Bits of Hay

At the first of Mariella Frostrup’s shows in the Sky Arts Studio we found that Ian Rankin had been relegated in favour of Gordon Brown. What a disappointment.

Brown had nothing to say, of course, apart from name-dropping the courageous people he had met. Thomas Keneally, the Australian novelist, was on the same bill, also to promote a book. He was bouncy and smiley and had a learned-off-by-heart script to get him through the ordeal. Two of a kind, you might say.

They were followed by Jason Brown, an Irish comedian who did much shouting, almost as if he didn’t believe in the efficacy of the SkyARTS microphone and state-of-the-art speakers.

And then, as if by magic, after the end of the show they wheeled on Ian Rankin to record his interview for the same show on the following day. So, initial disappointment faded into the background, partially.

Rankin talks well enough, but his persona on television or when speaking publicly is only a pale imitation of what he’s capable of in a one-to-one. He enumerated the ways in which he and Rebus differ. Rebus is old-labour, he reminded us. But he refused to be drawn on his own politics under the pretext that it might get him into trouble. Still, I was grateful to him that day; compared to the others he was a shining star.

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We also took in a couple of Spanish writers, Enrique de Heriz and Carmen Posadas, together with a Welshman who was resident in Spain, Aneurin Gareth Thomas. Enrique de Heriz spoke about the split in families during the Spanish civil war. And Posadas, a crime writer, lost most of the audience trying to explain the genesis of her novel. The interviewer obviously didn’t like the novel but was too diplomatic to say so.

It seems that Spanish fiction has finally arrived in the UK. As well as America, especially South America, but also all over Europe.

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We haven’t seen the aristocrats at the hotel over the last couple of days. They were last sighted in a chauffeur driven plum-coloured limo leaving the estate and their crippled helicopter behind. Apparently they didn’t pay their bill and Miss Havisham called the Welsh police who are currently on the look-out for them.

We never did get the ride in the helicopter, but that’s the rich for you . . . full of promises but rarely making the effort to deliver.

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About Writing:

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is. When I speak of writing, the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and, alone, turns inward. Amid his shadows, he builds a new world with words. This man—or this woman—may use a typewriter, or profit from the ease of a computer, or write with a pen on paper, as I do. As he writes, he may drink tea or coffee, or smoke cigarettes. From time to time, he may rise from his table to look out the window at the children playing in the street, or, if he is lucky, at trees and a view, or even at a black wall. He may write poems, or plays, or novels, as I do. But all these differences arise only after the crucial task is complete—after he has sat down at the table and patiently turned inward. To write is to transform that inward gaze into words, to study the worlds into which we pass when we retire into ourselves, and to do so with patience, obstinacy, and joy. Orhan Pamuk

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