The footnotes – and there are plenty of them – in Kevin Jackson’s brilliant account of Modernism in 1922 are printed in a fetching purplish shade. I wondered, as I read, enthralled, whether this was a subliminal allusion to Eliot’s phrase from The Waste Land, when Tiresias observes the assault by the clerk on the… Continue reading Constellation of Genius
To the Martin Harris Centre, for an event with Martin Amis, one of a series that exists largely to justify his salary, I expect. The attraction for me was not so much Amis fils, but Clive James, who, since he’s now three-score years and ten, was considered to be a suitable candidate for a debate… Continue reading Old Lags
Clive James was 70 this week. When he was a mere stripling in his thirties, I discovered the work he had done with Pete Atkin on a series of albums just coming to a premature end in the face of indifference from the great British public and the big record companies. I’ve been a fan… Continue reading Thirty Year Man
If you go, and you should, regularly, to the Clive James website, you’ll now find, in the links on the Cultural Amnesia page, a link to my review. I’m chuffed at that, and so I bring you, by commodious vicus of recirculation back to Topsyturvydom.
“It is so immense, I have no words for it” was T.S. Eliot’s reaction to Wyndham Lewis’s The Apes of God. Old Tom was possibly just relieved that he had escaped being skewered on Lewis’s satirical blade, unlike virtually everyone else in the precious hothouse world of the London literary scene in the twenties. I… Continue reading Cultural Amnesia