Culture Vulture: reviews round-up

The critics' verdicts on memoirs by Antonia Fraser and Edmund White.

 

Don't look back in anger

In the Guardian, Blake Morrison has only good things to say for Antonia Fraser's Must You Go? My Life with Harold Pinter: "the book is intimate without being confessional . . . But she's not so discreet as to be dull." He believes that "[Pinter's] wishes have been honoured in this book, which is less flowery than most elegies have a right to be, one year on". Robert Harris in the Sunday Times concedes that the book "certainly has at times a bosom-heaving, lace-handkerchief-fluttering quality", but is concerned at how Pinter's first wife and son are treated "with chilling contempt". Charles Spencer, in the Telegraph, describes it as a "moving and compellingly readable memoir", which is written "with palpable love, warmth, affection and a huge sense of loss . . . the book is deeply moving in its closing section, following Pinter's cancer diagnosis in 2001".

One-trick pony?

For Jay Parini in the Guardian, the novelist and critic Edmund White's New York memoir, City Boy, is "the story of sexuality run amok, detached from love, caught in its own whirligig of mindless sensual motion . . . [White] takes us into the 1960s and 70s, describing Manhattan life in those tumultuous decades with a compulsive, self-revelatory energy." To Nicholas Shakespeare in the Telegraph, it is "at bottom, an old-fashioned period piece about a fascinating period". Despite flashes of White at his best, Shakespeare "wanted to like the result more than I did. Too often I found myself wondering if he had mistaken candour for truth or if his characters were one-trick ponies overly defined by their sexuality."

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“The Hole-Up”: a poem by Matthew Sweeney

“You could taste the raw / seagull you’d killed and plucked, / the mussels you’d dug from sand, / the jellyfish that wobbled in your / hands as you slobbered it.”

Lying on your mouth and nose
on the hot sand, you recall
a trip in a boat to the island –
the fat rats that skittered about
after god-knows-what dinner,
the chubby seals staring up,
the sudden realisation that a man
on the run had wintered there
while the soldiers scoured
the entire shoreline to no avail –
you knew now you had been him
out there. You could taste the raw
seagull you’d killed and plucked,
the mussels you’d dug from sand,
the jellyfish that wobbled in your
hands as you slobbered it.
You saw again that first flame
those rubbed stones woke in
the driftwood pile, and that rat
you grilled on a spar and found
delicious. Yes, you’d been that man,
and you had to admit now you
missed that time, that life,
though you were very glad you
had no memory of how it ended.


Matthew Sweeney’s Black Moon was shortlisted for the 2007 T S Eliot Prize. His latest collection is Inquisition Lane (Bloodaxe).

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt