DIARY
. am always intrigued by the places where
writers choose to write. Some retire to a hut at the bottom of the garden, while oth- ers rent separate rooms or go into retreat in a quiet inn. I am always surprised that they can find one. However peaceful the Place may be in the week, the Saturday night disco is an invariable abomination. This ploy also, presumably, requires some- one to be at home to cope with the answer- Phone, the post, collecting the dry-cleaning and repelling burglars. A novelist friend who lives in north London tells me that When she starts a book she goes for two Whole days and sits in the outpatients' department of her local hospital. No one ever disturbs her, she can vary the scene by moving from department to department, from skin to orthopaedics, from urology to geriatrics, and can buy coffee and a light lunch at the cafeteria. But this is a suitable retreat only for those who can write com- fortably on their laps and are not allergic to the smell of disinfectant. I hope that no one stops her; she is, after all, causing no nui- sance. The overworked staff must be relieved to see someone sitting quietly, scribbling away and demonstrating so effec- tively what it means to be called a patient.
M, y admirable part-time secretary and .J are at present a little flummoxed by the increasing demand for signed photographs and autographs. Many of my writer friends have noticed the same phenomenon; per- laps it is becoming a craze. I hope not, oecause signing and sending off is expen- sive. and time-consuming but can hardly be avoided for those, and they are not in the majority, who send a stamp. An extraordi- narily high proportion seem to be suffering from illness or physical disability. The 87- Year-old lady who says she is semi-blind and confined to her room through arthritis certainly has an extraordinarily firm and Clear hand, but it might easily be true and she gets her signed photograph. I am less M, dulgent to those who, while professing a afe-long devotion for me and my work, enquire whether I am satisfied with the television portrayal of Inspector Morse or Chief Inspector Wexford, or who address the envelope to Mr P D James.
have recently returned from Ely where I gave a talk on crime writing organised by the local library. Ely has changed dramati- cally in recent years and it was difficult for me to recognise the depressing city where, at the age of 16, I spent a miserable year ‘v. orking in the local tax office; never can Joh and worker have been more mis- matched. Visiting the Cathedral, now a recurring joy, was then a matter of survival. P. D. JAMES
The riverside, in particular, has been trans- formed and the converted maltings is an attractive small concert hall. After the talk there was a gratifying line for the signing of paperbacks, gratifying, too, to the local bookseller who is one of those who will be most hit if the Net Book Agreement goes. I have great difficulty in making up my mind on this issue which is one of balancing two opposing goods, cheaper books (but which books and cheaper for how long?) and the preservation of small local bookshops. I am reminded of a friend, appropriately named Harvey, who used to invite large weekend parties to his remote thatched cottage in rural Essex in an attempt to keep the local pub from closing. We all co-operated in what Harvey proclaimed was his personal campaign for the preservation of rural Eng- land. My contribution can't have helped much although I tried to make up in quality what my drinking lacked in quantity. The campaign was, I am afraid, doomed but at least the pub wasn't having to compete with a pub 20 miles down the road selling beer discounted at 15 per cent.
The Booker Prize is necessarily contro- versial providing as it does such tempting targets for criticism; the choice of judges, the choice of chairman of the judges, the choice of the short-list and finally, of course, the choice of winner. It seems to add to the general pleasure if a judge walks out and the unsuccessful authors — as sometimes happens, although not this year — react with less than sportsmanlike sang- froid, or if discord is rumoured to be rife. Judging, as I know from experience, is arduous, time-consuming and never easy. What is a literary novel? What indeed is a novel? How far is it possible to put out of 'Here comes my femme fatale.'
mind the writer's past achievement? Do you rate high ambition almost achieved above more modest aims perfectly realised? How much credit should be given to sheer reading enjoyment, and is it possi- ble to separate this from literary merit? Should the short-list be one which includes only books which the majority of judges would be happy to see win, or include each judge's first favourite? Judges should, I feel, resist the increasing temptation to see difficulty in reading and absence of plot as a definite merit, although I accept that my 'difficult book' may be another judge's 'easy read'. It is these questions and the varying reponse to them that makes the job of judging literary prizes so fascinating. Meanwhile the dinner itself is an enjoyable annual reunion and this year, as usual, food and wine were well above average for a public dinner. Authors and readers alike would surely agree with Sir Michael Caine, that it i is preferable for a great company to promote its image supporting literature rather than by providing logos for the jumpers of footballers. This year the name of the winner was leaked, although not at the table I was at. Perhaps this was one rea- son why the applause for all the short-listed authors seemed more muted than in previ- ous years.
0 ur pieces of plastic are undoubtedly convenient but I am beginning to wonder whether we don't pay too high a price for them. Recently my Access statement showed a debit of £1,100 spent at a Pinner travel agency which I have never in my life visited. I was told that the fraud, which was, of course, causing them immense inconve- nience, had already caused 50 complaints. My card had never been out of my posses- sion and a false one in my name had obvi- ously been forged from information obtained from one of the carbons or flim- sies. As I had only used the card at a very small number of shops and one restaurant, I was fairly sure which one was responsible and was sorely tempted to try my hand at a little amateur detective work. Perhaps it was as well that I was too busy to try as no doubt I should only have hindered the offi- cial investigation. I can only hope that there is one. It shouldn't be beyond the wit of man to devise a safer system, particularly now that Access are charging an annual fee, presumably in order to keep the inter- est low, a system which benefits those who don't pay promptly at the expense of those who do. Credit card fraud is, I am told, prodigious, amounting to millions a year. Unless better safeguards can be devised perhaps we should begin cutting up our pieces of plastic and get back to cheque- books.
Previous page
