107. John le Carre

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you will perhaps recall the fact that my yumptious Parent's house is in reality a library. Growing up, that library seemed already to have everything I needed in it: Winnie-the-Pooh, Enid Blyton, Frances Hodgson Burnett, etc. The only authors I had to add myself were Judy Blume and Virginia Andrews. Sadly for me, as it turned out.

When I put away my childish things (still haven't completely) the library really came into its own. It didn't occur to me until I was quite grown up that both my parents were prodigious readers - I suppose I assumed everybody's parents had houses stacked with books. But there was PG Wodehouse and Jilly Cooper (very useful for those awkward transitional years. Also very instructive.) and the Brontes and Jane Austen and great books old and new, as far as the eye could see. But, saved til quite late as I believed myself not intelligent enough, with their pale covers and bold typefaces, was the work of John le Carre (the computer won't do the accent, sorry.)

My notion is that the Old Man was the big le Carre fan, and that the Parent read him because she reads everything, but I may be wrong...

I'm still too stupid to get all the nuances and complexities - he's worse than Iris Murdoch for complexities - but the writing is like jumping into Lake Coniston on a clear day. It is bright, cold and clear and somehow painful but satisfying. He captures voices like nobody else. A character can have three lines over eighty pages and you would know him anywhere. The spy stories are labyrinthine and thick with cigarette smoke and ennui, and not for everybody, but if George Smiley didn't exist the world would be a poorer place. I have struggled with the post-Smiley world. Some have, some haven't. I haven't worried about it too much, as I have the spooky stuff to go back to, and I even like his first two novels. The best thing of all was discovering the man behind the wounding, inspirational pen. I have seen him talk twice, and both times I've sat rapt with attention and fascination. He'd have been a great teacher, I think.

So anyway, another bookish thing, but a vital one. He's nearly 80 now, tucked away on his Cornish clifftop. He likes a whisky at the end of the day, apparently, so here I raise my glass to John le Carre. Long may he scribble.