"Doubt is uncomfortable, certainty is ridiculous." Graham Greene

Graham Greene: a literary life is a slim volume I found in The Book Grocer, a small chain of Melbourne Bookstores with an interesting if unpredictable range. It’s part of the series called ‘Literary Lives’. This is not a biography of Greene (see Norman Sherry’s monumental three volume work or Michael Sheldon’s one volume attack) but an extended essay by Neil Sinyard on reflections of Greene’s life in his work.

Looking for an author’s life in his or her work is a hazardous one. In Greene’s book of collected essays, he includes his assessment of Beatrix Potter, looking at the change in her style as she gets older and wiser.  He includes the letter he received from her in response, which told him the books were published in a different order to the one in which they were written, so his conclusions were based on false assumption and in any case he should probably avoid this sort of Freudian analysis.

That said, I thought this book was a good overview of Greene’s work. It draws interesting conclusions from his early work as a reviewer and its effect on his writing. There is an interesting parallel between Greene and Hitchcock, both Catholic, working with political and personal intrigue, innocents falsely accused or out of their depths, and guilt. Hitchcock tried to buy the rights to Our Man in Havana, which would have been a better film if he had. But Greene refused to sell them to him and Sinyard, who writes on cinema and the relationship between film and literature, has a good theory why.

What I love about Graham Greene is what he called the splinter of ice in the writer’s heart: in moments of high emotion or vulnerability or confidentiality, there is that part sitting back and remembering it for use later in the work. I think all artists have to have that to some degree: Sondheim dedicated a song to a similar idea. Greene takes it as far as he can. I can feel his cold, unsentimental, almost pitiless eye in his work; even in what Greene would call his entertainments he sees past what fronts people may put on, to the fears and insecurities and deeply-felt beliefs that drive them. Greene, like Lear, sees the poor bare forked animal.

Greene hated being called a Catholic writer, preferring to think of himself as a writer who happened to be Catholic. He converted to marry his first wife, later lapsing (both as a Catholic and as a husband) but towards the end of his life started receiving the sacraments again.  Four of his best novels, The Power and the glory, Brighton rock, The End of the affair and The Heart of the matter, all feature Catholics trying to balance the demands of their faith with the life that is before them. This to me is what faith and religion feels like – not the unthinking comfort that some would tell you, but a constant challenge. Engaging with God is not a cop-out but somewhere between an on-going duologue and endless wrestle.

If you do want to read a biography of Greene, Sherry’s is authoritative but long, and Sheldon’s short but bitter and distorted. I’m not sure why people sit down to write biographies of people they don’t admire but there it is. There are other single volume biographies, with good reputations, as well as memoirs and Greene’s own autobiographical work but I have not read them, so cannot comment.

Greene is one of the great novelists of the twentieth century though he never won the Nobel Prize. Perhaps, as has been suggested, his apparent use of the suicide of the husband of one of his lovers, both of them Swedes, in one of his plays (there’s that splinter of ice again) alienated the Swedish judges. Perhaps his conventional style looked old hat in the era of modernism and postmodernism and his popularity suspicious. In any case, as Sinyard points out, he shares that odd distinction with giants such as Tolstoy, Ibsen, Conrad, Woolf , and Chekhov. (Hitchcock never won an Oscar for directing either.) Another writer Bryan Forbes challenges anyone to quickly name the last three recipients of the prize. Glittering prizes are one thing, great art is another.  Greene is by turns empathetic, cruel, humorous and terrifying. But always, always, readable.

"Thanking Christ for the BBC" Dickens' Bleak House

There are those even now who affect to disparage television. Who still call it the idiot box or the boob tube and boast how little they watch it. But I find that a bit odd in that it ignores the great variety that is on offer: dramas, documentaries, comedies, sport, and news. Yes, you can still watch your fill of pap, filler, crap, trash and so on, and you can waste hours watching the thing to no great benefit to anyone, but you can also enjoy great programming that entertains, illuminates, dazzles and educates. To do so, you probably need cable TV and expensive box sets and DVD/Blueray players but it can be done, and television is as intelligent as you want it to be - bounded by affordability.

The BBC has always enjoyed a reputation as a great production house of television, despite the fact they can produce crap the equal of anyone’s. But at its best, the BBC indeed deserves that reputation. One of their consistent strengths has been literary adaptation. I’m sure I am not alone in encountering many of the great classics first as a BBC production, and then reading the book. The latest stop on that journey has been Charles Dickens’ Bleak House.

I watched the BBC 2005’s production during a week at a well-to-do and generous friend’s house in England on DVD after every other form of entertainment in the house was eliminated through a problem with their internet connection. It was entertaining, gripping and challenging television.  And memorable. When we told his wife we were watching Bleak House, her first response was ‘Shake me up, Judy’, the catchphrase of one of the more odious of Dickens’ creations, Grandfather Smallweed, played by Phil Davis. Imagine my surprise a few weeks later when I met Davis as the brother-in-law of a friend of mine. I resisted a strong temptation to say ‘Shake me up, Judy’ though it lingered at the tip of my tongue for the entire meal that we shared.

I almost bought a copy of the novel a few weeks later but resisted for some reason. Books I find have to be read at the proper time. How you determine the proper time is a mystery to me, but I hold this to be true. Sometime last year, I finally bought a copy. Sometime this year, I finally finished it. It is a mighty undertaking. The BBC serial though excellent through necessity simplified the plot. Or plots, there are so many, more than any other Dickens novel that I’ve read. And the list of minor characters is enormous. Dickens, or his publisher, has kindly presented us with a cast list at the beginning of the book, which is indeed useful but by no means complete. That said, and with the large gaps between readings, I still found it relatively easy to slip back into the Dickensian world of Lady Deadwood, Esther Summerson and Jarndyce and Jarndyce.

[The book also took some time because I bought it. I have read many other books in that time, usually ones borrowed from the library. The three-week loan period (which can be extended to six) makes you tend to focus on those books at the expense of ones you own. Even now I can see an Iliad, Lucky Jim and a critical look at Graham Greene glowering at me from my bookshelf. Soon, I promise!]

What did come through strongly in the TV series, which has been confirmed by my reading, is Dickens’ anger. Dickens can often be dismissed as a writer of sentimental stories depending heavily on co-incidence and populated by eccentric characters. Adaptations, in order to simplify his books to the limited time-span offered by the various mediums, can accentuate these undeniable aspects of his work. ‘Oliver!’ is probably the most obvious example. But who can forget David Lean’s opening scene of ‘Oliver Twist’ with Oliver’s heavily pregnant mother caught in a merciless storm? And in BBC’s Bleak House, they caught so well Dickens’ widely cast eye on the vagaries and mercilessness of the law, the chasm between rich and poor, strong and weak, between good and evil.  Dickens’ blood would boil at the thought of the injustice in the England he loved so much, people thrown on society’s scrap heap, forgotten, mistreated, and those who would justify this as some sort of unquestionable order of society. The death of Jo would perhaps even soften Oscar Wilde’s heart.

So although Bleak House is not an easy read, it is a worthwhile one. The myriad stories are varied and satisfying, Dickens’ social commentary well observed and his humour rich. He is endlessly quotable. Those who have had dealing with the Law would find it hard to disagree with “The one great Principle of English law is, to make business for itself.” This book is said to be the beginning of Dickens’ dark period, so I suppose that accounts for the different experience I had in reading this and some of his earlier works. I also had difficulty in not picturing the actors again as I read the words. Dickens can often give quite detailed portraits of his characters, which in this case were often against the casting. But this is a minor quibble both in reading and watching.

Dickens was never afraid to use three words where one would have done, and his sentences can be ornate to the point of obscurity. But if you skim you can miss gems of phrases and words that shine like jewels in elaborate needlepoint. I tend to read on the train or in bed, both of which are not ideal places to savour writing, with the station or sleep fast approaching. Dickens wrote for the person sitting in their favourite armchair, reading for pleasure.  Eventually, that’s what I had to do. Dickens wrote for an audience who had more time. Tune in, drop out and read.

"A thing of shreds and patches." Jeremy Clarkson, 50 literature ideas, Clive James

Mel Brooks was once asked about the boundaries of comedy. How do you know what’s funny and what’s just in poor taste. His reply was a pithy comment on the nature of comedy: “What’s funny is funny.” I find that’s true; if a comedian or writer makes me laugh, then it doesn’t immediately matter if I agree with their premises or ideas. If your job is to make people laugh, that has to be your primary aim. Everything else comes later.

Jeremy Clarkson was once described by Clive James, who gave him his first job on television, as an ‘intelligent yob’. Clarkson I suspect would love that description. The persona he has developed on TV in ‘Top Gear’ or through his columns in The Sunday Time is a macho, sexist, revhead, anti-environmental and intolerant bloke. And for all I know he may be like that in real life. But he is also intelligent, witty and has a way with words. And he’s funny. I’ve just finished a light browse through his latest collection of columns How hard can it be? And it hits Clarkson’s usual targets: Greens, increasingly intrusive legislation, people who don’t like cars, anyone on a cycle (bi or motor), petty officials and many more. He is deliberately offensive at times, and that is part of the package. He pulls out statistics, admits immediately he’s made them up, then assumes the real statistics would prove his point anyway. It comes across as if he is talking off the top of his head, or out of somewhere lower, but it’s all carefully crafted. And importantly, it’s funny.

The tone can be a bit much after a while. Perhaps they should be read at the same pace as they were originally published, once a week. I would recommend his book I know you got soul, about machines such as Concorde, the Spitfire, the Great Britain and other machines that go beyond being a collection of metal and rivets and seem to acquire that elusive quality of soul. It’s an engaging read, still with the Clarkson persona, but also showing his genuine love of the subject.

Look, if you’re a fan of Clarkson, you know what to expect. If you’re not – try reading a few columns in the bookstore, or online. It doesn’t take long, and you might be surprised.

I’ve also read 50 literature ideas you really ought to know, which is one of a series (mathematical, physics, philosophy, big etc.) The format is simple, fifty short essays on some key ideas in each field, with quotations and insets, under subheadings of (in this case) Some Basics, Mechanics: how it works, Literature’s devices, New ideas, Word crimes and Literary future. This one is a good book for dipping into if you come across terms you are unfamiliar with – particularly useful in the world of literary criticism, which has become increasingly self-referential. Perhaps a tad overpriced in the bookstores, but then I only see them in hardback – an odd publishing decision. (The above link is to the Book Depository, much cheaper, and free delivery!)

And I bought a second-hand copy of one of Clive James’ collections of his TV columns from the Seventies, The Crystal Bucket. Although it is naturally dated, the writing is still good. His description of Lou Feringo in the Incredible Hulk, whose lateral muscles are so huge he has to hold his arms out as if his armpits have haemorrhoids, is a priceless word-picture. Interestingly too his contemporary take on David Frost’s Nixon interviews is somewhat at odds at how they have been more recently portrayed.

It occurred to me that these days, with younger reviewers and net reviewers etc, TV critics may know a lot about television, movie reviewers a lot about film, music critics about music, but that’s not enough. A good critic has a wide cultural background to draw on beyond their immediate subject, in order to give the work context and meaning. This knowledge may not be explicit in every review – the writer would become quickly pedantic and dull – but it is implicit, adding depth to even the lightest column. It is James’ wide knowledge in part which makes his writing so good. Newer writers, including myself, should take note.