Beryl Bainbridge, 1934-2010

The acclaimed British novelist has died aged 75.

The novelist Beryl Bainbridge has died, aged 75. Born in Liverpool, she published her first novel, A Weekend with Claude, in 1967. During her career she was nominated for the Booker Prize five times and won the Whitbread Novel Award twice. The biographer Michael Holroyd paid tribute to her in the Guardian this morning:

Beryl had an absolutely original voice: she was a serious comedian, all of whose novels ended tragically . . . She presented herself sometimes as a clown, an entertainer, but behind that mask was a committed novelist. She was unique.

Bainbridge also had a long-standing association with the New Statesman, and contributed to our pages many times over the years. Here's an excerpt from a Diary column written in 2004:

For those over 50, the past is often more exciting than the present, in that it can rear up like a frightened horse and cause one's memory to bolt.

It happened to me a fortnight ago when I received a letter from a previously unknown member of my husband's family. Her dad, elder brother to my ex-husband, was dead, and she wanted to know about his brothers and sisters, and indeed, her grandparents, Nora and Harold.

There exists a famous photograph of the last named, entitled Afternoon in Avignon, in a museum in Liverpool, a city in which Harold was a notable architect. Harold fell off a mountain - he was facing bankruptcy - and Nora, then aged 70, after coming round and attempting to shoot me, threw herself under a train.

I didn't press charges because in between the gun and the railway line she knitted her grandson a woolly vest striped blue and green.

You can read more of Bainbridge's writing for the NS here.

Daniel Trilling is the Editor of New Humanist magazine. He was formerly an Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

Show Hide image

Intelligent life on earth: why we need Radio 4's Book of the Week

When a book on quantum gravity came on air, it sounded like a brief return to something that has declined so much over our lifetimes – knowledge as part of a function of a media flow.

It sounded like the densest of abridgements: five days of excerpts from Reality Is Not What It Seems: the Journey to Quantum Gravity by the Italian theoretical physicist Carlo Rovelli (week beginning 28 November, 9.45am). Swarms of quantum events where time does not exist. Cosmology, meteorology and cathedrals of atomism. Leucippus of Miletus and lines of force filling space. Very few of us listening could have understood what was being said. Instead, we just allowed it to wash over, reminding us that there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.

Perhaps once or twice, as the week progressed, token attempts were made to check that everybody was keeping up (“So, the number of nanoseconds in a second is the same as the number of seconds in 30 years”) – or to encourage listeners to picture themselves as part of an experiment (“Imagine I’m on Mars, and you were here . . .”). But generally it was utterly airtight, the reader, Mark Meadows, doing a good job of keeping his voice at a pace and tone uncondescendingly brisk, flattering us that nobody was scratching their head (“The speed of light determined by Maxwell’s equations is velocity with respect to what?”).

It was my favourite radio book reading of 2016. Not because I learned a single thing I could repeat, or might realistically mull over, but because it sounded like a brief return to something that has declined so much over our lifetimes – knowledge as part of a function of a media flow.

It’s that old idea that something might be there for your betterment. When we were exposed to just four channels on television especially, and forced to stay on them, we got into astronomy and opera and all sorts of stuff, almost against our will. (Rigoletto? Jesus. Well, there’s nothing else on . . .) The programme was marvellously and unapologetically impenetrable, as the days and chapters piled up relentlessly (“We are immersed in a gigantic flexible snail shell”). What this adaptation comprehended was that we don’t actually want someone explaining Einstein to us. What is much more compelling – more accurate and clever – is simply to show what it’s like in other people’s brains. 

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 08 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brexit to Trump