Reading

Just in case, er, someone, is interested, I was reading Aubade by Philip Larkin for the nth time last night, just before I went to bed. Here it is. I don’t think this will land me in any trouble, copyright wise.

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. 

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
– The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off, unused – nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear – no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Grim stuff indeed. Still, it’s one of my favourites in spite (because of?) this…

It was hard to say sometimes whether he was being provocative for its own sake or if he was just being drunk and stoned and irresponsible

Guardian Unlimited Books | News | Hunter S Thompson dies at 67

Continuing the coverage of his new novel, Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro is interviewed in today’s Observer.

From his semi-detached house in suburban Golders Green, in north London, Kazuo Ishiguro has made himself an architect of singular, self-enclosed worlds. His writing traps us inside strange skulls. He spends, he says, around five years on each of his books and the first couple of these years, each time, involves little circumnavigations of the imaginative space of his novel, marking boundaries, testing structures, making himself at home. All of his quietly unsettling, intimate vantages have foundations in the voices that narrate them and he spends a good deal of time, too, ‘auditioning’ these voices, listening to different possibilities, before he settles on one.

John Self reviews Never Let Me Go on Palimpsest here.

Kazuo Ishiguro’s new novel Never Let Me Go comes weighted and freighted with anticipation, particularly for me. As you know from the above I don’t believe any of his books would rate less than four-and-a-half out of five on some notional scale nicked from Amazon. Never Let Me Go continues that tradition, though I found in the end it was closer to the four side of four-and-a-half than some of the others…

The Guardian profile Kazuo Ishiguro today.

Kazuo Ishiguro’s early career set a modern benchmark for precocious literary success. Born in 1954, in 1982 he won the Winifred Holtby award for the best expression of a sense of place, for his debut novel A Pale View of Hills . In 1983, he was included in the seminal Granta best of young British writers list, alongside Martin Amis, Ian McEwan, Salman Rushdie, Julian Barnes, Graham Swift, Rose Tremain and Pat Barker. Three years later his second novel, An Artist of the Floating World, picked up the Whitbread book of the year and in 1989 his third, The Remains of the Day, won the Booker. David Lodge, chair of the judges, praised the depiction of a between-the-wars country-house butler’s self-deception as a “cunningly structured and beautifully paced performance”, which succeeds in rendering with “humour and pathos a memorable character and explores the large, vexed theme of class, tradition and duty”. At 34, Ishiguro’s place in the literary firmament was already secure and he felt as if he’d only just begun.

Guardian Unlimited Books | Review | Profile: Kazuo Ishiguro

I have just invested in this:

Which I saw in Waterstones, strangely without a UK price on the back. It turned out it was £8.99.

My interest was first sparked by this article in the Guardian, which made it sound like a very amusing read:

One final point: Rex Pickett did not, just for the record, stagger into a winery and drink down the wine from the dump bucket, as Miles does. “No,” Pickett says. “I did not do that in a winery. I did it at a high-end tasting.” He laughs. “Everyone else was horrified. But I thought, hey, there’s a thousand dollars’ worth of wine in there, and I need another drink.”

It is also quite remarkably bound. It’s, er, floppy. I can open in on my desk and it just stays on the page I want, without breaking the spine at all. Great!