The Digested Twenty-first Century (35 page)
Read The Digested Twenty-first Century Online
Authors: John Crace
In one of the more adumbrated recesses of the palazzo, I find a book about Piero della Francesca that tells me little I do
not already know. That night I have a dream and I am impelled to seek out Constantine’s Dream. What does it mean to dream? I do not know but in an instant I realise that Piero and I are as one in our quest for a truth beyond human concerns.
As April gives way to May, I manage to contain my disappointment that Vasari had not been able to comprehend the violation of spatial perception and our days are immersed in existential games of tennis with Jim, and I take delight in seeing that my children, whom I have barely noticed for weeks, have become spiritually resolved at some deep level through their PlayStations of the Cross.
In Florence, I gasp at Raphael’s sublimation of the self. How quite unlike myself! Yet I sense a longing in his paintings, as if the question Raphael is constantly asking is ‘Who am I?’ How sad he should have to wait more than 500 years for me to tell him.
My book is almost complete. Jim sends me a love letter, unable to bear the pain of my departure, yet we must go briefly south. Naples is a broken place, somewhere only Raphael could mend, and we hasten north once more to the Vatican, where Catholicism’s empty promises fail to cure my blisters. A phone call informs me the South Koreans have paid far too much for the rights to one of my books – not a mistake they will make with this one – yet even so we are running out of money.
The signpost points towards Paris, but I hate being given directions so we turn off to spend our last night abroad in a pension among the yellow-white fields of the Charente. The children are disturbed by Madame’s Salle de Jeux. I, too, shudder at the lifeless froideur of the mannequins Madame has created and imagine an artist immersed in an empty, onanistic self-congratulation. Madame catches my eye and we give each other a smile of mutual recognition.
Digested read, digested:
The Last Straw.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
by JK Rowling (2007)
Harry Potter took off his Invisibility Cloak as he entered the Dursleys’ house in Privet Drive. He was back where it had all started six books previously. It had seemed much more fun in the beginning. No Muggles queuing up at midnight; no Winnebagos on the film set; just him, Ron and Hermione and a box of magic tricks. Now, he felt a little jaded. Still, he thought, if I can keep it together for another 600 pages, I’ll be off the hook. Free to pursue a different acting career.
His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Arthur Weasley, Ron, Hermione and 10 other familiar characters. ‘We’ve got to get you out of here,’ said Arthur. ‘The protective charm runs out when you are 17, and You Know Who and the Death Eaters will be after you. Six of us are going to take some Polyjuice potion to create some decoy Harrys.’
Harry knew he was up against it this time. A favourite character from an earlier book had been killed off within the first 80 pages. That Rowling woman meant business. ‘OK,’ said Harry, grimly, as Ron and Hermione embraced. ‘There might have been time for that kind of adolescent awakening in books five and six. Now, it’s time to get serious.’
Hermione recovered her customary poise. ‘You’re right, Harry,’ she replied. ‘The Ministry has been taken over by Voldemort, and the Order of the Phoenix is compromised. Nowhere is safe. You must continue your quest for You Know Who’s Horcruxes.’
The scar on Harry’s forehead burned, but an intense migraine was a small price to pay for giving the reader a chance to find out what Voldemort was doing and catch up with more back story.
It was the morning of Fleur’s wedding to Bill Weasley and Harry, Ron and Hermione were examining the strange bequests they had been left in Dumbledore’s will.
‘Why have we been given this effing rubbish?’ Ron laughed. ‘I’ve told you before that book seven is not the place for jokes and swearing,’ Harry answered sternly. Just then he saw Ginny passing. He didn’t know why – though he suspected it was something to do with letting the reader know that although he was a goody-goody on the outside, he was a rampant horny hetty on the inside - but he kissed her passionately. ‘Stay safe for me,’ he whispered knowingly.
‘I’ve found a strange mark in this book,’ exclaimed Hermione. ‘What do you think it means?’ Harry frowned. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he murmured, ‘but my scar will start hurting again soon and we’ll find out.’ Sure enough, the tingling sensation soon returned.
As he came out of his dream, which revealed yet more back story about Dumbledore, Harry intoned solemnly: ‘It’s the sign of the Deathly Hallows. We must find them and the Horcruxes.’
Harry, Ron and Hermione had criss-crossed the country getting out of ever-tighter scrapes with wizard spells, but still Harry felt no nearer to knowing what to do. Yet he had the strange feeling everything was becoming clearer.
‘I’m leaving you two,’ Ron declared one day. ‘I need to create some narrative tension.’ Harry was lost again but a Patronus spell led him to the Sword of Gryffindor. He had to step naked into an icy pool to retrieve it. ‘I knew getting the lead part in the school production of Equus would come in handy,’ he thought.
‘I’m back,’ said Ron, as Harry’s scar continued to reveal yet more of the seemingly endless back story. Sometimes Harry didn’t know if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead, as so many old characters flashed through his mind. ‘Don’t worry,’ said the figure of Dumbledore. ‘This time, no one knows what’s going on either.’
So Harry made his way back to Hogwarts to face Voldemort. It would end as he had always known it would. With everyone wondering what JK would do next.
Digested read, digested:
Harry Potter and the End of the Gravy Train.
The Digested Read has always been a collaborative effort. So thank you to all the editors and sub-editors over the years who have guided, supported and saved me from hideous errors. Both of judgment and fact. Thank you to all the literary festivals in Britain and around the world who have invited me to go off message. Thank you to all the publishers and authors who have treated me with far more generosity than I have treated them. Thank you also both to the column’s fans from Britain and around the world and to its critics. You have all made me think hard about what I am doing and kept me honest.
Names must be mentioned, though. At the
Guardian
, in order of appearance: Felicity Lawrence, Michael Hann, Toby Manhire, Ian Katz, Kath Viner, Lisa Darnell, Claire Armitstead, Paul Laity, Justine Jordan, Clare Margetson, Emily Wilson, Malik Meer, Tim Lusher, Robert Hahn, Melissa Denes, Andrew Gilchrist and Liese Spencer. My illustrators: Neal Fox, Matt Blease and Nicola
Jennings. At Constable & Robinson: Andreas Campomar and Charlotte Macdonald. My agent: Matthew Hamilton. My family: Jill Coleman, Anna Crace and Robbie Crace. The biggest thanks must go to Professor John Sutherland, the friend who taught me how to read properly. This book is dedicated to him.
Amis, Kingsley
169–70
Armstrong, Karen
250–2
Barnes, Julian
55–7
Bennett, Alan
3–4
Berlin, Isaiah
207–9
Blair, Tony
139–41
Bogarde, Dirk
179–81
Bourdain, Anthony
291–2
Bragg, Melvyn
11–13
Brown, Dan
266–9
Bryson, Bill
313–14
Chua, Amy
225–7
Chung, Alexa
99–101
Clark, Alan
172–4
Clarkson, Jeremy
114–16
Coelho, Paulo
236–8
Cooper, Jilly
85–6
Corden, James
152–4
Coward, Noël
176–9
Cox, Brian
251–2
Crichton, Michael
255–7
Cusk, Rachel
316–8
Dawkins, Richard
164–6
de Courcy, Anne
132–4
de Jour, Belle
127–9
Deaver, Jeffery
278–80
DeLillo, Don
7–9
Don, Monty
306–7
Druckerman, Pamela
230–2
Dubner, Stephen J
214–16
Dylan, Bob
125–7
Eggers, Dave
71–3
Eliot, TS
199–202
Eliot, Valerie
199–202
Elizabeth, Queen Mother
197–9
Ellis, Bret Easton
47–9
Elton, Ben
111–13
Epstein, Joseph
202–4
Eugenides, Jeffrey
57–60
Faulks, Sebastian
31–3
Ferguson, Niall
245–6
Fielding, Helen
101–4
Foer, Jonathan Safran
15–16
Forsyth, Frederick
264–6
Franzen, Jonathan
49–51
Fraser, Antonia
137–9
Frey, James
35–7
Fry, Stephen
314–16
Galbraith, Robert
285–7
Gill, AA
296–8
Gladwell, Malcolm
238–41
Grylls, Bear
147–9
Haffenden, John
199–202
Harris, Joanne
94–6
Harris, Thomas
271–3
Hawking, Stephen
246–8
Heller, Zoë
9–11
Henri-Levy, Bernard
192–4
Hitchens, Christopher
248–50
Hollinghurst, Alan
52–4
Hollywood, Paul
308–9
Hornby, Nick
107–9
Houellebecq, Michel
18–20
,
192–4
Isherwood, Christopher
195–7
Ishiguro, Kazuo
13–14
James, EL
92–4
Johnson, Rachel
87–9
Juska, Jane
122–3
Knausgård, Karl Ove
160–2
Larkin, Philip
187–9
Lawson, Nigella
298–300
le Carré, John
282–5
Lessing, Doris
26–8
Levitt, Steven D
214–16
Mankell, Henning
275–8
Mantel, Hilary
17–19
Márquez, Gabriel García
60–2
Martel, Yann
4–5
Maupin, Armistead
33–5
McCarthy, Cormac
21–2
McDermid, Val
273–5
McKenna, Paul
222–4
McNab, Andy
261–2
Middleton, Pippa
232–4
Mooney, Bel
220–2
Moore, Charles
156–9
Moran, Caitlin
227–9
Morrison, Blake
120–2
Mosley, Diana
182–4
Mullin, Chris
149–51
Nabokov, Vladimir
40–2
Nesbø, Jo
280–2
Oliver, Jamie
294–6
Palin, Sarah
134–6
Paltrow, Gwyneth
303–5
Parsons, Tony
109–11
Pearson, Allison
81–2
Pelzer, Dave
213–4
Picoult, Jodi
89–92
Price, Katie
96–8
Proulx, Annie
144–6
Ramsay, Gordon
292–4
Rankin, Ian
262–4
Raphael, Frederic
202–4
Redzepi, René
301–3
Richards, Keith
142–4
Roth, Philip
23–4
Rowling, JK
321–3
Self, Will
64–6
Shawcross, William
197–9
Sher, Anthony
174–6
Shriver, Lionel
45–7
Smith, Zadie
66–9
Sting
124–5
Strauss, Neil
216–8
Taleb, Nassim Nicholas
234–6
Tartt, Donna
6–7
Tynan, Ken
170–2
Waters, Sarah
37–40
Widdecombe, Ann
79–80
Wodehouse, PG
189–191
Wolf, Naomi
154–6
Wolfe, Tom
69–71
