulo said, when I retired defeated, that A was playing up – was less bad in fact than he seemed to be. I hoped so. But today André said on the phone (terribly hard to hear) that he hadn’t the faintest memory of having come to fetch the script, or of seeing me. It does seem very unlikely that he’ll be able to get through it – though P says he does still read quite a bit. But the poor old thing could be quite a lot less bad than he seems to be, and would still be very bad.
Love Diana
4 APRIL 2000
Darling Edward –
Writing will look a bit odd, because although my operated eye is seeing with hawklike clarity in terms of long sight, it will need reading glasses – not to be prescribed until Apr. 19, when it has ‘settled down’ – before it is equally good at close work. And my un-operated eye is not only hopeless at both, but rather annoys my new eye by disagreeing with it. If I wear my old glasses the new eye is totally fucked up. If I wear no glasses I’m aware of the old eye being even more useless than usual. But if I go on wearing no glasses I guess in the end my new eye will find a way of living with the old one not too badly until the 19th. As soon as Moorfields tells me I can have my second op I’ll go bolting back there – after which it appears that I’ll have good sight without glasses, except for close work, for the first time in my life. I had not realized that the lens they put in after removing the cataract corrects short sight!
I haven’t yet driven – Barbara drove me to Norfolk three days ago, the day after the op – and I’m staying here carless for the week. But in fact I could drive perfectly well, and shall as soon as I’m back in London. And as you see, my new eye is getting better at writing. The trick is – to shut the old eye and keep the paper rather far away.
Blessed Moorfields: a sacred spot, worthy of annual pilgrimage. It was a long day certainly – ten a.m. to six p.m., op at 4.30 p.m. With about twenty other operatees, all of us in hospital gowns under hospital dressing gowns, I sat in a large room resembling the lounge of a very un-smart hotel (but the leatherette armchairs were very comfortable), having drops put into my eyes about every hour by amiable nurses (who supplied cups of tea and sandwiches if asked), suffering only because I’d been told to wear my hearing aid and there was a radio at one end of the room and a telly at the other, and lots of laughing and chatter from the nurses’ station (the patients were mostly rather quiet, not knowing what to expect), which sounded to my hearing aid like bedlam. But I switched it off after a while. I don’t think the op took more than 20 minutes. Having it under a local anaesthetic is in fact a bit alarming (though no pain at all) because it seemed as though a violently strong light was being directed right into your head, where it whirls and eddies in brilliant colours, and your instinct is to shut your eyes (which of course you can’t do – I think he sort of clamped it open after applying the anaesthetic) – and flinch away from such an assault. So one lies there rather tense and longing for it to end. But lovely when it does! And then there is nothing to recover from, except a rather tiring day and 20 not very nice minutes, so that by the time I got home (Barbara came for me in a taxi) it really seemed comic that Barry and Barbara were fussing over me as though I were an invalid. The eye stayed covered for the first night, so it was not until the next morning that I discovered how well it could see. It was marvellous to realize that I could see a good deal further down the road we were driving along, without glasses, than I had been able to do for months and months with glasses. So here ends chapter 1 of my little success story.
With much love Diana
[Note at top of page: AND ALL FOR FREE!!!!!]
25 APRIL 2000
Archangel (I love being called Angel!) –
This is a warning to Neil: Err on the side of scepticism vis à vis Siemans’ claims re background noise. Of course they may have hit on a miracle quite recently but at the time when, for huge sums, I bought my Siemans it was because their sales pitch was ‘We can cut out background noise’. And they couldn’t. My brother, having lost his Siemans, felt he couldn’t afford another so replaced it with a National Health aid – and reported that it was just as good if not better. So I, when I lost mine, did the same, and he was right. I suspect that it is, in fact, impossible to make a sound-amplifying device which can distinguish between one kind of noise and another, and that one just has to switch off in noisy restaurants (or avoid them). An aid remains a blessing in social intercourse, the theatre, listening to the radio, etc. . . . And it’s a help, too, in slightly noisy restaurants. Come to think of it, David Cairns and I, both wearing aids, sitting next to each other and concentrating on each other, communicated quite successfully at the Whitbread Prize dinner, though I couldn’t hear people two or three places away, ag
ainst the din.
Just back from my ‘passing-out examination’ at Moorfields, my eyes still full of Belladonna drops, so really am writing almost blind. Operation confirmed as a total success – but I still have to wait one more week before going to an optician for my new specs. Perhaps they’ll turn out to have an ‘Express Service’ – (some of them do), so it won’t be too long before specs are then delivered, I believe they’ll be able to improve the balance between new eye and old, as well as let me read normally. At present the comparative uselessness of the old eye does weigh on me rather. Seems that I now have to wait patiently like a good girl to hear from the hospital when they’ll do the other eye – the surgeon I asked said no, he couldn’t give me any idea when, but not to worry, I would hear eventually.
Your description of Detroit appalled me. It coincided with a talk on BBC Radio 4 about America’s present prosperity – what has happened to Detroit? I thought it was essentially a car manufacturing city, and surely more cars must be being bought than ever before?
Sally has twice forgotten to bring her old word processor when visiting London – perhaps she’ll never remember!
André died on April 11th, after an op on a second hip broken in a fall. Poor old boy – he never got round to reading my script. He had a marvellous press, and a huge turn-out for his funeral, at which I spoke a tribute. I’m so glad now that I modified the querulousness of the book (bless you, darlings!). I’ve just had a card from old Richard Ingrams, founder of Private Eye, to whom Granta had sent proofs, saying how much he liked it and that it’s ‘a splendid memorial to André, both his good and his bad aspects, so fair and so affectionate’ – which, coming from that waspish old body, pleased me a lot.
We are both so happy to think how soon we’ll see you.
XXX OOO Diana
[Postcard] 3 JULY 2000
Chers Amis –
Just to let you know that I had second cataract op. Yesterday. Was home in time for lunch, after a nice unfrightening time, and now have two hawk eyes. Will have to use a magnifying glass for reading everything but big and blackprint for the next three or four weeks, till I’ve been finally checked and given reading glasses, but ordinary seeing is perfect. Hurrah for National Health Service.
We miss you. We love you.
Diana
1 AUGUST 2000
Darling Edward,
I’ve suddenly realized that I never confirmed that Barbara is expecting you to stay when you come over for the Party. She is. Though if you would prefer to stay elsewhere you mustn’t feel that you have to stay here. I suppose, though, that as you seem to be planning to come for just one night, there would not be much point in being in a more central part of the city.
I’m delighted to hear about your cataract op: join the club of those who are grateful to Modern Medicine. It’s so much the thing these days, to mop and mow about it, that I sometimes feel quite out-of-step when I marvel at my own new eyes and remember how wonderfully University College Hospital coped with the dreadful emergency in Barry’s guts.
Until last night I wasn’t quite sure that being able to drive at night had been returned to me. I’d tried when I had just one new eye, and still found it v. difficult because the as-yet-unoperated eye fucked things up. But last night, for the first time, I tried with my two new eyes – and lo and behold, it was perfect: better than it had been for years and years, and with no glasses! From now on, all I’ll need is reading glasses (which I’ll have in about 2 weeks’ time); and dark glasses for sunny days – my eyes are more sensitive to glare than they used to be. For now I’m having to read and write with the glasses I got after the first eye was done, which work as readers for the right eye but have to have the left eye covered with brown paper and sticking plasters because that lens was designed to deal with a poor old eye that was both cataracted and myopic and therefore does frightful things to normal sight. It’s not a comfortable state of affairs – I’ll postpone starting a new book till I have proper readers – but it’s much better than nothing.
It wasn’t just because of your encouragement that I wanted to dedicate the book to you and N. Although I’ve always been a facile acquaintance-maker, I’ve never found it particularly easy to make friends – and that is something which gets harder as one gets older, anyway, so by the time I was in my seventies I really was not expecting ever to do so again. So it was truly lovely to feel, as soon as I met you and Neil, ‘Now here are people with whom it’s possible really to connect’ . . . which seems to me to be worth celebrating.
I’ve now had very agreeable interviews with both The Times and the Telegraph (don’t know when they’ll appear, but both will be with photos, and I don’t think either can be hostile after so much geniality face-to-face), and the Guardian has confirmed that when it runs the extract in its weekend mag. on August 5, it’s making me its cover-girl!!!
The only big interview still to come is the Independent, but there are several small things – local radio, etc, plus BBC’s Women’s Hour. And there’s already been one wonderful review in the Literary Review (not yet in circulation, but they sent me a copy), plus excellent trade paper reactions. So the book could hardly get off to a better start. Life without all this pre-publication fuss will seem quite flat! I feel I’m building up to knowing what it feels like to have once been famous. Let me know if you don’t want to stay here – otherwise a bed will be ready for you. Much love
4 SEPTEMBER 2000
Darling Edward,
Here’s the official invitation. I do hope they are going to give us food – surely they must, as they say it will probably go on till ten . . . but I for one will have a substantial lunch, just in case. Barry still says he can’t be bothered with it – I wish he were more sociable, but there it is. Their guest list doesn’t look exciting – and mine is mostly Athills and their kin. How I wish you could expect to be dazzled – but I fear you mustn’t. However, you will be there to dazzle us!
Love XXX Diana
29 SEPTEMBER 2000
Darling Edward –
Behold my superior new writing paper (Special Offer to readers of the Oldie) which you are the first person to see. I was so glad to hear from you, and hope the reading went well and family affections survived it.
I’ve just done my first – a little one organized by my local bookshop. They were pleased because 60 people came – they said sometimes it’s dismal with only about 15 – and lots of them bought the book. And I was pleased because it turned out I was very good at it. I used to be nervous if I had to speak in public, but now I think the receding tide has exposed a streak of exhibitionism. I knew I could make them laugh, and did, and enjoyed doing it. Wouldn’t mind doing more of it, but don’t know how one sets about getting invited.
Interviews came to a comic end last week. The tiniest of the three local newspapers asked if they could send someone – and I answered the door to a little girl who looked to my eyes about 12 and spoke in a mouselike whisper. ‘How long have you been with the paper?’ I asked on the way upstairs. – ‘Three weeks.’ – ‘Oh poor you. Is it still nerve-wracking?’ — ‘It was this morning . . .’ And she told how she’d been sent to Islington to find out why the people who bought Tony Blair’s old house are moving, and not a single person would speak to her. And then, with considerable courage, she confessed that she had no idea why she had been sent to interview me! Once I’d explained to her why, she turned out to be quite bright – her ambition is to get into the Guardian – and we contrived a splendid interview – pages and pages of her little notebook, far longer, I’m sure, than her paper would dream of using – and parted fondly. Sic transit gloria mundi, as they say.
Grove/Atlantic have not communicated with me at all – only, and minimally, with Granta. And my book is on page 24 of the 26 pages in their catalogue devoted to hardbacks. So I think it unlikely that they will want me over in March, which is when it’s announced for.
I’m pottering along with a new book – Granta wanted to sign a contr
act for whatever it might be, offering an advance £10,000. I’ve said no contract till it’s written, but £10,000 will be OK when the time comes. They are also going to paperback my long-long-ago novel Don’t Look at Me Like That when they do Instead of a Letter next year. It’s a very comfortable feeling, having them so sold on me!
Barry sends fond love to which I add Hugs and kisses.
Diana
3 NOVEMBER 2000
Darling Fieldinski –
Of course I’m not horrified at your quoting me about The Villagers – I love to think I might contribute a tiny push to its sales. I’m glad it looks handsome – and think there are probably more ladies who like a good fat read than ladies who want to carry a book about in their handbags.
The invalid: now either you failed to let us know about the op, or else I’ve had a lapse into senility – only too possible, but even so it would surprise me to forget something so important. Because I don’t know what he’s had done to him. I’m appalled to think of his poor scrotum with a tube coming out of it, out of the blue, so to speak – and to hear that the op was ‘ghastly’. Thank god you can say that he’s pretty well recovered now – but it’s dreadful to think of him going through horrible things, and you too, doing the looking-after – and us unaware! I would have telephoned if I’d known. Give him my love, and tell me what it was.