Discovering David Foster Wallace

I've come to his work late, but I'm looking forward to reading it all.

There's a bookshop in my favourite part of the city in which I live in which marauds an unshaven man with dishevelled hair. I know nothing about this man, but he is the tool with which I measure the aptness and the good sense of my taste in literature. Usually, he is found to be in one of two positions: either lying on the sofa looking angry, or deliberately disordering the books on his shelves (he owns the shop, and he's entirely right to think that people will stay longer if his books aren't alphabetised. It's because of wisdom like this that I use him as my tool). It was from this man that I bought the only book I own by David Foster Wallace - and when I bought it his features reassembled themselves from a look of slight fury into a look of slight misery. This is what he does when he thinks you have made an excellent choice of book. I promptly congratulated myself.

Wallace is a much talked about author. He is also an author whom I hadn't read, and knew nothing about. I began reading Oblivion, which I discovered was the last work of fiction to be published before his death, and was suspicious. To my closed and inattentive ears, Wallace is one of those writers who inspires an untrustworthy intensity of love in otherwise trustworthy people. It's not that I didn't want to like Wallace, or even that I crassly sought to disagree with those who liked him for no reason other than the contrariness; but many admirable minds laud him as one of the greatest novelists of his "generation", and I distrust both praise and references to generations. Imagine the delight and the shame I felt when I discovered that Wallace wrote a mockery of the hagiographic use of "generation" too - in his short story "Death Is Not the End" he writes a parodic biography of a dead poet which "two separate American generations have hailed as the voice of their generation".

By virtue of almost nothing other than my own ignorance, I suppose I'm ripe to fall into the second generation of Wallace admirers (which is exactly what I am - I decided a couple of days ago whilst sitting on the Northern line). The forthcoming, posthumously published novel The Pale King is not a book that I, unlike Wallace's legion of fans, have been "eagerly awaiting". It's not even a book I knew existed until recently - but in reading two early reviews (in Time and GQ), I've learnt the odd thing about Wallace that has made me abandon my scepticism. What would Wallace think about the consolidation of my respect growing from the textual peripheries of others, rather than from his own writing? I suppose he'd look sad and shrug, but then, I haven't even finished Oblivion yet, so I wouldn't know. In any case, I should qualify myself - my respect has been consolidated not by these reviews, but by the extracts of Wallace's writing embedded in them.

Still, assertions like Lev Grossman's (in the Time review) that Wallace's remaining notebooks are "chewed over and bent and practically charred by the intellectual energy Wallace expended in them" are symptomatic of the kind of mythologising that good dead authors find themselves subject to. That one of these notebooks had a picture of one of the Rugrats on the front is testament of how, to put it tritely, paper was paper to Wallace. I'm not sure he'd want his manuscripts monumentalized - tempting as that might be. "He switched pens practically every paragraph" Grossman breathlessly notes. Well, he probably didn't. And if he did, that makes him silly, not a genius.

His essay collection, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again begins quietly with a distancing "supposedly" and escalates into an absolution of a "never again" - which sounds both a threat and a loss, like a child covering disappointment with disobedience. It makes me wonder, of the so many people who have waited for The Pale King, how many would really have the ability to be disappointed with this last slice of Wallace. John Jeremiah Sullivan articulates a feeling that any reader who has fallen in love with an author has felt: "I was surprised to have the wind sucked out of me by the thought ... that there would be no more Wallace books". Perhaps this is the best thing about my slowly dissolving ignorance: I've got a lot of Wallace books still left to read.

Jonathan Derbyshire reviews "The Pale King" in this week's issue of the New Statesman

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Conjuring the ghost: the "shape-shifting, queer, violent, hippie genuis" of David Litvinoff

A new biography tracks down the elusive Kray confidant who became a friend of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards.

David Litvinoff is a mythic character to anyone with an interest in London during the Sixties. An intimate of the Krays, he was a tough and violent Jew from the East End. He was also a musical genius with an unrivalled knowledge of jazz, the blues and rock that made him a valued friend of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. It was his ability to move from the East End to Chelsea, from the dives of Soho to Notting Hill, that was the critical factor in the extraordinary vision of London that Donald Cammell and Nicolas Roeg conjured into the film Performance, for which Litvinoff is credited as dialogue coach. And yet, even though all this is known and recorded, he remains a ghost, a figure who wrote nothing and who systematically destroyed all the records of his life he could lay his hands on. Even his exact role in Performance is shrouded in mystery. He is said to have dictated much of the script to Cammell. This biography claims that Jagger’s mesmerising song on the soundtrack, “Memo from Turner”, was in fact a memo from Litvinoff.

Multiple reports describe him as the most brilliant talker London had known since Coleridge, but although there are rumours of tapes they have always been just rumours. I’d have thought he was a figure who would defeat any biographer – a shape-shifting, queer, violent, hippie genius lost in a mist of hallucinogens – but Keiron Pim’s account of this extraordinary character is a magisterial work of scholarship. He tracks down all the living witnesses; he has also unearthed letters, and even some of those long-lost tapes.

The story that emerges is even harder to believe than the legend. Litvinoff came out of the Jewish East End but he was from one of its most talented families. His name was not even Litvinoff: his mother’s first husband went by that name but David was the son of her second, Solomon Levy. Long before he met the Krays or the Stones, he was a gossip columnist on the Daily Express, practically inventing the Chelsea set that shocked the prim Fifties. By that time he had met Lucian Freud, who painted him in an astonishing study, the working title of which was Portrait of a Jew. Litvinoff was furious when Freud exhibited it with the new description of The Procurer, and the bad blood between these two men, both of whom inhabited the drinking clubs of Soho and the Krays’ gambling joints, remained for the rest of their lives. In fact, it is Freud who comes over as the villain of the book, fingered by Pim as the man behind the most violent assault on Litvinoff: he was knocked unconscious at the door to his own flat, on the top floor, and awoke to find himself naked and tied to a chair suspended from the balcony, nose broken and head shaved bald.

I learned much from this book: a period working for Peter Rachman before he became involved with the Krays; sojourns in Wales and Australia when he was fleeing threats of violence. The big discovery for me, however, was Litvinoff’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the jazz and blues traditions that gave birth to rock’n’roll. He taught the Stones a lot but he taught Eric Clapton even more – they were both living at the Pheasantry building on the King’s Road, and Litvinoff seems to have had unlimited access to the most recherché back catalogues and the most recent unreleased recordings. The book traces, but does not comment on, a transformation from an amphetamine-fuelled hard man in the Fifties and early Sixties to the oddest of hallucinogen hippies by the Summer of Love in 1967.

But, for all Litvinoff’s knowledge, wit and gift for friendship, his tale is a tragedy. A man who could talk but couldn’t write; an out gay man long before it was acceptable, who seems never to have been at ease with his sexuality; a proud Jew without any tradition of Judaism to which he could affiliate. Above all, this was a man who lived to the full the extraordinary moment when London dreamed, in Harold Wilson’s Sixties, that class was a thing of the past. Back from Australia in the early Seventies, Litvinoff awoke again to find that it had indeed been a dream. His suicide in 1975 was cold and deliberate. He had outlived his time. 

Colin MacCabe edits Critical Quarterly

Jumpin’ Jack Flash: David Litvinoff and the Rock’n’Roll Underworld by Keiron Pim is publisyhed by Jonathan Cape (416pp, £16.99)

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser