When a President Had Confidence In The Outcome
Amis Responds
There is something a little tawdry about this now; I do hope this unseemly spat is now put to bed, although I suspect we've not heard the last from messrs Ford & Amis.
Dear Anna Ford, Your surprise attack at least has the virtue of simplicity. You argue that I should accept the sternest possible treatment from the press, because 1) I was and am a poor godfather to your daughter Claire, and 2) I paid a visit to your husband Mark Boxer's sickroom, with Christopher Hitchens (you say we were "filling in time" before going on to Heathrow), and we stayed too long, smoked cigarettes "over his bed", and then I trumped up a memoir where I lyingly claimed to have left the house in distress.
Your first point is well taken. Your second is an unworthy farrago.
It is true that I am a useless godfather, as Nina Raine and Antonia Hitchens can grimly confirm. And I now recognise a lost opportunity: unlike Nina and Antonia, Claire was abruptly fatherless. And when I met her as a young adult, on the occasion you describe, she expressively and warmingly reminded me of Mark (and I told her so). I will be writing to her to offer my apologies and regrets.
As for point 2, you are conflating two separate visits (and I made several such, not only to your house but also to that Tudorbethan hospital in Maida Vale). The visit described in the memoir I wrote about Mark was my final visit. The next morning I was scheduled to fly out with my family for our usual holiday in the US – where, days later, I read Mark's obituary in the New York Times. (Perhaps this is how the "plane to catch" business comes in.) On that occasion I said my last words to him and he said his last words to me, and I remember very clearly what they were. Then I left, and managed to reach my car before I was overwhelmed. (And, for the record, I never smoked a cigarette in Mark's bedroom.)
So I hope you can delete these items, at least, from your overall roster of grievances. And I wonder how it serves Mark's memory, or warms his ghost, to suggest that his two devoted friends (I and Christopher) behaved with such implausible callousness. What sane person "fills in time" at a deathbed? We both loved him, and still mourn him Many did, and many do. He was a powerfully delightful man. As ever,
Martin Amis
The Open Letter
It's been a week since I last posted here; considerations over at lukecoleman.co.uk have kept me from exploring for new letters, although I have a few up my sleeve for later takes. It's been on my mind this evening, "What sort of letters can I tackle?" and then this open letter from Anna Ford to Martin Amis came to my attention. I'll be seeking out more gems, covering different emotions and topics throughout this week.
Dear Martin Amis,
You complain about the "reckless distortions" and "chaotic perceptions" of you in the press. You seem bemused, hurt and outraged. Perhaps a closer and more honest look at yourself in relation to others could be one explanation? Two stories from my own experience of you illuminate what I mean.
First, you visited Mark Boxer, my husband, when he was dying. You came with Chris Hitchens. Mark was exhausted because you stayed far too long. You smoked over his bed. I later learned the length of visit was not borne just of affection, but you were filling in time before you caught a plane at Heathrow. You wrote a piece about your feelings and tears as you left. I saw no evidence of these.
Second, Mark asked you to be godfather to our daughter Claire. She was six when he died and when later she was reading English at University said she was studying Martin Amis and did I know anything about him? Oddly enough, I told her, he's your godfather. We invited you to lunch. You paid scant attention to Claire (didn't even cough up the statutory five bob expected from godfathers!) and she hasn't heard from you since.
Can I suggest this level of narcissism and inability to empathise may be at the root of your anger with the press and your need to court attention? As ever,
Anna Ford
London
This Bloody Valentine's Day
I was unsure how to address the subject of St Valentine's Day. The day is so devisive, and littleletters is a broad church, so I have selected some letters of heartbreak and some of love.
First up we have two notes exchanged between Winston Churchill and his fiance of just one day, Clementine Hozier. Simple notes, penned on the 12th of August, 1908. They were married a month later.
Also, I came across an American Navy officer's letter to his wife, from 1947. Jim Chiles takes a beautiful glance at the future, a devout man assuring his wife of their dreams.
But I'm a cynical, bitter sod, and all this good stuff is getting on my nerves. So, glory in the "Dear John" letter to Walter in 1943 - she's met someone new and he drives a blue convertible, no less.
The Virgin Atlantic Complaint Letter
There is a strong suggestion that this letter was a PR stunt dreamt up by those bods at WCRS advertising agency. Whilst it would take the shine off this masterpiece somewhat, it would be the equivalent of viewing the sun through thin-weave cotton. Enjoy this, I've left the majority of photographs out as they add little.
Dear Mr Branson
REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008
I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.
Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at the hands of your corporation.
Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [see image 1, above].
I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?
You don't get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it's next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That's got to be the clue hasn't it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they? Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in?
I know it looks like a baaji but it's in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you'll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with clear oil on top. Its only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.
Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So let’s peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what's on offer.
I'll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine its Christmas morning and you're sat their with your final present to open. It's a big one, and you know what it is. It's that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.
Only you open the present and it's not in there. It's your hamster Richard. It's your hamster in the box and it's not breathing. That's how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [see image 3, above].
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking it's more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It's mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.
Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.
By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it's baffling presentation: [see image 4, above].
It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn't want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.
I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.
Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on: [see image 5, above].
I apologise for the quality of the photo, it's just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson's face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel: [see image 6, above].
Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I'd had enough. I was the hungriest I'd been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.
My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations: [see image 7, above].
Yes! It's another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.
Richard. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I'd done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.
So that was that Richard. I didn't eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can't imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.
As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It's just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to its knees and begging for sustenance.
Yours Sincerely
XXXX
Pics from This American Life
The photos from the TAL story
This American Life
I love my podcasts, and as mentioned, hope to begin broadcasting one about letters - as a precursor to that fairly far away event, I thought I should recommend to you This American Life. This week's show is unusually just one story, but it's a belter, and carries some letters from people at first unknown. Take an hour to enjoy.
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/
A Link Between The Written & The Typed
Years ago, when email was something not even Matthew Broderick in War Games had access too (remember being amazed at a computer that could play Naughts & Crosses? Call it Tic Tac Toe if you want, but I shalln't be swayed), I remember hearing stories of chain letters. Well, not so much stories, but rumours, usually picked up by my bored ears when the adults were mouth-farting away, possibly in the pub of a Sunday lunchtime where I had to sit still and behave. Did they occasionally hit the news in the late 70s and early 80s?
Mostly, chain letters are ways of making money, be they the pyramid schemes of which we are all aware, or the more interesting marketing schemes of Africa. The premise here is that the letter is purported to have originated with the Pope or Christ most often. The recipient is encouraged to copy the letter and send it on, with examples of people that have made millions by obeying the instructions, and those lost souls who have had misfortune visited upon them by ignoring the con. Who wins in this situation? Local photocopy shops, from where the letters originate. At least these letters had a purpose, albeit a con. With the advent of email, and latterly Facebook, MySpace et al, these letters have become tedious and specious. Ranging from "X will happen when you've forwarded this email to 20 people..." to "This photo of a ghost was seen by...", they all grind my gears, if you'll excuse a Griffinism. They've now morphed into Facebook groups promising free Ugg Boots and all manner of crap for the gullible and daft. I understand the written scams, but who gets what out of the email nonsense?The Sound of One Hand Clapping - Van Gogh & His Letters review
“Il y a l’art des lignes et couleurs mais l’art des paroles y est et y restera pas moins.”
“There’s the art of lines and colours, but there’s the art of words that will last just the same.”
And so you are introduced to the exhibition of Van Gogh’s letters at the Royal Academy until 18th April this year. I was taken by a friend of the Academy, which saved me the £12 standard admission, and I was frugal in the shop afterwards as well, parting with just 50p for a post card to send to mother. She loves a post card and I’m the last of the big spenders, as well as being unemployed.
Aside from the above quote hovering across the first line of exhibits, the entrance hall hosts two large oval photographs of Vincent and his brother Theo, art dealer and main recipient of the letters. The sepias are poorly pasted to a wall pitted and studded with the evidence of many previous exhibitions – I’m picking at a small thing, but it was instantly apparent.
The letters themselves are physically beautiful. Tender parchment, displayed for the first time in years, kept under enough light. The beige paper supports the heavy dull brown ink scratches well, and of course many of these letters were illustrated with his sketches. He called them “croquis”. In the case of the one here and on the post card too, “Pollard Willow”. From his time in the Dutch countryside, Van Gogh was illustrating to his brother a new piece he was working on, an exercise in perspective.
It was good to revisit my Art History A level, and be reminded of the relevance of the empty chairs he painted whilst staying with Gauguin; a witty pair of portraits evidencing their strained relationship and social differences. Of course, his life was tragically short, blighted by mental illness. His mania was strongest in the last 70 days of his life, bashing out 70 canvasses, and many letters to Theo.
But for all the letters to Gauguin and Theo, for all the explanations of the relationships, this exhibition ultimately comes up short – the letters are only those of Van Gogh, not one reply. It gave the impression of listening to one side of a phone conversation. I would have liked to learn of Theo’s replies to the constant requests for brushes, canvasses and money. Letters from other artists to the man himself would have been fascinating. Annoyingly there is no explanation for their absence.
In the terms of the art, it’s a rounded exhibition, with some beautiful paintings and sketches. I was particularly taken with The Cypresses and the first Cut Sunflowers. If you enjoy his art, take it in. You’ll learn a lot about the man, and I’m sure on a weekday afternoon you’ll hear his quill imploring his brother to send more brushes.
How Letters Can Move Kings & Queens
After being handed such a treat for yesterday’s entry, I decided today that I would investigate what had happened on the 30th January in years gone by. Oliver Cromwell was ritually executed, two years after his death. Hilter was sworn in as Chancellor of Germany. Mahatma Ghandi was executed and the Bloody Sunday tragedy took place.
So clearly, letters about war should be the order of the day. However, I have set myself a small rule whilst updating this blog, namely that I keep the depressing letters to a minimum. There will be occasions when melancholic correspondence is appropriate; for instance I hope to focus on “rejection” one week, as I know of many funny rejection letters from publishers and employers. But also, there are letters of note spurning the advances of suitors, of estrangement from families. All ideas and materials gratefully accepted on this subject. Of course, if you feel that you would prefer not to help me with this theme, please send me a letter explaining your reasons. See what I did there?
So happy 73rd birthday, Boris Spassky. Remembered chiefly for the Reykjavík world championship match with Bobby Fischer in 1972, Spassky is still a fine player, but clearly well past his peak. Back when Spassky was celebrating his 57th birthday however, chess was presented with its youngest Grandmaster, Péter Lékó. One of his most notable achievements was drawing the classical chess world championship with Vladmir Kramnik in 2004. Kramnik’s subsequent “unification” match against Veselin Topalov is the backdrop to the novel I am writing – one half point more to Lékó, and he would be more important in my life.
Chess and letter writing have a long history, so today I thought I would write a short essay on this happy marriage, rather than present a letter. Often, when discussing the subject matter of the book I have been writing for so very, very long now, people make a statement. Rarely do they ask “Are you good at chess?”, usually they state, “You must be good at chess.” It’s a long way from the truth, as evidenced by my crushing defeat last night (wine and pot notwithstanding). And I’ve always loved the idea of the romance of being involved in a game of postal chess. Such patience and honesty. But I have never been involved.
The patience of postal chess is obvious. Waiting for the arrival of a letter that will most likely make a move long suspected – what else will a player do with the time between moves but analyse, scrutinise and agonise over every permutation? Depending on the distance and state of the local postal service, not to mention the thinking time an opponent requires, the days may turn to weeks. I’m not great at waiting for the next episode of whatever television series has hooked my attention, let alone the torment of awaiting a letter detailing the diagonal attack of a bishop or the L of a rook backing into position to defend its king. This extra time would also lead me down avenues of insecurity, staring my technical inability square in the face as I return to previous moves and admonish the weakness in my game that has driven me to such a perilous configuration.
I can’t be alone in this lack of confidence, chess is a game that absorbs people so deeply, almost to the point of madness (and beyond if we take a nod to the anything-but-sane Mr Fischer, may he rest in peace). Of course, for some it is nothing but an utter waste of time; this quote by George Bernard Shaw was pinned to our common room notice board at school, by a teacher frustrated at finding pushing pieces around a board rather than revising for out A levels,
“Chess is a foolish expedient for making idle people believe they are doing something very clever, when they are only wasting their time.”
Of course, being an total arse of an 18 year old, I responded by posting the old chestnut by the very same Mr Shaw, “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” Now, I hasten to add, I have utmost respect for teachers.
So, in my hypothetical game of chess I would face temptation. With the time and distance between two players of postal chess, the opportunity is there for assistance to be sought. Whether from a human of greater ability or from a computer programme, no one would ever know. Whilst in the formalised version of the game (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Postal_chess ) there is debate as to whether help is acceptable, for me there can be only one judgement on the question; the game should be played only by those that are scribbling algebraic notations to one another. This short film captures something of the essence of postal chess.
It’s a fast world; and this ancient, meditative game is not immune. Chess servers online offer speed matches of just one minute. Computers calculate millions of moves in nanoseconds. But I prefer letters to emails, the feel of wood to the tap of the keyboard. And for this reason, I want to find someone to play postal chess with.
