Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Not long ago, I was invited to open a literary festival in Toronto together with the Canadian writer Alice Munro, whose work I have loved and admired for years. Flying to Canada: what a nightmarish thought! My whole body seemed to recoil from it, because my legs have become so wobbly that walking more that about 50 yards is impossible, and even that much is frighteningly difficult when my deaf old head is being battered by the incomprehensible din of places such as airports, an experience so horrid that probably no undeaf person can imagine it.
No no, I couldn’t face it. But then I thought: “The chance to meet Alice Munro at last – how can I throw that away?”
Alice Munro will be 80 in July.
Friday, 25 March 2011
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Sunday, 26 September 2010
Her eyes were not exactly blue or grey. They were the colour of the sea, the sea on a dull morning without sunlight. That was how they were when he looked, but he didn’t often look. They had been together too long to take much notice of such details, but now he saw the way the strands of hair fell across her eyes and he asked her to marry him, for no other reason.
‘Don’t let’s make a big production out of it,’ he said, ‘not at our age. Lets just go away together somewhere quiet.’
Read the rest of the story in New Writing Vol. 7,