Read Online The Digested Twenty-first Century by John Crace - Free Book Online
Authors: John Crace
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that Paul Bryant, the famous writer over there?’ he said to a stranger. ‘Didn’t he make his name writing a biography of Cecil Valance, the crap poet?’
‘Yes. Though I’ve heard Paul tells lies about himself, too.’
Digested read, digested: Cecil Gay Lewis.
The Sense of an Ending
by Julian Barnes (2011)
There were three of us and Adrian now made the fourth. I would tell you the names of the other two, but they are of little consequence. Besides which, my memory is most unreliable and so it is possible I have not even remembered their names correctly and it would be a shame to burden you with even more potentially inaccurate information.
Suffice to say we were all rather smug public schoolboys, though Adrian’s sense of entitlement was perhaps the greatest, given as he was to making remarks such as: ‘History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.’ The only challenge to our self-satisfaction occurred when a boy named Robson committed suicide after getting a girl pregnant, but fortunately it wasn’t long before Adrian was able to put us right. ‘Eros and Thanatos,’ he said. ‘Camus believed suicide was the only true philosophical question.’ Or maybe he didn’t say that at all.
Who knows?
Adrian naturally went on to Cambridge while I continued my less than average life at Bristol. There I met Veronica Ford, who was to become my first girlfriend. Though when I say girlfriend, I don’t mean that in quite the sense you may think, as though this was the 60s. The 60s didn’t really happen until the 70s for me. If then. I’m still not too sure. But Veronica and I kissed now and again, and she once invited me to her home in Chislehurst for the weekend. It wasn’t a great success. Her father and brother were stand-offish, Veronica appeared ashamed of me and only her mother was in the least bit pleasant. Though I didn’t understandwhat she meant when she said: ‘Don’t let Veronica get away with too much.’ But then, she might not have said it anyway.
I could go on, but as I can sense you might quickly tire of the flatness of my prose, the absence of any emotion and the repetition of the unreliability trope, I propose to keep this short. I did eventually sleep with Veronica, after we had split up, but it wasn’t very satisfactory for me so I split up with her again. In any case she had shown rather too much much interest in Adrian on the one occasion they had met. At least that’s how it all seemed, though I can’t really have cared too much as I went travelling to America after I left Bristol. I came home to discover Adrian had committed suicide. My sense of grief was overshadowed by one of awe for his wholehearted embrace of Camus.
There’s not much to say about the next 40 years. I got a job, got married to Margaret, had a child and then got divorced after my wife left me. I’m surprised you haven’t left me as well. Though maybe you have and I just don’t remember. I was living on my own when a letter arrived informing me I had been left £500 and Adrian’s diary in Veronica’s mother’s will. The money duly arrived, but the solicitor informed me there was a problem with the diary.
I called Margaret to ask for her help. ‘Do you think I loved Veronica?’ I said. It might seem a strange question; stranger still that I chose to ask it of my ex-wife. But the one thing I have never forgotten is that I am almost catatonically disconnected. ‘You’re on your own now,’ Margaret replied. Which was also odd, as I was under the impression I already was.
It fell to me to contact Veronica by email. Veronica’s behaviour was even stranger than my own, arranging to meet me and then leaving me without saying a word and then taking me for a drive past a group of care in the community people, also withoutexplaining why. And as I am a doormat, it didn’t occur to me to ask. Not that I can remember anyway. It also turned
‘Yes. Though I’ve heard Paul tells lies about himself, too.’
Digested read, digested: Cecil Gay Lewis.
The Sense of an Ending
by Julian Barnes (2011)
There were three of us and Adrian now made the fourth. I would tell you the names of the other two, but they are of little consequence. Besides which, my memory is most unreliable and so it is possible I have not even remembered their names correctly and it would be a shame to burden you with even more potentially inaccurate information.
Suffice to say we were all rather smug public schoolboys, though Adrian’s sense of entitlement was perhaps the greatest, given as he was to making remarks such as: ‘History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.’ The only challenge to our self-satisfaction occurred when a boy named Robson committed suicide after getting a girl pregnant, but fortunately it wasn’t long before Adrian was able to put us right. ‘Eros and Thanatos,’ he said. ‘Camus believed suicide was the only true philosophical question.’ Or maybe he didn’t say that at all.
Who knows?
Adrian naturally went on to Cambridge while I continued my less than average life at Bristol. There I met Veronica Ford, who was to become my first girlfriend. Though when I say girlfriend, I don’t mean that in quite the sense you may think, as though this was the 60s. The 60s didn’t really happen until the 70s for me. If then. I’m still not too sure. But Veronica and I kissed now and again, and she once invited me to her home in Chislehurst for the weekend. It wasn’t a great success. Her father and brother were stand-offish, Veronica appeared ashamed of me and only her mother was in the least bit pleasant. Though I didn’t understandwhat she meant when she said: ‘Don’t let Veronica get away with too much.’ But then, she might not have said it anyway.
I could go on, but as I can sense you might quickly tire of the flatness of my prose, the absence of any emotion and the repetition of the unreliability trope, I propose to keep this short. I did eventually sleep with Veronica, after we had split up, but it wasn’t very satisfactory for me so I split up with her again. In any case she had shown rather too much much interest in Adrian on the one occasion they had met. At least that’s how it all seemed, though I can’t really have cared too much as I went travelling to America after I left Bristol. I came home to discover Adrian had committed suicide. My sense of grief was overshadowed by one of awe for his wholehearted embrace of Camus.
There’s not much to say about the next 40 years. I got a job, got married to Margaret, had a child and then got divorced after my wife left me. I’m surprised you haven’t left me as well. Though maybe you have and I just don’t remember. I was living on my own when a letter arrived informing me I had been left £500 and Adrian’s diary in Veronica’s mother’s will. The money duly arrived, but the solicitor informed me there was a problem with the diary.
I called Margaret to ask for her help. ‘Do you think I loved Veronica?’ I said. It might seem a strange question; stranger still that I chose to ask it of my ex-wife. But the one thing I have never forgotten is that I am almost catatonically disconnected. ‘You’re on your own now,’ Margaret replied. Which was also odd, as I was under the impression I already was.
It fell to me to contact Veronica by email. Veronica’s behaviour was even stranger than my own, arranging to meet me and then leaving me without saying a word and then taking me for a drive past a group of care in the community people, also withoutexplaining why. And as I am a doormat, it didn’t occur to me to ask. Not that I can remember anyway. It also turned
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