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NEW WRITING / BOOK TALK / NEWS AND REVIEWS THE READER No. 31 SUMMER 2008 Published by The University of Liverpool School of English. Supported by: 1 EDITOR Philip Davis DEPUTY EDITOR Sarah Coley CO-EDITORS Angela Macmillan Brian Nellist Christopher Routledge John Scrivener Jen Tomkins NEW YORK EDITOR Enid Stubin CONTRIBUTING EDITOR Les Murray ADDRESS The Reader 19 Abercromby Square Liverpool L69 7ZG EMAIL [email protected] WEBSITE www.thereader.co.uk SUBSCRIPTIONS See p. 3 DISTRIBUTION See p. 127 ISBN 978-0-9558733-0-0 Printed and bound in the European Union by Bell and Bain Ltd, Glasgow ABOUT THE READER ORGANISATION Jane Davis, Director, The Reader Organisation A Reading Revolution! ‘People are dying – it is no metaphor – for lack of something real to carry home when day is done.’ Saul Bellow, Herzog We used this quotation in 1997 in the very f irst issue of The Reader. We believe literature is for life, not just for courses. That’s why we’re working in day centres, old people’s homes, community groups, hospitals, drug rehabs, refugee centres, public libraries, schools and children’s homes and many other places to bring the pleasure and value of reading to as many people as possible. We f ind it easy to imagine a near future where literature graduates leave univer- sity to work in banks, hospitals, retail, management and Human Resources. Their job? To bring books to life, opening and sharing the centuries of vital information contained within them, making sure this amazingly rich content is available to everyone. ‘It moves you. I mean it hits you inside where it meets you and means something.’ Dementia sufferer reading poetry. SUBMISSIONS The Reader genuinely welcomes submissions of poetry, fiction, essays, read- ings and thought. We publish professional writers and absolute beginners. Send your manuscript with SAE please to: The Reader Office, 19 Abercromby Square, Liverpool L69 7ZG, UK. THE READER CONTENTS EDITORIAL ESSAYS 7 Philip Davis ‘The Reader Says…’ 15 Howard Jacobson 9 Editor’s Picks It’s the Thought that Counts 111 Raymond Tallis POETRY Reader I Shagged Him 26 Face to Face 28 Les Murray’s Ten Favourite INTERVIEW Australian Poets, Part II 33 Janet Suzman 42 John Welch Sending Robes to Oxfam 63 Anna Woodford 72 Andrew McNeillie READING LIVES 77 Michael O’Neill 9 Ian McMillan Letters to a Younger Self THE POET ON HIS WORK 13 Andrew McMillan 43 Jeffrey Wainwright Please Do Disturb 65 Andrew McNeillie FICTION Once 47 Frank Cottrell Boyce 73 Katie Peters Accelerate Reading in Reality 119 The Reader Serial: Mary Weston BOOK WORLD The Junction 95 Kirsty McHugh Freedom to Blog 102 Maureen Watry Poets in the Library 4 THE READER YOUR REGULARS REVIEWS: NEW BOOKS 84 Enid Stubin 82 Good Books: short reviews Our Spy in NY Angela Macmillan on Richard Yates, 87 The London Eye Eleven Kinds of Loneliness Page to Screen Jane Davis on Mark Doty, 89 Jane Davis Dog Years The Winter’s Tale 104 Fran Brearton in Birkenhead On John Redmond, MUDe 93 Brian Nellist 106 Sarah Coley on Raymond Tallis, Ask the Reader The Kingdom of Inf inite Space YOUR RECOMMENDATIONS THE BACK END 58 Francis Boyce 108 Prize Crossword Seafarers and Storytelling By Cassandra 80 Readers Connect 109 Buck’s Quiz Rudyard Kipling, Kim 110 Quiz and Puzzle Answers 83 Letters page 126 Contributors 100 Brian Nellist The Old Poem Thomas Randolph, ‘Upon his Picture’ 128 Angela Macmillan Calling all Book Groups 5 editorial ‘THE READER says…’ Philip Davis ou know the old joke about the unlucky man who was left the contents of his aunt’s attic. Amongst all the clutter he found an old violin and an old portrait in oils, and sent them for valuation. Back came the amazing news, the change in the whole of this man’s fortune: Yone was a Rembrandt, the other was a Stradivarius. But this is where there is a key word to the story. The word is ‘Un- fortunately’. Unfortunately, the violin was by Rembrandt and the portrait by Stradivarius. Some people are unlucky. The novelist I have spent the last few years trying to promote is Bernard Malamud, born 1914, died 1986. In July 2005 I was sitting in the Harry Ransom Center in Austin, Texas, reading my way through the Malamud archive there and came on this in a notebook entry for 21 October 1976: ‘Bellow gets Nobel Prize. I win $24.25 in poker.’ This was the little, often unfashionable nearly-man, the one who always felt he came second, who whilst shaving would mutter unconvincingly to himself in the mirror, ‘Someday I’m going to win.’ He had known no real success until he published his first novel at the age of 38. Nowadays there is a big revival of interest in another American novelist, Richard Yates (1926-92). Revolutionary Road is a novel worth reading but honestly, compared to Malamud, Yates can’t write and he hasn’t heart. Yet he has long been an unknown and he can be marketed today as an astonishing re-discovery. This week, in contrast, I was vexed and disheartened to learn from a leading British publisher that after careful consideration he wasn’t going to reprint the works of Malamud that his firm had had in print ten years ago. Why? Because Malamud 7 editorial wasn’t an unknown like Yates and isn’t a well-known like Bellow. Question: What would Malamud have found in an attic? Answer; Two stools, for the use of, to fall between. A publisher’s old back-catalogue. And the winning lottery ticket he could no longer claim. It makes it worse that Malamud spent his life largely writing about the little unattractive people, using the novel to right the dismissive- ly wrong perceptions. So in The Assistant, ex-thief Frank Alpine can’t convince the woman he loves but has hurt that he has changed. It’s understandable, of course: ‘How could she know what was going on in him? If she ever looked at him again she would see the same guy on the outside. He could see out but nobody could see in.’ I wrote a biography of Malamud to try to put these things right and spread his word. And recently it was even shortlisted for a (minor) lit- erary prize. Unfortunately, as we say, it was runner-up. I think I know what Malamud would have said. But I would speak from the curled and not the drooping lip. The conventional world is not real, though it is strong. When nobody can see in, Literature exists for the alternative world, inside, the invisible church of the really real, though still surrounded by the world without. And this re-writing of the world’s dim text can go on all the time. For example. A month or so ago I attended degree day at my university when hundreds of students graduate. I have been going to these cere- monies, largely out of duty, for years. But every time something in them moves me. And it is to do with that momentarily realised gap between the formality of the ceremony and the informal stories behind it. Most of the students I don’t know, as they go past with their apparently regula- tion 2.1 honours degrees. But then there are a few I do know, really quite well. This one lost her father last year. That one was brought up in a chil- dren’s home but has got to this. He nearly left in his first year. She wrote a great little piece on George Eliot that some other member of staff marked down. These, at this moment of silent culmination, are their inner stories so far, though as they walk across the stage, they themselves may not be as aware of them as I am, their onlooker. And of course each one of them has that inner story, though I only know a little of a few. But when you make these correctives in a sudden flash of relative time, when you ‘see in’ a little more than usual, that is literature, what literature is for, even if you never write it down; it is what Wordsworth meant by the possibility of being ‘a silent poet’ – or a silent novelist. The Reader says: Literature is something you do, and not just read, even if you are not a writer. In the mental attic, Rembrandt paints the portrait, Stradivarius makes the violin, Malamud lives for ever writing, and the young student is ac- claimed with roars and music. 8 READING LIVES LETTERS to A younger SELF Ian McMillan ’ve got to admit that, unlike the Younger Reader these letters are addressed to, I sometimes get fed up with books. The younger self thought that books were just the best thing ever; they could fit in your pocket and you could get them out on the bus and (let’s face it) pose with ‘em. Nothing better, as a seventeen-year-old in Ian ex-army greatcoat, than trundling along on the 14 bus to Doncaster with a copy of On the Road in your pocket that you could, with a flick of the wrist, transfer from pocket to hand as though the appearance of the book in the hand was a magical thing, as indeed it was. Reading on the bus always made me feel sick, of course, so all I really did was fish the book out of the pocket, glance at it, make sure that some people saw me reading it, and then put it back.