Saturday, January 31, 2009

Digested classics / Claudine in Paris by Colette

Claudine in Paris by Colette

John Crace
Sat 31 Jan 2009

Page one and I am already exhausted! But I can just about raise my head to look at myself in the mirror. How my hair has been shorn! I may be 17, but I do declare I could pass for 15. Still your beating hearts, mes petits schoolgirl fantasists! For the honour of my notebooks, I shall have to explain how I come to be in Paris. Oh Papa, I am as furious with you as I am with my naughty eyebrows! How could you have forced us to leave Montigny after a publisher failed to respond to the delivery of your manuscript on the Malacology of Fresnois within half an hour? It was all I could do to find my darling cat, Fanchette, before our train departed.
Our arrival at the apartment in the dismal rue Jacob is confused in a fog of misery. The effort of unpacking a single box of clothes left me with a brain fever so profound the doctors feared I might never try on another pair of camiknickers again. The violets by my bedside prolonged my illness for they reminded me of Montigny and it was several months before I was well enough to venture outside.

"We should visit my sister, your Aunt Coeur," Papa said one day.
"But my hair is far too short!" I complained. "And I have nothing to wear!"
The whipped-cream living room couldn't have been more 1900 and I was curious to get to know my aunt's grandson, Marcel, who was waiting there. The days before our dinner engagement passed slowly. I spent my mornings having my bottom pinched - Ooh la la! - and the afternoons worrying that my breasts were too tiny for my décolletage - encore Ooh la la!
It was annoying to be seen in public with Marcel as he was far too pretty to be a boy and everyone stared at him not me. Yet I contained my jealousy and fluttered my eyelashes coquettishly at him.
"I am not a goody-goody," he said, "but I will not make love to you. Rather, let me tell you about my dear friend, Charlie."
How thrillingly racy for the Paris demi-monde! A boy's forbidden love for another boy! We must become each other's confidante!
"Tell me all about Charlie's naughty bits," I demanded.
"Only if you tell me all about your Fresnois Sapphism," he pouted.
How I yearned for a glimpse of Aimée's budding breasts! How I used to delight in beating Luce about the head when I caught sight of her staring at me pulling my silken stockings over my milky thighs! How strange it was she had not replied to my letter! But, no! I would make Marcel wait awhile.


After a few days' tiring shopping, Marcel introduced me to his father, my Uncle Renaud. Mon oncle bowed low before me, taking my hands in his and kissed them softly, brushing his silver moustache against my quivering skin. My lips flushed with excitement. How could I contain my incestuous feelings for an older man?
"Let me take you to the opera," he whispered in my ear, "and thrill you with scandalous tales of men who dress as women while we watch Marcel and Charlie slip away in the night together."
Paris was muggy that month and men were staring at the sweat glistening on my exposed breasts when I unexpectedly met Luce, dressed in the most expensive fashions, on the Rive Gauche.
"Ma chère Claudine," she said. "I moved to Paris to escape my horrid papa and threw myself on the mercies of my wealthy 127-year-old uncle, who gives me 30 louis each month for the pleasure of my flesh! But I yearn for you. My breasts are rounder now; take them in your greedy hands and ravish them."
She pushed her mouth towards mine and I felt a momentary passionate quiver, before beating her cruelly until she gasped her little death. I dismissed her contemptuously, enjoying her squirming every bit as uncomfortably as the messieurs who are reading this on the Métro.
"So tell me about all the saucy things that you and Charlie do?" I begged Marcel, as he tried on a crepe-de-chine cravat.
"It is a special love we have," he replied, guilefully. "Not like Papa. He is a journalist and he sleeps with any older woman whose nipples harden for him."
How I hated those other women! And how my own nipples also strangely hardened!
"Do not call me oncle any more," Oncle implored, as we shared a bottle of Asti Spumante. "It makes me feel such a dirty old man."
"That is precisely why I love to use it," I said, feeling quite gay. "I would be your daughter, if I could, as that is so much more shocking. Yet if you insist, I will call you Renaud."
"Oh, Claudine! My grey hair is turning blond once more. Let us be wed!"
How I enjoyed the twisted thrill of older men imagining themselves in bed with a submissive teenaged girl! And yet how strangely coy and dated it now seemed!
"You're only getting married to Papa to get his money," Marcel sulked.
"I cannot marry you," I cried, thrusting myself against Renaud in a last attempt at titillation. "I will be your mistress instead."
"Non," Renaud insisted. "I may be a dirty old perve, but I am a dirty old perve with family values."

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Classics corner 003 / The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Classics corner 003: The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Robin McKie
Sunday 25 January 2009 00.01 GMT

ilde's only published novel has gathered a mighty reputation since it was published in 1890, its fame resting largely on the clever conceit of the plot. The exquisitely handsome Gray prays for eternal good looks as his portrait is being painted. Thus his picture ages and withers while he remains an Adonis "made out of ivory and rose leaves" despite the corrupt and dissolute life that he starts to lead.

It's a striking stratagem that opens up myriad possible routes for the exploration of the nature of good and evil. Yet Wilde never properly follows these up. Yes, the language is marvellously piquant, as one would expect. One character is described as being "so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn book". And the opening encounter, in which artist Basil Hallward and his friend Lord Henry Wotton become infatuated with Gray is gloriously conceived, the heavy scents of "honey-sweet laburnum" conveying a homoerotic charge and a sense of the doomed flowering of youth.
But this momentum evaporates and the plot staggers between Wildean frolics in which epigrams are dropped like confetti, most of them from the tiresome Wotton ("My dear boy, anybody can be good in the country: there are no temptations there") and attempts at gothic horror. The latter are feeble compared with those in Robert Louis Stevenson's Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, a vastly superior work.
Such views may seem harsh. Dorian Gray is certainly readable and it is hard not to be swept along by its exuberance. But the claim that it is a classic of western literature is shaky. On the other hand, Bill Amberg's new, leatherbound edition is a delight to handle and at £50 a copy would surely have delighted Wilde.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

A life in writing / Dennis Lehane

Dennis Lehane
Photograph by Ulf Andersen

A life in writing: Dennis Lehane

'I've always been fascinated with loss of innocence or corruption of the soul at a young age'

Interview by Emma Brockes
Saturday 24 January 2009 00.01 GMT

etween 1994 and 2003 Dennis Lehane wrote a novel a year and it gave him, he says, a "super-thick" skin. He is in any case built for rebuttal: stocky, forward-leaning, with a little shoulder pivot when he walks and a get-out-of-jail-free grin. For the last five years he has worked on a single book, The Given Day, an historical epic of 700 pages and of a scale of risk that has quite unmanned him. "I feel like if this bombs, God: it's going to be my Heaven's Gate, my Waterworld." He cringes. His heart, he says, is finally "exposed".

Lehane is from inner-city Boston and his accent comes out when he's drunk, angry or doing impressions of his younger self, most arrestingly during the interview in a scene from his school days, in which he repels the advances of a Jesuit priest. The power of his books is place. The 43-year-old's Boston is a city at war with itself: in Mystic River, his most successful novel, an old working-class neighbourhood churns beneath gentrification. In the Kenzie and Gennaro series, like all good detective fiction, the city is as sharp and unpredictable as the villains themselves. The Given Day is set during the run-up to the 1919 Boston police strike, at the height of the Bolshevik movement in the US. Under cover of a roaring good tale it's a brilliant exposition of urban poverty and how violence flashes down from mass movements to the family around the dinner table.

We are in St Petersburg, Florida, where Lehane lives when he's not in Boston. His wife is an ophthalmologist here, and he teaches creative writing at Eckerd College. He rents an office in a part of town where the rent is cheap and the views overlook a noir-ish vista of derelict lots and blowsy palms, all the way down to the ocean.
Officially, Lehane's books are noir, although their success has blurred the boundaries, and with The Given Day he has moved into what he would caustically refer to as literary fiction. He has written three episodes of the TV series The Wire (in seasons three, four and five), and is currently developing a TV show about Boston in the 1970s. On the wall of his office is a photo of him talking earnestly to Leonardo DiCaprio on the set of the latest film adaptation of one of his novels, Shutter Island. For nine years, Lehane built up a fan base in modest increments. Now he can barely write a shopping list without Hollywood optioning it.
Having been poor for a long time, when the money started rolling in he explicitly warned himself: "You could become a real dick." The greatest thing about having money, he says, is the removal of the worry about not having it. "And that's huge. As anyone who's ever stared at the ringing phone thinking that's a debt collector or had that horror of thinking will my lights go on, will know. All of which I've been through. Suddenly that was gone."
He wrote his first novel in three weeks while he was a student and slung it in a drawer. It was a crime novel, and he knew that if he published it he risked being hemmed in as a "genre" writer. But literary fiction at the time seemed desperately boring, full of "middle-class, well-appointed couples suffering from malaise". He says: "Don't get me wrong, I love literary fiction. It's faux literary fiction I can't stand."
He had learned a certain stubborn self-belief at writing school. Lehane himself went to Eckerd, attracted after his freezing Boston childhood by the Florida sun and the fact that Raymond Carver went there. He had already dropped out of two other degree courses and finally stopped pretending he wanted to be anything else; he had been writing short stories since he was eight. The brutal workshop rite of students critiquing each others' work toughened him up and also, he says, gave him perspective. "It's good not only to realise that you can't please all of the people all of the time, but that you don't want to. There's a certain type of reader that you don't ever want to write for. And that really helps. I impressed a moron, why should I care? Or I pissed off a moron, why should it bother me?"
After he graduated he took the novel out and rewrote it a score of times. A Drink Before the War was the first of the series featuring detectives Patrick Kenzie and Angela Gennaro, the fourth of which, Gone Baby Gone, was filmed by Ben Affleck in 2007.
The next four novels came out one a year with methodical discipline. Lehane had the advantage of a thoroughly developed dramatic milieu at his disposal, from his upbringing in Boston, which in the 1970s was a city on the brink of civil war. The youngest of five children, he was the son of a union man, a foreman at Sears, Roebuck, and a homemaker, both first-generation Irish immigrants. His neighbourhood was at the junction of two warring factions. "Directly to our north was South Boston, which was 100% white back then, very poor, very angry, very racist. Then to our east was Roxbury, which was primarily black. Then there was us. When those two went to war, guess who was Poland? We kept getting overrun."

His was the last generation to grow up on the streets, dispelled from the house until supper, without it counting as neglect. They set up hockey nets in the road, removing them when a car drove past, and waited for the day when the council re-tarred the roads to scratch a baseball diamond into it. At the end of the day his mother would call him through the streets, with the other boys' mothers, and the names would ring through the alleys from building to building.
Apart from a set of encyclopedias there were no books in the house. But when the nuns told his mother her youngest son was a reader she took him to the library. His father liked only non-fiction. He couldn't even stand feature films. "He took me to see Star Wars when I was a kid and he fell asleep during the invasion of the ship. At the beginning. He just went out." Lehane blinks in fresh amazement.
The race wars in Boston gave him an early sense of how to sketch dramatic incident. "If you ever see violence in my books, it has that coming-out-of-the-corner-of-your-eye kind of feeling. And then all of a sudden it's in front of you. You'd be walking down the subway platform and you'd see a sudden movement and then you'd turn and they'd be people beating the shit out of each other. And then you're stuck in it." Lehane was witness to all this without actually being caught up in it. "It's that speech from The Third Man about Switzerland producing the cuckoo clock. I was blessed to grow up in really interesting times and to go back to a home where I was very safe."
It also gave him an understanding of his country's delusions about class and race. He says: "I believed from a very young age that all race warfare is essentially class warfare, and that it's in the better interests of the haves to have the have-nots fighting among themselves. And I believe that to this day. It's probably the strongest socialist tenet that I have." The only time Lehane saw his father lose his temper with his mother was when she crossed a picket line, to buy food in a supermarket. "And he said, well, how are those guys going to get food if you cross the picket line?"

He adds: "Not to say unions aren't corrupt; God, they fucked the school systems in the US. But the most corrupt union in the world is better than the best corporation."
Class has always been subtly present in his books and is brought to the fore in The Given Day through its partial setting in the labour movement at a critical time in US history. The growing strength of the unions led to their being demonised by the right as a Trojan horse for the Bolsheviks and "anarchists". Lehane doesn't have to work too hard to make contemporary parallels. In a line Dick Cheney would be proud of, Eddie the bent copper explains to his colleague, Danny Coughlin, "we're hunting radicals. We're protecting and serving this great land."
"By compiling lists?" says Coughlin incredulously, and complains that the "anarchists" his colleague sees everywhere are "plumbers unions, carpenters, every toothless socialist knitting group you can find. For what?"
The conflict is still depressingly relevant. Lehane is amazed by how many "otherwise mature" Americans ask him why unions are necessary. He replies: "You might want to thank them for the weekend, the eight-hour day and the fact that your 12-year-old doesn't work in a sweat mill."
Which is not to say that he isn't a "deeply committed" capitalist. But there is a difference, he says, between capitalism and consumerism. "If you want to find out everything that is wrong not only with American but with capitalist culture, it's all in that security guard who got killed on Black Friday" - the man who was trampled to death during the first day of sales at a Long Island branch of Wal-Mart. "Everything is there. Everything that is wrong in our culture, right there. Do people understand that a life was lost so that, what, they could get a cheaper piece-of-shit DVD? That they didn't fuckin' need? It's disgusting. This wasn't Stalingrad 1943; they weren't running for food. They were running for some piece-of-shit MP3 rip-off, flat-screen TV." Lehane's Boston accent is quite strong at this point.
In Mystic River, a small boy is kidnapped by paedophiles and returned to his parents days later; the novel unravels in the wake of the fall-out. In Gone Baby Gone a gang of child-killers terrorises a neighbourhood. Lehane isn't too keen on examining his obsessions, lest they evaporate under scrutiny. "But I'll always be fascinated with loss of innocence or corruption of the soul at a young age."

In the last five years some of the priests who taught him at Jesuit school have been busted as paedophiles. Now and then another will surface in the newspapers and he'll call his old school friends to say "Hell, it's about time."
"We knew who they were. We'd make jokes about them: yeah, Father, I won't take a hug this morning, no thank you! What's really terrifying about it - repulsive - is that they don't prey on guys like us. We could joke. It's the kids who couldn't joke about it, or who came from shattered homes or who needed affection. Those are the guys who were vulnerable. I still remember this one priest, he came up to me one day as I was walking across campus and he put his hand on my shoulder and said, 'What's the matter son, why the long face?' And I said [he grins, cheekily] 'I don't know father! I was born with it!' And I just walked away. And then I went straight to my friends and joked about it."
For a while after college he was a counsellor working with traumatised children, but had to give it up; it was so depressing it stopped him from writing. It did however inform his politics and later, his fiction. It is, he says, his one reactionary streak. "I'm so far to the right on this issue, I'm Pat Buchanan. I think sexual predators should have a mandatory 'one mistake and you're out' law."
There are elements of his Catholic upbringing that Lehane is grateful for. His first big sales spike came when his novel Prayers for Rain was photographed in Bill Clinton's hand ("another thing to be thankful to him for") as he exited Air Force One in 1999. Then Clint Eastwood bought the film rights to Mystic River. Two years after finishing the book, it was on-screen, and in 2004 Sean Penn and Tim Robbins won Oscars for their performances in it. It was nominated for best picture. In terms of his becoming a dick, this, says Lehane, was the danger point.
"My first marriage blew up right around then. And it gave me a great perspective on what was going on. I remember a friend saying, aren't you having the time of your life? I said, I just lost my house and I just lost my wife; what's there to be fuckin' happy about? I'm having a steak with Clint Eastwood? I mean, not that it's not nice. I loved everybody I worked with on Mystic River. Clint Eastwood is the classiest human being in Hollywood. But it was like, I just want my life back. Right at that moment, when I could've turned into an asshole, perspective was slammed down my throat. With the best Irish Catholic guilt, I think it was suffering meant to give experience. It was the balance."

When he was invited to contribute to The Wire, a daunting task mid-way through the revered TV series, he says he was "ignorant" enough not to feel intimidated. He knew he'd be coming right after an episode by Richard Price. "So I'd be in a really good shape in the lead up." Still, he had to have several goes at it. "They had to take me to school on my first script, there's no question. I didn't know what I was doing." It was over-written. "You write it like a novel. It should be spare. And it was wonderful to learn how to do that."
David Simon, the show's creator, says: "For anyone used to the solitary art of prose writing, such a process might feel awkward, and maybe Dennis felt a bit at sea on finding himself doing something so strangely communal. But in my mind, his contributions were there from the first: it may have felt to him as if he was feeling his way, but from our point of view, he never seemed anything other than assured."
Lehane drives me to a shopping mall near the airport and tells me a story that could come from one of his novels. He was living in Boston and the apartment building he was in was replacing its fire alarms. For a short time there was no alarm coverage. That night a propane tank on the roof blew up. The roof was completely devastated, but none of the residents woke up. Some homeless men asleep under a bridge across the street saw the fire and rang doorbells, banged dustbin lids and rang 911 until everyone was out safely, which is why, says Lehane, when someone on the street asks him for a dollar, he says: "Hell, have 20."
The thing that shook him about it was something the fireman said. He explained that the homeless men were woken every morning at 5.30am by the sun striking them under the bridge. The fire had started at 5.20am. "An hour earlier and they wouldn't have been awake. That gave me chills for the rest of my life." It also reinforced his moral outlook; the generosity that infuses his work. "It's true," he says, of the men who saved him, and it stands just as well for his characters. "There is nothing better than the least of us."

On Lehane

Ever since his first novel, A Drink Before the War, introduced the duo of blue-collar Boston detectives Patrick Kenzie and Angela Gennaro, Dennis Lehane's gritty psychothrillers have carved a distinctive patch on the map of contemporary crime writing. Their fifth case, Prayers For Rain, brings the now romantically separated protagonists together in a case involving corruption, the secrets of a wealthy family, twisted kidnappers, a brutal mafioso and a frightening sociopath adept at playing sinister cat-and-mouse games with his intended victims. The apparent suicide of a pretty socialite sets the ball rolling, and all too soon it becomes intensely personal for Patrick and Angie. With Michael Connelly, Lehane has become one of the most electrifying thriller writers of the century's final decade, a dark and hypnotic modern successor to Raymond Chandler.

Maxim Jakubowski, the Guardian, 1999

After five impressive novels dissecting the fraught relationship between a couple of private eyes, Dennis Lehane establishes himself as one of the greats of crime writing with Mystic River. Spanning 25 years in the lives of three friends growing up in the working-class neighbourhoods of Boston, it begins with a childhood incident that returns to haunt them when, as adults, one of their own children is murdered ... Lehane's deceptive art lies not just in the exemplary investigative thriller but in a moving portrait of flawed people caught in a web of pain, told in lyrical prose that brings damaged lives and rundown cities to vivid life.

Maxim Jakubowski, Review, 2001

A life in writing / Dennis Lehane
A life in writing / Blair Worden
A life in writing / Peter Porter
A life in writing / TC Boyle
A life in writing / Shirley Hughes
A life in fiction / Geoff Dyer / Something of literary outlier
A life in theatre/ Wallace Shawn / At home in the dark
A life in cinema / Costa Gravas / French resistance
A life in television / John Lloyd
A life in books / August Kleinzahler / Writing in the realm of fire
A life in cinema / Abbas Kiarostami
A life in music / William Christie
A life in music / Steve Reich
A life in books / Anthony Brown
A life in books / Hugh Williams
A life in musicals / Arthur Laurens
A life in music / Claudio Abbado
A life in books / Sean O'Brien
A life in poetry / Roger McGough (Kiss)
A life in writing / Francis Wheen
A life in books / William Trevor
A life in writing / William Boyd
A life in writing / Nicholas Baker
A life in television / David Attenborough
A life in books / Simon Mawer
A life in books / Clive James
A life in books / Mary-Kay Wilmers
A life in writing / Sue Townsend
A life in writing / Wu Ming
A life in books / Mavis Gallant
A life in drama / Stephen Poliakoff

A life in books / Siri Hustvedt / I don't think I've exorcised the Shaking Woman

A life in politics / New Left Review at 50
A life in writing / Henning Mankell
A life in music / Mariss Jansons
A life in books / Barry Miles
A life in writing / Michael Chabon
A life in books / JMG Le Clézio
A life in writing / Hilary Spurling
A life in writing / Nicola Barker
A life in books / Kaye Webb / Queen of the Puffineers
A life in writing / Tariq Ali
A life in writing / Jonathan Coe
A life in writing / Barbara Kingsolver
A life in psychology / Dorothy Rowe
A life in writing / Juan Gabriel Vásquez
A life in books / Piers Paul Read
A life in theatre / Howard Brenton
A life in music / Victor Hochhauser / 'My great stroke of luck came when Stalin died'
A life in poetry / Jo Shapcott: I'm not someone chasing her own ambulance (Kiss)
A life in writing / Jack Higgins
A life in writing / James Robertson
A life in writing / David Almond / Children's books
A life in drawing / Posy Simmonds
A life in books / Tim Waterstone
A life in theatre / Simon McBurney
A life in dance / Akram Khan
A life in books / Lauren Child
A life in theatre / Nicholas Hytner
A life in books / Colm Tóibín
A life in writing: Günter Grass
A life in writing / Nadine Gordimer
A life in books / CJ Sansom
A life in writing / Les Murray (Kiss)
A life in theatre / Richard Eyre
A life in writing / Bill McKibben
A life in writing / Chinua Achebe
A life in music / Stephen Sondheim



A life in writing / Javier Marías


Sunday, January 11, 2009

Classics corner 002 / The Tale by Joseph Conrad / Review

Classics corner 002: The Tale by Joseph Conrad

Jean Hannah Edelstein
Sunday 11 January 2009 00.01 GMT

ould Joseph Conrad be published if he were writing today? It's a question prompted by Philip Hensher's introduction to this new edition of four long short stories. Conrad's best work, Hensher muses, lies "somewhere between the long short story... and the short novel", two forms that are frequently disregarded by contemporary publishing houses as too difficult and unpopular in a market catering to readers who want something long enough to last them the duration of their beach holiday.

The four stories herein are classic Conrad: stories within stories, unfold by nameless narrators who recount the plots with minimum blandishment and maximum brutality. "The Prince Roman" is remarkable as Conrad's sole story about Poland, his homeland. The titular story is framed as a conversation between the narrator and the woman with whom he is having a love affair (and who, perhaps, he does not love). "Tell me something," she begs him, caught in a moment between love and despair; her suitor responds with a tragic naval yarn. This, too, is classic Conrad: men tested by evil, but the frame adds a melancholy frisson absent from his more masculine texts. "The Black Mate", which concludes the collection, also picks up the dark, seafaring motif, but contains an amusing twist.
Conrad can feel old-fashioned - the portrayal of women in these narratives as gauzy ciphers seems a little weak to the modern reader - but overall this is a brilliant demonstration of the power of textual brevity, a lesson for contemporary writers who bloat their texts to excess for fear of writing now-unfashionable shorter forms of fiction.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Classics corner 001 / Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates / Review

Classics corner 


Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates

Edward Marriott
Sunday 4 January 2009 00.01 GMT

t is the summer of 1955 and Frank and April Wheeler are living what to many at the time must have seemed the American dream: a spacious, suburban house, two cheerful, blond children, wholesome neighbours and, for Frank, a generously paid and gratifyingly undemanding job in Manhattan. From the start of Revolutionary Road, however, it is clear that all is far from well. The Wheelers might be young, beautiful and full of promise, but they harbour little affection for each other. Frank's job, as he has no hesitation admitting, is "the dullest ... you could possibly imagine". And April, too, is bored.

So she devises an escape plan, one that will enable Frank to quit Knox Business Machines and realise his potential while she works, at least until her husband finds an occupation more suited to a Columbia graduate and literate war veteran. As Richard Yates's masterly debut novel unfolds, however, it becomes apparent that though Frank might rail against the anaesthetic suburbs, he lacks the imagination or boldness for change; as his self-deception deepens, so his marriage unravels.
First published in 1961, Revolutionary Road is a work of serious moral intent - often caustic and arch about the shortcomings of its characters - but also extremely funny. It's gripping without resorting to melodrama; the plot turns on events that are entirely at one with the characters' dilemmas. Yates, who died in 1992, wrote six further novels and two collections of short stories, but it's for Revolutionary Road that he's rightly best known. It's one of the best novels ever written about the difficult but necessary work of finding out who one really is - and living life accordingly.

001 Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates
002 The Tale by Joseph Conrad
003 The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
004 Bulldog Drummond by Sappe
005 The Pilgrims by Mary Shelley
006 The Curious Case of Benjamin Button by Fitzgerald Scott

036 The Tin Drum by Günter Grass

057 The Complete Short Stories by Oscar Wilde

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Hilary Mantel / Someone to Disturb

Someone to Disturb

by Hilary Mantel

London Review of Books
Vol. 31 No. 1 · 1 January 2009
pages 13-17 | 6757 words

Those days, the doorbell didn’t ring often, and if it did I would draw back into the body of the house. Only at a persistent ring would I creep over the carpets, as if there were someone to disturb, and make my way to the front door with its spyhole. We were big on bolts and shutters, deadlocks and mortises, safety chains and windows that were high and barred. Through the spyhole I saw a distraught man in a crumpled, silver-grey suit: thirties, Asian. He had dropped back from the door, and was looking about him, at the closed and locked door opposite, and up the dusty marble stairs. He patted his pockets, took out a balled-up handkerchief, and rubbed it across his face. He looked so fraught that his sweat could have been tears. I opened the door.