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230 pages, Paperback
First published September 12, 2000


I was dozing, I confess. Et tu ? O narcoleptic and steatopygous Stuart, he of the crepuscular understanding and the Weltanschauung built of Lego. Look, can we please take the longer view? Chou-en-lai, my hero. Or Zhou-en-lai, as he later became. What do you consider to have been the effect on world history of the French Revolution? To which the wise man replied, ‘It is too early to tell.’ Or if not quite so Olympian or Confucian a view, then at least let’s have some perspective, some shading, some audacious juxtapositions of pigment, OK? Do we not, each of us, write the novel of our life as we go along? But how few, alas, are publish-able. Behold the towering slush pile! Don’t call us, we’ll call you—no, on second thoughts, we won’t call you either. Now, don’t rush to judgement on Oliver—I’ve cautioned you about that before. Oliver is not a snob. At least, not in the straightforward sense. It is not the subject-matter of these novels, or the social location of their protagonists, that is the problem. ‘The story of a louse may be as fine as the history of Alexander the Great—everything depends upon the execution.’ An adamantine formula, don’t you agree? What is needed is a sense of form, control, discrimination, selection, omission, arrangement, emphasis . . . that dirty, three-letter word, art. The story of our life is never an autobiography, always a novel—that’s the first mistake people make. Our memories are just another artifice: go on, admit it. And the second mistake is to assume that a plodding commemoration of previously fêted detail, enlivening though it might be in a taproom, constitutes a narrative likely to entice the at times necessarily hard-hearted reader. On whose lips rightly lies the perpetual question: why are you telling me this?I just can't get enough of that guy and his vocabulary, his self-regard, and his the-glass-was-three-quarters-empty-when-it-was-thrust-upon-me-ism.
