So It Was

This past week achieved. I completed three books including House of Meetings by Martin Amis and the Naipaul biography by Patrick French. I won't say much about the novel as it is a samizdat selection. Though I regard it as a triumph by being an Amis novel, not an effort to emulate survivor literature; instead it is cranky and insecure, Marty gone wild above the Arctic Circle.

The Naipaul affair revealed it self to be a bitchy one. There is a catty gossip about the biography, a linking of Antonia Fraser, her ex Hugh, her second Harold, all the while Anthony Powell snoops in and out of the Naipaul's world, (AP) reveals a dislike for Graham Greene (whereas Naipaul dismisses Powell's Dance To The music of Time) and in between we have Naipaul dismissing the entire developing world and all of French Literature, poor Vidia swaps carnal partners only to return to Tolkien's class back at Uni.

No, it isn't that tawdry, no Nancy Mitford at work here. I enjoyed it, found the frame of focus curious and felt that Paul Theroux is an ass. Well, I thought that before reading the book. Oh, I don't think I will read any Naipaul just now. Though his brother Shiva's work does appear interesting.