Monthly Archives: May 2018


Christina Oxenberg’s book, Dynasty, published by Quartet, is still receiving the acclaim it deserves. Nudge Books, an influential book blog, published an extended review on 28 May, written by Paul Burke, which gives an insight on what he calls ‘an absorbing personal account of one of Europe’s royal families,’ saying:


Oxenberg is an endearing writer who finds it easy to get the reader on side. It’s warm but definitely not in any way sycophantic. Packed with details that royal lovers will gobble up, Oxenberg is keen to give her family a modern context as well as relate their history. She addresses the question of what a royal family does in the modern world.

The first question is how to classify Dynasty. There is no easy answer because Dynasty is part memoir, part history, part travelogue, and part reportage. For simplicity’s sake lets settle on memoir; it’s a very personal voyage into the past and the home country but also Oxenberg’s own past.

One of the things that struck me most about this memoir is that Oxenberg has been detached from her roots by time and place. She lives in Florida and grew up in America and Britain. “By birth I’m an American,” she says. When she arrives in Serbia in 2014, the family have just had their property restored to them. She finds that the people she meets know a lot more about her family history than she does. Oxenberg manages to convey some of the strangeness of that dynamic.

Dynasty is a diary of the epic journey Oxenberg undertook, and she is a natural story-teller. The book is an emotional read, particularly when she is telling the story of her grandparents, Prince Regent Paul and his consort, Princess Olga of Greece and Denmark. Oxenberg challenges the generally accepted image of her grandfather, a negative local perception apparently derived from internal family issues. She also contextualises her family history with the modern developments of European affairs.

Oxenberg clearly learnt about herself in this memoir and her frankness makes this an engaging read. Oxenberg doesn’t shy away from the horrible history; murder, brigands, slaughter of the Ottomans, assassination plots and intrigues. Oxenberg has a sharp eye and a keen wit. This memoir/history contains some new information and previously unseen photographs. For royal fans it’s a wonderfully entertaining read.

There you have it. Although I’m Christina’s publisher, as well as her friend of many years, I always feel a nostalgic sensation when a good review is published. For the benefit of those not familiar with the book, I need no compulsion in this regard for she is my icon for many personal reasons and beyond.

An Encounter With Edmund White


Edmund White was born in Cincinnati in 1940 and graduated BA from the University of Michigan. Between 1962 and 1970 he worked for Time- Life Books and in 1982 he became executive director of the New York Institute for the Humanities. Between 1981 and 1983 he taught creative writing at Columbia University. Le Monde called him the most accomplished American novelist since Henry James. His books include Nocturnes for the King of Naples (1978), States of Desire: Travels in Gay America (1980), A Boy’s Own Story (1982) and Genet, his most recent work, published in 1993.


What are your earliest memories, and what emotions do they stir?

My earliest memory is of my third birthday party during the war. My mother forced me to wear an aviator’s cap and a pilot’s uniform for children, and I hated the feeling of the cap and the idea of having to play with other children my own age. I much preferred being with adults. I didn’t like the idea of being forced to do anything. I was extremely attached to my mother, though she was a rather melodramatic and emotional person at that time. Now I think she is much more mature, but then she was going through the difficult end to her marriage, a very naïve woman who had been handed by her father to her husband. She had always been rather spoilt and didn’t even know how to write a cheque. Being aware that her husband was leaving her for another woman made it a painful period for her. Both my parents are Texans. My father was a cowboy when he was a boy and then became a self-made businessman. He was a person almost frightened of fantasy. He despised talking about people or ideas, or about anything imaginary. He preferred to talk about stocks and bonds, or measurements or scientific process. The one exception he made was for classical music, which he adored. When I was very young, we lived in Cincinnati, Ohio, which was a town settled by Germans in the 1840s and so a very musical city. My father loved all that. We went to the symphony every week and often had musicians play in the house. My sister and I both had to learn several instruments, the harpsichord, the recorder, the piano, the violin and so on. No, I didn’t get on well with my father. I was afraid of him. He was very violent. If you spoke at the table he would throw a spoon across and knock you out with it. He was a very eccentric man who disliked people. He slept all day and woke at six in the evening when he’d sit down to a massive breakfast. He then stayed up all night playing harpsichord music till dawn when he’d go back to bed. Since he owned his own business, he was able to do the work at home, then pass everything out under the door to his secretary – which is rather an efficient way to work, but not a very human one. He did it expressly that way because he didn’t like to come in to contact with people. With me he was always disappointed that I wasn’t more athletic, more aggressive; that I didn’t want to take over his engineering business; that I was too cissy, too artistic, too attached to my mother.

When your parents divorced, did it make for a great insecurity?

At first it was a great feeling of release because I didn’t like my father. The idea that we were rid of him, and that my mother, my sister and I could move to another, bigger city like Chicago – which is where we went – was very exciting. I also knew that it was easier for me to manipulate my mother than my father. But the second reaction was a feeling of guilt, because, I suppose, I had wanted to get rid of him. It was almost a classic Oedipal feeling that I had succeeded in killing off my father, or at least in disposing of him. At the time of the divorce we moved into a hotel before moving to Chicago, and while in the hotel I went through a terrible crisis of guilt. I locked myself in the toilet and kept shouting, ‘I did it, I did it! It’s all my fault!’ Finally they had to get the doorman to take down the door to get me out. About that time, when I was seven, I had an ink-blot test, and the person who gave me the test said the results pointed to somebody psychotic. I didn’t see any human beings in the test, only diamonds and graveyards. Those were my two great obsessions.

How far were those early years and experiences formative of your adult persona, or can these links be exaggerated?

The links can definitely be exaggerated. I feel not very much attachment to the child I once was. I have been extremely conscious of childhood influences, but have exorcized them through writing about them. I now feel quite detached from my childhood. One of the wonderful things about being a reader is that it puts you in touch with other lives and standards of behaviour. My own family was quite brutal and given to violence, and it was through novels that I learned about more decent ways of behaving. I wanted to aspire to that, to be like a person in a Henry James novel, not like someone in Tobacco Road by Erskine Caldwell. I didn’t want to be violent. You have to remember that my Texas relatives were homesteaders – pioneers who, as late as the end of the of the nineteenth century, moved to Texas with their rifles, still fighting off Indians. So we were not very remote from a state of real violence. One of my great-grandfathers was a preacher, and when he was denouncing somebody from his pulpit, the person he was denouncing shot him.

You always insist that you do not conform to the standard Freudian theory: the product of dominant mother and absent father.

When I wrote Nocturnes for the King of Naples, people said this book has a dominant mother and an absent father, therefore, Mr White, you subscribe to the Freudian pattern, don’t you? I replied I had not written the book as an illustration of a psychoanalytic period, but as an artistic reflection of my own experience, which may conform to certain Freudian dynamics but which I don’t feel was universally true for homosexuals. When I first started writing in the early 1970s, people would read a novel which was openly homosexual as though it was a blueprint for all homosexuals, as if it was a statement of principle. I was eager to defend the individual’s right to tell his own story without generalising about others.

Wasn’t the first draft of A Boy’s Own Story written when you were fifteen? Did you write it in diary form, or as a kind of therapy to help you face the difficulties of adolescence?

It was written as a real novel. I began to write it in the first person and in a confessional mode, but I quickly found the book was running away from me and being swamped in detail. I didn’t know how to make it go forward, so decided to go to the opposite extreme and to write it not only in third person, but with a third-person narrator who had no access to the boy’s thoughts. So it was all described in an objective way. It didn’t really work, but it was written as a form of therapy because I felt I was drowning. I had been sent away, or had chosen to go away, to a boarding school, and every night we had two hours’ enforced study. I would get my homework done in the afternoon and then in the evening, between eight and ten, when we had to be at our desks, I wrote my novel furiously until the bell rang. It was always exhilarating. I loved writing it and I felt it was an example of Freud’s idea of the repetition compulsion. Freud noticed that children playing with dolls would often-times repeat with a doll the same terrible things that had happened to them. The mother doll would spank the baby doll. Why would they do that, why recreate the pain, why not make a happy story? He realized that, in repeating the pain, there was pleasure when they became the ones doing the manipulating. They enjoyed their mastery over a painful situation. At that time of my life, to write about the very events which were happening to me but to be the one who controlled them artistically, gave me a feeling of mastery over the situation. At that time of my life I was extremely unhappy. I was besieged by violent, even obsessional, sexual urges that I didn’t like or approve of. There are young homosexuals who have strong desires but never act on them, and who only begin to do something about it later when they are twenty or twenty-two. There are others who become sexual very young, but are very upset about it and find it not easy to deal with. But I was both sexually precocious and guilt-ridden; I had a strong drive to do something about it, but also terrible feelings of guilt. It made me feel I was going crazy.

In the same book you say, ‘It’s the particular curse of adolescence that its events are never adequate to the feelings they inspire.’

I think what I meant is that one often has a big tragic feeling, a feeling that one has lived through bitter and dramatic events, and when, for instance, you read a novel like Wuthering Heights, it is adequate to such feelings; but in the case of a typical teenager, especially for one like me who was rather lonely, who was neglected, who didn’t do much, who just walked around through beautiful grounds filled with mist feeling lonely and melancholy but also tragic, you tend to ask, but what’s so tragic? What have you done? Nothing. Nothing has happened to you, you haven’t done anything. In other words, you have this very strong Hamlet-like response but not to strong events. T.S Eliot talked about the objective correlative: that you have to have objective events adequate to the emotions you hope to elicit. When you write about adolescence, often-times the feelings are extremely strong, but it’s hard to communicate that to a third person, a reader, because the events don’t in themselves trigger such a powerful response for them. The writing itself, though, came all too easily. I wrote from a kind of obsessive interest in confession and with very little interest in artistic expression, so most of my writing of that period is worthless. In fact it was only towards the end of my twenties, after I had written four or five books, that I began to understand that you couldn’t simply babble, that you had to stop and think and arrange things. In other words, when I began to resolve some of my psychological problems and no longer wrote quite so much form the need to confess, I began to have a certain inner calm. I was able to fashion a text like Forgetting Elena, my first published novel, though the first or sixth I wrote.

The hero of A Boy’s Own Story says, ‘I feel sorry for a man who has never wanted to go to bed with his father.’ Isn’t that just the Oedipus complex in reverse?

I don’t know. If I read Freud right, he says the boy wants to sleep with his mother and kill his father, but is so frightened of his father and his father’s revenge that he becomes homosexual as a way of distracting his father’s rage – of convincing his father that he doesn’t really want to seduce the mother and doesn’t even like women. That was Freud’s idea, more or less, but he doesn’t talk about a boy’s sexual interest in the father so much. Yet many of the homosexuals I have known and spoken with intimately have had strong erotic fantasies about their fathers, and have often even slept with their fathers or brothers. It’s not unusual. A psychiatrist once told me that people have a very difficult time talking about incest with members of the opposite sex, such as a boy with his mother, or even a boy with his sister, but between two brothers or two sisters, it’s not very difficult to talk about. Father-son, yes. In other words, between generations it’s difficult, or between two sexes it’s difficult, but the same sex, the same generation, is very easy to talk about. People don’t have strong guilt feelings about that. Anyway, I definitely had strong erotic feelings towards my father, though, as I say, I don’t feel they’re classically Freudian. I think the idea was that whoever was sleeping in my father’s bed was in a privileged position in the family and would gain power. In other words, my father was a tyrant, and at first my mother was in his bed and therefore a privileged person; then my stepmother became a privileged person; then my father had an affair with my sister, and my sister was elevated in the family because of it. I didn’t know about it at the time, but I sensed it because I once walked in on them when my father was brushing my sister’s hair. She had very long blonde hair, and looked quite a bit like his mother, who was very pretty. My father, my sister, and my father’s mother were all blonde, whereas I resembled my mother and my mother’s side of the family, the paternal side of the family being considered the more beautiful. Anyway, my father was brushing my sister’s hair, standing behind her and crying while he did so. It was the only time I saw my father cry. I sensed there was something going on, but I wasn’t certain to what extent. It was only years later, after my sister had a complete breakdown and was in a mental hospital, that I knew for sure. She had tried to kill herself and it all came out, but that was many years later. I guessed she had always had strong guilt feelings about this relationship with my father, maybe partly because she liked it. I think she had loved him very much. It was extremely dramatic when my father died, because we had a farm in the north of Ohio where he wanted to be buried, and that was terribly inconvenient for everybody because it took hours to get there. We finally arrived in the small town with its little farmers’ church, and there he was in an open coffin, which I hate. But my sister went up to the coffin and talked to my father for a long time, rather angrily and crying. She was forty something at the time.

She became a lesbian, you think, because of the affair with your father?

I think maybe. She was married and had three children with her husband, but always had strong lesbian feelings. Finally, maybe, she was able to express it after her breakdown. She seems quite happy now.

You wrote an introduction to Genet’s posthumous Prisoner of Love, but it struck me as rather ambiguous. Did you admire Genet?

Very much. I’m sorry if it was ambiguous. It’s not an obvious book for an English reader, and I am very naïve politically, so I wouldn’t feel too comfortable in saying what I thought about his politics towards the end of his life. But for me his novels are some of the greatest literature written this century. Neve come his plays, then his essays, and least of all his poetry. I never met him. I could have, but by the time I moved to Paris in 1982, he didn’t like to meet white or middle-class people, nor Americans. I was all three so figured it was pointless even to try. Of course, one of the good things about being a biographer today is that you can watch hours and hours of somebody on video. I’ve seen forty hours of him. You get the feeling of how somebody moved and talked and so on.

You are sympathetic to Genet’s idea that any novel which doesn’t set itself up as an Aunt sally is a fake, but isn’t twentieth-century literature riddled with enough irony? Is there no reason at all for commitment, or must every idea self-destruct?

I can’t see any philosophical reason why he should be right, but if you look at the novels you actually like, it turns out he is right. The novels that are very engage politiquement, like Sartre’s, have become very difficult to like – even Malraux I find almost unreadable now. Whereas novels which are deeply ambiguous, like Genet’s are still readable and seem to have a universal interest.

In your introduction you excuse Genet’s acknowledged admiration for treachery by thinking of it as a code word for an incorrigible subjective voice. Do you think that treachery can really be excused by a semantic shift?

Personally no. But it’s very interesting, now that I know so much about his life, to find he was actually deeply loyal to the people around him. For instance, he had a lover in the 1960s, a high-wire artist called Abdullah, who committed suicide. Abdullah’s best friend, though Genet never slept with him and didn’t even particularly know him, was given money by Genet every month till the end of his life – that is, from 1964-1986. Even then Genet made him one of his three principle heirs. And in many other instances you find tenacious loyalty on the part of Genet to his early friends, though he would also excommunicate certain intellectuals, usually women, who tried to dominate him too much. He had terrible fallings-out with friends, but I don’t think you can call that treachery, just an eruption of rage. He liked to present himself as a traitor and to suggest in a dark way, in A Thief’s Journal, that he betrayed people, but when you look for real instances in his life, it’s hard to find them. If you say he admired treachery, though, then I do not think that it is a philosophical position, that he had a kind of love for the unsalvageable person. When he wrote his last play, The Screens, he chose as his hero not a loyal militant Algerian soldier fighting against the French, but the most miserable proletarian Algerian who betrays even the revolution though he doesn’t like the French either. Again and again Genet was attracted to the person everyone else despised, the lowest person. That’s the person he speaks for finally: the person he wants to redeem. I’m not defending him, but I think it’s interesting how his mind works. In Pompe Funebre there is Jean, a real person, his real lover, a communist killed by the milice in 1944 during the liberation of Paris. Then Genet, in mourning, sits down to finish this novel as a monument for Jean, but what does he do? In the novel he glorifies Hitler, glorifies especially a young character called Riton who is in the milice, one of the very people who killed Jean. This idea of embracing evil, of honouring people who are more or less unsalvageable, was very strong in him. It’s partly philosophical choice; he’s partly a Nietzschean. He was certainly very influenced by Nietzsche, and he loved the idea of the transvaluation of all values. Most criminals, when they write, present themselves as wonderful, kind, intelligent and moral. The usual thing for a prisoner who writes is to justify himself in terms of the most conventional morality. What is daring about Genet is that he not only writes about the real evil he’s committed, but exaggerates it and doesn’t apologize at all. From the point of view of homosexual history, that turns out to be something fascinating, because he is probably the first homosexual ever to write without any sense of apology or trying to give a diagnosis of how this strange medical state of affairs came about. Unlike Gide, for instance, who is fairly liberated, or Proust, who distances himself completely from homosexuals so that all the characters in his book are homosexual except him, Genet spoke as a homosexual about actual homosexual life in the Ghetto, and it was something brand-new.

In A Boy’s Own Story you say, ‘I was appalled by my own majesty…I wanted someone to betray.’ Many people who are not homosexual might therefore be tempted to think that the urge to betray is the characteristic of homosexuals.

My feeling is that everything about homosexuality can be explained by two things. One is that it is an all-male culture. In other words, in heterosexual life men are always adjusting to the expectations and values of women, but in homosexual life they are, at least on the sexual plane, interacting only with other men. The other thing is that they are a persecuted minority group. In A Boy’s Own Story, the boy’s urge to betray at the end of the book is morally ambiguous because, on the one hand, the reader applauds, this being the first time the worm turns, the first time this rather persecuted boy, usually passive and always suffering things at others’ hands, decides to do something for himself. It’s a revenge on the adult world, a kind of self-assertion. It’s certainly the end of innocence; but the bad thing, on the other hand, is that the object of this attack is another homosexual. The person he chooses to persecute is one of the few people who has actually been nice to him and who to some degree shares his sexual taste. But that was very characteristic of that period, because homosexuals who belonged to it hated themselves. How could they not? There was no favourable picture of homosexuality available in that culture. A homosexual was either ill, criminal or a sinner. There were only the medical, the legal or psychological models. There was no other way of justifying them sexually. All three of those images are quite pejorative, and so the boy suffers the usual self-hate. Attacking another homosexual was, in a way, proving one wasn’t oneself so homosexual. The one he attacked was the scapegoat.

But, today, do you still find that homosexuals have special characteristics?

I don’t. I know most people do say that, but I think it’s much like anti-Semitism. Anti-Semitism and anti-homosexuality resemble each other closely because they tend to look for a unity that doesn’t exist. In his little book on Jews, Sur la question juif, Sartre suggests that the anti-Semite regards the Jew as a synthesis. So if one man says a Jew is not courageous, and another says yes, but here is a Gentile who is not courageous, the first rejoins, ah yes, but the lack of courage of a Jew is different from the lack of courage of a Christian. In the same way, people search for a kind of mystical unity in homosexuals. We all share something which is our condition, but the condition shifts from time to time, so while homosexuals do share something which is their particular social condition at a particular historical moment, I always find it ridiculous when homosexuals talk about ‘we homosexuals’ and mention Plato or Michelangelo. Even if they had homosexual sexual practices, the nature, formation, and contours of their personalities, their mentality, must be entirely different from now. A homosexual living on a Greek island today is entirely different from a homosexual living in Manhattan. So which homosexual are we talking about? I suppose you could say that certain middle-class homosexuals living in London at the moment bear certain resemblances to each other because their condition is a shared one, but only to that degree.

Do you think of your work as political in the sense, as you explain in the Genet introduction, of heightening consciousness by making people more aware of different convictions and lifestyles?

Yes, I think my books are political in the same way that they put you in the shoes of another person, but I also think that my most recent work, The Beautiful Room is Empty, is political in an even more direct sense in that I wanted to show the beginning of homosexual liberation and the period of oppression just before it happened in 1969. There are many people who have grown up or become homosexual since then, and I wanted to show them what things were like before, and to end on a very positive note with the idea, the feeling of liberation. Therefore I chose as my hero someone who is extremely middle class, quite repressed, rather self-hating, and a reluctant revolutionary. I wanted even the heterosexual reader to say to himself or herself, oh come on, get on with your life, stop tormenting yourself about all these ridiculous scruples. It pleased me very much to see a review by a New York Times reviewer, a heterosexual male, who said in effect, I am heterosexual and I barely understand all this stuff, but for Christ’s sake, Mr White, get on with your life. That is exactly what I wanted the reaction of the reader to be. I wanted the reader to be more liberal than the boy himself.

And do you find the ordinary reader today more liberal?

It depends. You see, I’m from the United States, which is a very religious country, and I have all these Texan relatives who are Baptist and are convinced I’m going directly to hell. The ordinary literary reader living in Paris, London or New York is quite liberal, as they have been for a long time. But I’ve had people from America writing letters denouncing me, telling me I’m going to hell and so on. America is an extremely religious country. I feel more like an outsider in America than I do in Europe. That’s the odd thing. In London I have so many friends who are writers, and I feel so warmly accepted that I don’t feel like an outsider at all. If I have a new book out in London, maybe the Independent will do a review, The Times will do a review and the Literary Review will say this is one of the best books of the year and so on, which is very thrilling, whereas in America, if they review me at all, it’s almost entirely in the context of where are homosexuals now and what’s happening to them in this age of Aids? In France, if they were taking a poll of important people, asking what do you think of nuclear power, they might ask a hundred people and I might be one of them, but in America The New York Times would never asked me about nuclear power, only about homosexual rights. I feel very ghettoized in America, but that’s not a problem peculiar to me, it’s peculiar to human life. America is nothing but ghettoes. There is no general reader in America, no general culture. It’s all lobbies, ghettoes and special-interest groups. The reason I’m returning to America now is partly because I was offered a very good job. I’m about to be fifty and I support my mother, and if she didn’t have me I think she would be in the gutter. If I work fifteen years, then I can have a retirement plan and all those nice things, but also, as a writer, it’s dangerous to be out of contact with your country too long. It’ll be interesting to go back, at least for a few years. If I like it, I’ll stay; if I don’t, I’ll come back here. But it was a wonderful offer: a full professor with tenure in Brown University, one of the best universities in America. I couldn’t refuse. I’m going with a friend, who has just got divorced and wants to start a new life. He’s French, and the idea of moving is exciting for him too, so it’s just a good moment to be going back.

But do you feel more appreciated in England than in America as a writer?

Definitely in Europe; specially in England. But also in France. And five of my books are coming out at the same time in Italy now, and five more or less at the same time in Germany, so I feel there’s a big push going on.

But why should that be? After all, you’re America.

Yeah. Well, I asked Alison Lurie once why she was more famous in England than in America, and she said, ‘Because in America I’m writing about familiar subject matter in an unfamiliar style, that is an English style, whereas for English people I’m writing about unfamiliar subject matter, that is American life, in a familiar, that is English, style.’ I think that’s true of me too to some degree. In other words, there is something exotic about those rich American children that I write about, but it’s in a reflective, more European, more literary style of writing. It’s not the sort of Raymond Carver minimalism that people have come to expect from Americans.

In A Boy’s Own Story you say: ‘It seemed to me then that beauty was the highest good, the one thing we all want to be or have, or failing that, destroy.’ Why should a young homosexual feel like that? Is it a thoughtlessness of youth which imagines it will never be old, or is it a more specifically homosexual fear?

I don’t think it’s a fear, and I don’t think it’s homosexual. I think it’s artistic. Artists are susceptible to beauty, including physical beauty, which in real we all react to. Yesterday I had a party where there was a beautiful young man, twenty-two years old, and all the men and women were reacting. He is also an aristocrat, so that helps, but, you know, he’s blond and his father is the governor of Bermuda and so on. He didn’t have to say a word and everybody found him enchanting, everyone was giving him their phone number, men and women both. People do respond to physical beauty very strongly, but when they write, they pretend they’re much more moralistic, that they have better values; that is, that they prize nothing but intellect and virtue. But artists are people who love beauty, and one of the forms of beauty, maybe the main form, is physical human beauty. It’s not any accident that the Greeks made statues of beautiful athletes and goddesses. I’ve had Americans criticize me, saying, ‘Oh, you’re always talking about physical beauty,’ because oft-times I’ll say about somebody, she is very intelligent, and this and that, and beautiful. ‘Oh’, they say, ‘why do you mention beauty?’ Feminists especially, of course, hate that. Yet I mention male beauty as much as female beauty, so it’s not that I’m especially keen on female beauty. Anyway, I do think that physical beauty is an important thing that artists respond to.

How do you view feminists?

Having lived in France now, where feminism is scoffed at and completely over as a movement, it’s hard for me to remember it’s still taken so seriously in England. Recently, when I was a judge on the Booker Prize, there were two women on the panel who had strong feminist sentiments. I found it difficult. I was even shocked by some of the things they said. For instance, to be against a novel because one of the characters is female, masochistic and shown as liking to be mistreated, seemed to be a very shocking response. On the other hand, I consider myself a feminist, but I think of myself as not applying those principles to novels but to actual life. For instance, after a long debate in my mind, I feel I’m against the idea that Moslem girls should wear the fular here in France, because it is mainly men who are deciding that women should wear it. The women have not been asked at all. It is a way of separating those girls from other girls, marking them and oppressing them. It really is a continuation of male domination. I think that’s all right within the context of the Moslem world, but here in France it goes against two things: the secular aspect of the schools and the idea of women’s right, which is very important if you are a member of French society. If you were a highly devout Catholic, you would have a hard time living in Syria, just as if you were a highly devout Moslem you would probably have a hard time living in France. So I would say I am a feminist on questions of economics and legal rights, but I don’t like feminism much when it’s applied to art.

Has women’s liberation helped gay liberation?

What we’ve witnessed in this century is a shift away from an ethic of responsibility to an ethic of pleasure. I’m not talking about aristocrats, but aristocrats have always behaved according to their ideas of personal pleasure, but in other centuries ninety-five per cent of people were farmers. They needed children to work in the fields, they were watched closely by their neighbours, they were obliged to conform and were obsessed with performing their duty to the church, their family, their parents, their children. The whole idea was of self-sacrifice to help the next generation and fulfil your duty, which was clearly defined and ordained by God; nobody doubted it. You still see that in Third World cultures, but once it shifts you have a kind of aristocraticization of middle-class life, hence the vast armies of people in the major cities of Europe and America who have adopted the ethic of self-satisfaction and pleasure. They divorce when they’re no longer in love, get rid of their children if they feel they’re cramping their style. They do exactly as they please, treat their lives as a work of art, and are mainly interested in self-fulfilment. That’s when homosexuality becomes much more important, because if those are your real feelings, then you are going to act on them.

But hasn’t feminism driven some men towards homosexuality?

I don’t think so. That suggests that men have more choice than they really have. If a man is really attracted to a woman physically, so that he gets an erection when he looks at her, then even if she’s a difficult bitch, he’s not going to become excited by a man. Oddly enough, I think women have more choice than men. I do feel that there are women who, for political reasons, have decided to be lesbians, but I don’t feel that there are any heterosexual men who, for political reasons, have decided to be homosexual.

Is homosexuality on the increase, or is it that people are now liberated and have come out of the closet?

It’s that it’s more visible, but there might have been many before who, if they were marginal cases, would have worked very hard, with their psychoanalysis or their priest, to remain heterosexual if at all plausible. I know of several examples in my father’s generation of women who married men who really were homosexual, but the men did not act out their homosexuality. They lived with their wives and were sadists. They tortured their whole family. They were alcoholic, disagreeable, wife-beating monsters because of their repressed homosexuality.

Has American society yet absorbed the idea of homosexuality? Can it now be regarded as part of the make-up of the nation, or is it accepted de jure but not de facto?

It’s accepted neither de jure nor de facto. It’s become a powerful special-interest group in certain cities, especially in the west where there aren’t other ethnic groups to compete. In New York, where strong Jewish, Italian, Polish and Irish ethnic groups, and now Puerto Ricans control the city, gays do not represent a very powerful vote even though they are numerous. But in places like Houston, Texas, or Los Angeles, which are newer cities and where ethnic groups are less well organized and the largest ethnic groups are comprised of either blacks or Mexicans, who tend not to vote very much, gays have become more powerful in local government and have even helped to elect a woman mayor in Houston. So in certain regions, gays have gained a lot of clout. In response to Aids, gays have become very well organized, and activist groups, like ACT UP in New York, have done a lot to change legislation, to streamline the availability of new medicines for the critically ill. Before, people who were ill were being told that they couldn’t try a new drug because it hadn’t been tested long enough to see if it was safe, but if you are going to be dead in a month, what difference does it make. Now all that’s been streamlined and there is much quicker access to the drugs, even to dangerous ones, if one wants to try. This has been something achieved by ACT UP, and they’ve gotten much better funding for people who are ill, for home care, for medical bills and so on. So gays don’t represent a powerful special-interest group in certain regions and certain aspects of American life. But whereas in France a recent poll showed that sixty per cent of heterosexual French people regard homosexuality as a normal variation of sexual behaviour, probably less than ten per cent of Americans would say the same.

Why could no publisher be found initially for A Boy’s Own Story in Britain? Was the country simply not yet receptive enough for gay literature?

Well, A Boy’s Own Story was quickly accepted in the United States, but in Britain, where I already had one or two books published by Andre Deutsch, they didn’t like the book. Deutsch rejected it, and then it went to several other publishers and was rejected. It was finally accepted by Picador, who decided it was good and made a big fuss over it.

As a title, A Boy’s Own Story looks deliberately provocative, did you feel it necessary to provoke a response when you wrote it?

Actually, you know, the title has slightly different echoes for an American. For the British, of course, it’s clearly provocative because it makes you think of A Boy’s Own King Arthur, a Boy’s Own History of England, the Boy’s Own Paper, but in America, at the turn of the century, there was a series of first-hand oral reports given by juvenile delinquents to an important Chicago sociologist that were printed in a book called A Boy’s Own Story, which was the context in which I first thought of it as a title. I wasn’t really thinking of British books so much. Later I thought it would be amusing to take this very strange boy and place his story, which was anything but the typical Boy Scout’s story, in this very traditional context. Susan Sondheim, who was a very good friend of mine at the time, hated the title because she felt it made light of the book, that the book was better than the title and the title was ironic in a light way, but I liked it.

Is she no longer a friend?

She’s no longer a friend because she felt I portrayed her as a character in one of my books, which I didn’t mean to do, but she’s been angry with me ever since, though I still admire her and like her. I felt she was over-sensitive, and for somebody who has always been an advocate of the freedom of speech, she reacted in an odd way.

Much of your work, I think you acknowledge, is autobiographical. Can you tell me something of the relationship between the life and the fiction?

First of all, I’d like to say that Caracole, which is not at all autobiographical in the obvious sense since it has no-first person narrator and no character obviously based on me, is, I feel, my most autobiographical novel. This is because it’s the only novel I have written in the third person in which the narrator has the ability to get into the minds of all six characters: three woman and three men. I felt fully expressed in that book, in the sense that I felt I could exaggerate different aspects of my own personality and project them onto those six characters and dramatize my own inner conflicts in the bi-play between them. If you write a so-called autobiographical story, like A Boy’s Own Story or The Beautiful Room is Empty, then you are stuck with only one character, the narrator, and you don’t really have that kind of full expressivity. Certainly in any autobiographical novel you’re always shaping it primarily for novelistic purposes. A real autobiography, written by, let’s say, a famous general like Eisenhower, is written by somebody you can assume the public is already interested in. He doesn’t need to create interest, he can assume it on the part of the reader. But a novelist, and especially a novelist who is not well known or who is only well known for his novels, has to create interest in the book. Therefore it has to operate as a piece of literary machinery to create interest and satisfy the reader’s normal anticipations. A lot of shaping has to go on. Say, for instance, that you have had three boyfriends in a six-month period. It’s much better to have them become one boyfriend, because otherwise the reader gets confused with too many names, too much coming and going, too much shifting of stage machinery. I also tended with A Boy’s Own Story to make the character more normal than I actually was, because in real life I was more competent than the boy. I was less timid, had had more sexual experience and more artistic success at an earlier age. My boy in the book tends to be a bit timid, unsure of himself; more, I think, like most gay people that I’ve interviewed and talked to. I spent years and years in group therapy with other gay men, listening to their stories. The psychiatrist once said to me, ‘Don’t tell your story to this group because it upsets them too much.’ I had poems published when I was young, I had a play produced on Broadway when I was twenty-two. In other words, I was not quite as defeated, retarded or slow as the boy in my book, but I wanted to create somebody I thought the reader could identify with, somebody a little more timid. The brassiness in Americans seems very foreign to English readers, especially to English children, who tend to be rather more supervised, but even though I changed all those things, many English readers still said to me, ‘I find the amount of freedom the boy had absolutely astonishing.’ That shocked me, because I had thought of him as being rather oppressed, but English children, brought up in a traditional way, tend to think that the boy has an enormous amount of freedom. So, to return to your question, I’ve changed many things to simplify them, to make them more shapely, to make them more novelistic, but also to make their character more representative.

‘I never doubted that homosexuality was a sickness’, says the boy in A boy’s Own Story. How long was it before you began to feel differently? Is it just social programming, or does it represent some deeper and more permanent fear?

Many Americans are phobic about sex itself, not just homosexuality, so many times, when American homosexuals are coming out and trying to accept their homosexuality, they find they have an even bigger problem, which is to accept their sexuality at all. And it’s a universal problem, it seems, among certain kinds of Protestant and Irish Catholic Americans. That’s one thing, but I feel myself to be very involved with the history of Gay Liberation, and deeply indebted to it because the kind of self-assertion, the kind of political activism that emerged in 1969, was liberating for me personally. Oddly enough, I was the co-author of a book called The Joy of Gay Sex in 1976, published by the English publisher Mitchell Beazley. I wrote it with my own psychotherapist, but that was pure accident. He had already been chosen to be the doctor half of the team when they were looking for a writer. They auditioned ten writers, who all had to write sample entries. They liked mine the best, so chose me, and then I found it would be with my own psychotherapist. He said to me, ‘You must choose either to continue to be my patient or to be my collaborator, but you can’t be both.’ I chose to be his collaborator because I needed the money badly and felt it was towards the end of my therapy anyway. But I told Mitchell Beazley that I didn’t want to sign my own name because I thought it wasn’t a work of any literary interest and would hurt my literary career. The book, though it had some rather juicy sexual drawings in it, wasn’t in fact very sexual in the end, but tended to be more about life-style than sexual activity. More than half of the entries were about such things as coming out, dealing with your parents, taking a lover, telling a fellow officer worker you were gay and all that kind of stuff. And the more I worked on it the more I said to myself, ‘It’s completely hypocritical of you to urge everybody else to be honest and open and then sign a false name.’ So I put my own name on the book, and it was the first major thing I had written that was specifically and openly homosexual. That had a tremendous liberating influence on me. I was rather old, I was thirty-six, and it is shocking to admit how many years of therapy and struggle it took me before I could accept myself. Now I really do.

I can’t imagine myself going to a therapist and talking to him about a problem. Why did you find it necessary and were you helped?

It was very destructive at the beginning because the therapist acted as an agent of repression rather than liberation. It was only when I was in my late twenties and I chose to go to a homosexual therapist – a therapist who has, I knew, openly homosexual and felt relaxed about it – that I began actually to make some progress. But, you see, in choosing him I had already made progress. In other words, up to that point, as late as the age of twenty-nine, I was still engaged to a woman, trying to go straight and get married.

But you needed therapy because of your homosexuality?

Nothing else?

Nothing else. Although it had such consequences that it made me quite crazed in other way too. I mean, I was full of nervous tics, constantly shaking my head and bobbing. I couldn’t sleep at night. I would eat too much or too little. I had all kinds of anxiety attacks where I would hyperventilate and almost pass out, all kinds of strange psychological and psychosomatic symptoms. My sister too. Then in both our cases, when we came to accept, really accept, our homosexuality, we relaxed and all these other psychological problems disappeared.

Did your father know that you had homosexual tendencies?

Uh-huh, yes. And he hated it. He hated it and wanted me to stop.

Did you ever go through a period of your life when you could make love to a woman and enjoy it?

Yes. I was always afraid, though, of being somehow captured by women, maybe because I had a mother who depended on me very much when I was a child. After my father left us, even before, my mother would often say things like, ‘Oh, I wish you were grown up, I would marry you.’ I felt suffocated by her need for me. After that, I would tend to choose similar women, women who were very needy, partly because I didn’t have very much self-confidence. So a woman who was overweight, or who had extreme psychological problems and who was very dependent on me, reassured me in one way though in another it reminded me too much of my mother and I felt suffocated by that very need that I liked and trusted. It was all rather upsetting to me. I have the feeling that if I had been able to work out those problems, I might have had a more bisexual life. Certainly the interest in men was very early and strong, but there was a genuine interest in women that got stifled at some point along the line, mainly because I was afraid of them, afraid of failing sexually myself; because often-times I would be impotent with women. Never with men.

You spoke of A Boy’s Own Story as ‘the laying to rest of a section of my life’. It suggests a sort of therapy in which you spoke to a public, arranging and qualifying your life for inspection. Would that be a fair analysis?

Yes. I suppose it’s a very American and especially a very Protestant thing, the idea of bearing witness to your life. In America we have revival meetings where everyone becomes hysterical and saved through Jesus. They run to the alter and confess their whole lives. Europeans find it very amusing that Americans have this tendency to confess, but I think I’m typically American in that sense. I can only say in my defence that I feel that very few people have ever made this particular confession before in this particular way, and that it has meant a lot to a lot of readers. I still get letters from readers, and it’s reassuring for people to realize that someone else has had the same experience.

When A Boy’s Own Story was published, the New York Times review claimed that you had ‘crossed The Catcher in the Rye with De Profundis – J.D. Salinger with Oscar Wilde’. Was that a claim you were happy with?

I found it an odd remark because it seemed to me that, from a technical point of view, the trick of The Catcher in the Rye is that he is still an adolescent, so it is a brilliant act of ventriloquism, whereas with A Boy’s Own Story I felt it was important to have the narrator much older than the protagonist. In other words, the same man is speaking, but he is speaking about himself twenty years before. I felt that the life portrayed in A Boy’s Own Story was that of somebody who was in such pain and who hated himself so much that if the reader was to come away with a feeling of consolation he could only get that through an indirect contact with an adult narrator who did accept himself. In fact, somewhere in the book the narrator says that even though he hated himself, he now loved the boy he was, and it’s almost as though it’s autobiographical paedophilia. We love the self we once were, but that self-acceptance trails behind our actual life by about twenty years. And it is true that I do now feel a kind of pity and sympathy with that boy who at the time thought of himself – as I thought of myself – as a kind of monster. But now I see that, given his situation, he wasn’t so bad, he was rather normal. In that sense my book had an entirely different strategy from The Catcher in the Rye, which is a teenage boy speaking to you in his own voice, which was not at all my goal. As far as Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis is concerned, I feel it’s a very elegant piece of blackmail directed at Lord Alfred Douglas. He wants to wring his heart and preach at him, and finally punish the ideal reader of this long letter, who was Lord Alfred Douglas. I don’t feel that my book is at all interested in targeting, punishing or manipulating a particular reader. I suppose what the reviewer had in mind is that it is a cross between a teenage narrative and a homosexual narrative, but then it would have been simpler to say it.

If you were to relive your youth, how differently would you relive it?

Given the circumstances then, I was fairly courageous and probably did as best I could, but I would like to live now and lose less time feeling guilty; to have more fun having sex and being more self-accepting sooner. I don’t feel I was deprived of sex, because I had a lot of sexual experiences, but I feel I was deprived of love, because I was unable to sustain a long-term relationship – even a six-month relationship – because I hated myself too much. In other words, many homosexuals from that period, and even homosexuals now who hate themselves, can perform individual sexual acts, but don’t want to have the piece of evidence that proves they’re gay sitting around day and night. If you have no lover around, then you can say to yourself each morning, well, today’s a new day, everything’s indeterminate and maybe I’ll be heterosexual later, who knows? So the kind of commitment to homosexuality that an actual lover represents was very hard for me then, and if I had to live everything again now, I hope that I would come to self-acceptance earlier and be able to experience love younger.

Many reviewers point to a vein of poetry running through your prose. Is that a deliberate or unconscious device?

Oh, like many writers of prose I started off writing poetry, and I probably still read more poetry than most prose writers. I read French poetry, English Poetry and American poetry. Ezra Pound said poets should be at least as good as prose writers, and I feel that prose writers should be at least as good as poets. There’s a great deal of careless prose writing, especially now in the age of the word processor. A lot of people have a good plot which is destined ultimately for the movies, and the style is ramshackle, just a way of conveying the plot as quickly as possible. That’s a betrayal of the artistic possibilities of prose. I like a finely worked style. It’s where the English often-times lose patience with me, because they’ll say it’s too self-conscious or over the top or arty. That’s why I’m happy Quartet is publishing so many foreign works, especially French, because I find English prose a little sterile in its sociological preoccupations with class, with region and its obsession with realism, especially in showing small pictures of small lives. I find all that tiresome.

You have taught a lot of creative writing. Is it really possible to teach people to be creative?

I’m about to start teaching creative writing again, so I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and one of the things I’ve been thinking is that when I was a boy beginning to write, the only idea that one had of serious literature was The New Yorker. The New Yorker story was a kind of formula that aspiring young writers held in mind as a goal. Of course, now it seems terribly demonde, and I think it would have been useful if somebody had put Proust in my hand at that age – read this, forget about the New Yorker. Young writers now have Raymond Carver and other minimalist writers. I love Ray Carver, by the way. He was a good friend of mine and I admire him as a writer, but he pulled those stories out of his guts and invented the style. He was a working-class man who was an alcoholic, who suffered tremendously but who finally tore those wonderful stories out of himself. But because it is a very plain-spoken style, it is an easy one for people to imitate, and now you see rather spoiled middle-class kids who want to be writers but have never suffered a second in their lives, writing as though they’re tortured. They don’t know any other way of writing because it’s all they see around them. So one thing that the creative writing teacher can do is expose the student to world literature. I always ask students, ‘What have you read, and what are you reading now,’ and it’s very interesting. Many of them don’t read at all, and I can say in my whole long life of knowing writers, and I’ve known hundreds, I never met any good writers who didn’t read, except Tennessee Williams and Truman Capote. And they both read when they were young. Every other writer I know reads all the time – maybe not always fiction, maybe autobiography, history or whatever they’re interested in. Every writer worth his salt is interested in innovation, and there are two sources: one is by imitating life, that is to say writing about situations that have never been written about before in ways that have never been used before; the other is through parody of other literature. That is a deliberate act of influence and I think you choose your influences very carefully.

There is a school of thought which says there are profound links between homosexuality and artistic talent. Indeed some people would claim it is difficult to find one without the other.

I think that’s ridiculous. Clearly you can find many great writers and painters who are heterosexual. It does tend to vary according to the arts, and to the period. For instance, very few architects are homosexual, but maybe it’s partly because the engineering, technical aspect of architecture has become so important. I find that most homosexuals don’t like spending years and years studying maths, science and engineering. When I was a boy in the 1950s, the whole world of American painting was extremely macho, and if you were a homosexual you had to hide it because you wouldn’t be considered a serious artist. If you think of the generation of De Kooning, Pollock, Franz Kline, Hans Hofmann, they were all heterosexual. You barely find a woman and certainly not a gay man. Now, with the Hockney generation, you find many homosexuals, but I think it varies according to the period and the ethic of the period. If gay men tend to be sensitive to the arts, it’s partly because they are participatory outsiders. If you are a complete outsider, like a gypsy who doesn’t ever get into the inner structure of society but lives as a complete marginal, it’s rather difficult to be a writer, or you can only write about that small world. If you’re a complete insider or a successful Wall Street broker who was head perfect at Eton, it’s hard to question the mechanics of your world, but if you’re a Jew who passes as Gentile or a gay who sometimes passes as heterosexual, you can enter into the world without ever feeling completely part of it. You feel very much like an outsider, but are a participatory outsider; you participate in the system. It’s no accident that Proust, who was half-Jewish and at least half-homosexual, should be the person really to have written about the mechanics of the inner world of the French ruling class.

But people with great artistic talent nowadays often are homosexual.

There are many exceptions. For example, of the hundred and two books we read for the Booker Prize, I think only two had any overt homosexual consent. It was a shockingly low proportion, and the only one that was good was Sibyl Bedford’s Jigsaw, where she was quite open about her own lesbianism. Just numerically, there you have a spread of all the best English fiction of one whole year, and very very little of it was homosexual at all.

Would you want to claim heightened sensibility, as many homosexuals do, and if so, is it cause or effect?

I think you could claim heightened sensibility, which is the heightened sensibility of an outsider, and it’s definitely an effect. It’s an effect of being homosexual, nothing mystical, nothing innate.

From what you have written, the various psychological explanations for homosexuality seem inadequate to you. Can you suggest any reason why people should be divided in this way? Lesbians often point to the brutality and self-regard of men, but presumably a different explanation is needed for male homosexuals.

I think, as I said earlier, that women can choose to be lesbians. There are many women who felt they never had a choice, that they were born lesbian, but I’ve also known many who have actually chosen to be lesbian for political reasons – disappointment in marriage or disappointment in contact with men, or because of their political feminist convictions. But I have never known a man make a similar claim. I read a poll that Playboy magazine conducted of their readers, asking what is your secret fantasy, what would you like to explore that you’ve never had the courage to explore? Many women readers responded that they would like to explore lesbianism, but no heterosexual male reader said he wanted to explore homosexuality. So either they’re not admitting it or, as I suspect, it’s more clear-cut for men. I think it’s linked to masturbation. I think that when you masturbate alone, you have fantasies, and those fantasies guide you to what your real desires are. In that sense masturbation is psychologically productive, because it allows you to locate what you actually want to do sexually. But many women, especially of your generation and mine, did not masturbate until they were in their thirties or early forties, and it’s only at that point that they discover they’re having persistent lesbian fantasies. It’s a very interesting phenomenon.

You mean boys masturbate at an early age, women don’t?

I don’t think that’s the case now, but it was the case before, at least among traditional cultures or people who were from a religious background. Many girls simply didn’t touch themselves until they were older. As a political statement, I would say that no explanation is necessary, and that just as we don’t search for explanations for heterosexuality, so we shouldn’t search for explanations for homosexuality. To search for an explanation is to fall into the trap of regarding it as a pathology that needs an explanation. Curiously enough, the translator who is translating Genet material of mine into French, and who is heterosexual, said, ‘I find reading your work so odd because you name heterosexuality as a condition, and every time you present a new man, you say he’s a heterosexual. Heterosexuals themselves never think in those terms. They think of themselves as being a kind of universal nameless class, and then everybody else gets names as exceptions.’

But don’t people want to know more about homosexuality because it’s perverse?

Yes, because it’s different and because it can be threatening. They begin to think, maybe this will happen to me or my children, and what are the early signs? How can I be sure I’m not that way? It’s interesting. My friend who is just getting divorced – I’m his first male friend – has always lived as a heterosexual, with the wedding ring and so on, and he was telling me that in his milieu, which is architecture, many men joke about wanting to have homosexual adventures. It is constantly on their minds, always being brought up but in a joking fashion. They don’t act on it, but it is a thought that passes rather frequently through their heads. In my own case, homosexuality struck me as a source of freedom. I knew I didn’t want to be bourgeois, didn’t want to have a family or the expenses of a family, didn’t want to have a wife or children dependent on me, didn’t want to need a full-time job. I wanted to be a writer. I never felt I was rich enough to have children, nor did I want to be rich enough to have children. I wanted to be free as the wind and not to recreate the same kind of stifling manly situation that I suffered from as a child. When my father would come and visit me at university, the minute he left I would rush off to pick somebody up to have sex with. I needed to touch flesh, to prove to myself that I wasn’t like him, that I wasn’t going to be like him. In other words, I was fleeing into a kind of freedom that, for me, homosexuality stood for: the opposite of everything my family stood for.

If you had a choice, would you opt for homosexuality or heterosexuality?

I would opt for bisexuality, because it would be very exciting to be able to experience everybody and everything. I wish I had more flexibility as a heterosexual. I mean, I wish that part of me were developed because first of all I love women and the company of women and think it would be fun to explore that more. Also, women are very tolerant of older men if they’re successful, but men are not very tolerant, so I think that if the world were ideally arranged, you would, if you’re a man, be homosexual when you’re young and heterosexual when you’re old; and the exact contrary if you’re a woman, because lesbians tend to like older women and heterosexual men like younger women, so a woman should go from being heterosexual to being lesbian.

With people’s awareness and acceptance, however partial, of more sexually explicit writing, a certain kind of literature, which might be called the literature of concealment, has disappeared. Do you think that more relaxed attitudes have always been good for literature?

Yes and no. One of the most exciting homosexual stories ever written is one that’s not at all homosexual, ‘The Secret Shower’ by Conrad or another, ‘The Pupil’ by Henry James. Those writers wrote about highly charged erotic situations that were never specific. Even, let’s say, the paedophilia that is concealed in The Turn of the Screw by Henry James is absolutely thrilling and hair-raising, so it’s true that that has a kind of artistic value which is no longer quite so possible; though in my novel, Forgetting Elena – even though there’s no specific homosexuality – the atmosphere is heavily charged with a kind of mysterious and repressed homosexuality and I think the book works perfectly all right, although it was written after Gay Liberation. So it’s still an option if one wants to write about things in that way. I’m now editing an anthology of homosexual fiction for Faber, and the contribution by the youngest of all the writers is a throwback to this earlier period. In other words, it is about the relationship between a white man and an American Indian out west, and there’s a strong homoerotic pull between them, but neither of them appears to be conscious of it. It works as a very exciting homosexual story of friendship, but definitely physical.

In The Darker Proof, the volume of short stories you wrote with Adam Mars-Jones, there seems to be a note of defiance in the face of Aids. Is this defiance aimed at those who would smugly and piously claim that Aids has nothing to do with them, or is it perhaps stalking the spectre of death itself?

I think both. I have a very peculiar reaction to Aids that nobody else I know has, and that is a feeling of rage and humiliation. I’m a very proud person and I hate to have people condescend to me, but I have felt since Aids came along that many well-intentioned and perfectly nice heterosexual people look at me pityingly. I was very early in coming out as somebody who was HIV positive. I gave interviews early on, and I even wrote in Life Magazine recently that I am HIV positive. Now I find that many people have this way of looking at me as though they know I’m going to be dead in two years, and it’s as though that proves that everything I was saying earlier about the importance of expressing yourself homosexually was a mistake. It’s as if the Establishment, or heterosexuals or square normal people, are having the last laugh, and it absolutely infuriates me. So in these stories I’m interested partly in showing the kind of heroism, and even the high spirits, with which homosexuals are sometimes responding to the disease. I’m also very interested in showing that it’s not just people who are always at the baths having sex twenty times a day who are getting it. In fact it’s a single exposure that causes it. The viral nature of the disease wasn’t known till 1984, and by that point the disease had already been very widely spread. It first started appearing, as far as we know, in 1981, so there were three or four years of sexual activity when we didn’t know what safe sex was. Now we know how the disease is transmitted, and of the younger generation, the people who have come out since 1984, only one per cent has reported being positive in the United States. It’s a very low percentage. In other words, safe sex is really working, while for the older group there was no such thing as safe sex. People said you shouldn’t use poppers. Now it turns out that that had nothing to do with it. People said you shouldn’t have too much sex, or you should know the name of your partner. All of which is ludicrous, since it’s a question of a single exposure and you can get it as easily from your lover in bed at night in your home as you can at the baths or in the back room. It had nothing to do with the promiscuity, it had to do with the nature of sexual contact.

How much does it worry you?

It worries me constantly. Every time I make plans I make them with a double accounting system. In other words, I can tell you in one breath that I’m going to teach so that I can have a retirement plan in fifteen years, but the other system of accounting says I’ll probably be dead in four years, which is a statistical possibility, and a very strong one, because I know I’ve been positive since 1985, which is from the beginning of the tests. The view now is that ninety to a hundred per cent of the people who are positive will develop the disease. They used to say ten per cent, then it was twenty-five percent. All you can hope for is either that they’re wrong or there will be a vaccine for people who are positive but don’t yet have the disease.

Does that fear make you reject sex, or doesn’t it make any difference?

I never have non-safe sex, but that’s for the other person’s benefit, not for mine. I continue to have a lot of sex, so it doesn’t make any difference that way, but it makes you wake up in the middle of the night thinking you’re going to die. I’ve lost some forty friends, you know – almost my whole generation. We were a group of gay writers, in New York together, and now I’m trying to organize all of their papers for Yale University before the last of us dies, so they can have something to study for the future.

Why is it that homosexuals get the virus, and lesbians don’t on the whole?

It’s the nature of the sexual contact. It’s spread by blood and sperm. A homosexual man, or any man, can get fucked in the ass, so he receives sperm, and the nature of the anus is to absorb fluid to make a hard stool, so it absorbs instantly anything that’s put in it. Drug addicts, for instance, will often put drugs up their ass to get high very quickly, or if you give yourself a wine enema you will get high very quickly because it doesn’t pass through your liver first. It’s very vulnerable tissue; whereas the nature of the vagina is not to absorb but to conduct the sperm all the way to the uterus. The anus being highly absorptive, a man can get fucked in the ass, can get Aids that way, and the can turn around and fuck somebody else in the ass. The nature of homosexual men is that they can both receive sperm and give sperm. The nature of a heterosexual man is that he can give sperm but can’t receive it. The nature of a woman is that she can receive sperm but can’t give it. So it’s almost a fact that, mathematically, a homosexual man plays this pivot role of both giving and receiving sperm, and it’s that which makes a homosexual especially vulnerable.

What has been the social impact of Aids? I know what liberal response is proper, but is it not time to curb freedoms as Aids spreads through the population? The Soviet Union, for example, has a very small-scale problem, seemingly because homosexual acts are still illegal there and are heavily punished.

Western Europe, at least, is not likely to be very repressive about Aids because there was a period when the disease was heterosexualized, that is to say, it was being presented as a strong heterosexual possibility and people started getting very frightened. Now it appears that the target populations are Black Africans, mainly heterosexual, gay men and intravenous drug-users, and the ruling class in Western Europe isn’t very interested in any of these three groups. If they all die, nobody cares. That’s the ignoble side of it. The noble side is that people like the Minister of Health here in France have realized that forbidding homosexuality or closing bath-houses is not really very efficacious in stopping the spread of the disease. It can take up to ten years before it manifests itself, but there’s no way of knowing who has it. For a while, the Bavarians were trying to give people instantaneous tests before they crossed the border, and other people, like the Finns, were insisting you had a blood test before you went to their country; and India was saying that to have longer than a six-month visa, you had to have blood tests. All of that was quite ridiculous, and in Western Europe it was decided it was against human rights, so now the European Community, with the reluctant acceptance of Britain, which is always more primitive in these matters, has decided it is unenforceable and we must spread health information to encourage prevention and, secondly, pay for research. Trying to stop people from having sex is pointless.

It’s almost twenty-five years since Viscount Montgomery said of homosexuality: ‘This sort of thing may be tolerated by the French, but we are British, thank God.’ Presumably you would agree we have moved on since then, but do you think that the underlying attitude of the majority of British people remains the same?

Yes, I think England is especially backward in the acceptance of homosexuality. But again it extends to sexuality in general. For instance, all the business that was going on two or three years ago with small children, the witch-hunting of parents in Cleveland and all. In France people laughed. They couldn’t believe something like that could possibly happen. One of the main reasons why England is so primitive is its press. In France we don’t have a popular press, a gutter press. There are no headlines saying ‘Mother Tortures Baby’. In Britain you have almost nothing but. Even The Times runs sensational headlines. The level of British journalism is appalling, and it’s interesting, going back to the question of Aids, to find the countries that have behaved the worst have been the United States, England and Germany, those being the three countries which have a great gutter press. The countries that have behaved the best have been those in the Latin world – Spain, Italy and France – which don’t have a gutter press to stir up all this anxiety and craziness.

And aren’t we in Britain much more hypocritical about sex in general than people in Europe?

Absolutely. In France, if you go to a dinner party among middle-class or educated people and you start whispering about somebody’s divorce or somebody’s adultery, everyone looks at your askance. But in England I’m shocked even by my friends and about how much they gossip, especially about sex. Somebody said something very amusing recently: that in America people talk about money in order to avoid talking about the real secret, which is sex, whereas in France everybody talks about sex in order to avoid talking about the real secret, which is money.

In your view, are you born homosexual or do you become homosexual? Is it nature or nurture?

In my own case I feel it was nature, because one of my earliest memories, during the war, when I was less than five years old, was of sitting on the lap of a pilot who was a friend of our family and being absolutely enthralled by him as a man – I mean feeling weak at the knees with admiration for this huge man with golden wings on his shirt. It wasn’t the usual little boy’s desire to want to be the man. It was the desire to have him, somehow. Admiration of a little boy for a soldier is perfectly normal, but this was something slightly different. Certain societies favour the expression of homosexuality, but the urge toward homosexuality may well be determined biologically.

Now for the important question. What is it about the homosexual that makes him generally more promiscuous than the heterosexual? Where does the compulsion spring from? It’s something everyone wants to know.

It goes back to what I said earlier. Almost everything about homosexuality can be explained by its status as an all-male world. For instance, a study done on lesbian couples, gay-male couples and heterosexual couples, showed that if you took a certain age group, say thirty to thirty-five, the lesbian couple has sex once a week, the gay-male couple has sex three times a week, and the heterosexual couple had sex twice a week. In other words, heterosexuality is what needs to be explained in that it is a compromise between a powerful male sexuality and a weaker or more restrained sexuality. Many heterosexual men used to say to me before Aids, you guys are really lucky because you can get laid all the time and don’t have to spend a fortune taking somebody out to dinner four or five times, then sitting around and hoping she might put out. You see somebody in the street, you ask him for a light, you go home with him and you have sex immediately. That was the great advantage of homosexuality before Aids. You didn’t have the braking effect of female socialization, but you had the affectionately enhancing effect of male on male. Men were doing exactly what they wanted to do, and what they would be doing with women if they could. I think very few heterosexual men, if they’re honest, would say oh, I like having to court a woman for a month before I can go to bed with her. If you read erotic fantasies by heterosexual men, it’s often-times where women are on heat. Many erotic movies are about women who have hungry pussies – they are on heat, they can’t have enough. In fact they don’t exist very often. There are nymphomaniacs, of course, but never enough.

But there’s another thing which is inexplicable. However heterosexual I may be, it’s unlikely I will go to a public lavatory and wait outside for a woman to come out and proposition her. But there are very distinguished men who, before sexual liberation, ran the risk of arrest by visiting lavatories. There’s a comparison there.

That has partly to do with the repression of homosexuality. Many of those men were married and did not have a homosexual lifestyle, but did have strong homosexual urges and no normal channels for expressing them. They were afraid to be seen in a homosexual bar or pub; they couldn’t take a lover because they had a wife. I have in those furtive situations met men who turned out to be married. I used to cruise all the time, but found it was most compulsive before I accepted my homosexuality, which was when I went to a Freudian woman Viennese psychiatrist when I was twenty years old. My biggest problem was that I was so sexually compulsive, and I asked, ‘What can I do to cure this?’ She said, ‘If you can speak to your heterosexual friends a little bit about why you are homosexual, and if you could be more open about it and could integrate it into your life, you would find you would become less compulsive.’

So in your present settled situation, would you ever dream of cruising?

Yes, of course I would cruise. Just as I can imagine how it would be if you were in an airport bar and a very attractive woman sat down next to you and you bought her a drink and started talking to her; and then it was announced that all the planes were cancelled and that you would have to stay in Paris another night. If she invited you back to her apartment or you invited her to your hotel for another drink, what would happen next?

Yes, but I wouldn’t go looking for it.

Well, I don’t go to bars and I live with somebody, but I can’t say I would resist temptation a hundred per cent if it presented itself.

You say in A Boy’s Own Story: ‘Sex seemed a strange thing to me, a social rite that registered, even brought about, shifts in the balance of power.’ What is the relationship between sex and power?

A sub-text in many sexual acts, even ones that seem quite affectionate, can be sado-masochism. There was a famous American psychiatrist called Stoller who began to record the sado-masochistic fantasies of patients who called themselves sado-masochistic, but he was a good enough scientist to realize that he should record the sexual fantasies of regular people too, and found that they also had fantasies of submission and domination to a shocking extent. The truth is that even when the sex act, viewed by a camera or a voyeur, looks fairly peaceful, if you were reading the text going on in the head of the man or the woman or the two men or the two women you might find there were themes of submission and domination; that they were very fluid in that sometimes one might begin as a submissive one and end as the dominant one. Many of the themes of childhood, the feelings of wanting to control and fear of losing control, get played out in the adult sexual act. It’s part of what makes it exciting. Stoller found that the reason couples get bored with each other is that they get to know each other too well and know that the other doesn’t really represent any threat. The ideal sexual moment is when people are comfortable enough with each other to feel free to express their fantasies but don’t know each other so well that there’s no longer a mystery.

That’s true. Can you suggest something of the homosexual attitude towards women? It must be a different kind of relationship in general from that which obtains between heterosexuals, even when there is no overt liaison, nor any likelihood of one.

Friendships between heterosexual women and homosexual men can be some of the strongest in the world. It approaches Hegel’s idea of the brother/sister relationship, because it’s a sister that you’ve chosen. It’s one of the purest relationships because it is completely disinterested. There’s no sexual tension. You don’t want anything from the woman and she doesn’t want anything from you. What you want is each other’s friendship. That can be very complex too, and it can be involved with social ambition, working together, all kinds of things, but nevertheless I would say it approaches a state of purity, because for homosexual men every other man is potentially a sexual partner.

Has it ever happened that you befriended a woman and she fell for you?

Yes. That’s painful. I try to be very clear from the very beginning, though now that I’m well known as a gay writer I don’t even have to. But before I would always try to be very clear that I was exclusively homosexual so that at least I was being fair and honest about what was possible. It does happen, but less often, I find, because I tend not to make a mystery of my life and I will often introduce a woman friend to my boyfriend very early on. Therefore it would have to be somebody very unbalanced and strange who would let herself go so far.

I understand that you are also occasionally attracted to heterosexuals. How do you deal with that? It is possible for you to seduce the heterosexual?

[Laughs] Yes, well, that’s maybe one reason why I like Genet, because Genet never had sex with homosexual men, only heterosexual men. They were always working-class boys who were in some way dependent on him for money, but he would always arrange for them to have girlfriends. He would even choose their wives and so on. It was the sort of thing that used to happen a lot in the Mediterranean world, especially Greece; the older man who had the younger boy, then set the younger boy up in the world. Many younger heterosexual men admire me as a writer. They’re curious and they want to have an edge on you. I’ve been seduced more by heterosexual men than I have seduced. I don’t think I’ve seduced them very often. But if they want to seduce me; It’s OK.

To come back to Genet and the subject of Prisoner of Love. How do you feel about the Palestinian cause? Are you sympathetic?

It’s a very awkward question. I’ll tell you why. It’s because American publishing is entirely pro-Israel. Recently I was asked if Genet was anti-Semitic, and I said yes and no, but yes to some degree. The publisher said, ‘Well, why are we even bothering to publish your book? Nobody will read it in America.’ So there’s a commercial part of me that thinks I have to be very careful how I respond to your question, but the truth is I’m very sympathetic to the Palestinians.

You can sympathize to the Palestinians without being anti-Semitic. I’m certainly not anti-Semitic.

Nor am I. I’m not even anti-Zionist, but all the contact I have had with Palestinians has been very good. I’ve found the Arab people that I’ve met are most cultured, even their attitude towards literature is extremely sophisticated. For instance, a book like Prisoner of Love would have been a very easy one for the Palestinians to claim and try to use as a political weapon but, in fact, when I was recently at the Institute of the Arab world here in Paris on a panel with the head of the Palestinian Review, he said that he thought the book should be considered a work of art and not a political text; that, of course, it did have a political aspect, but it would be very difficult to decode a clear political message. It’s very ambiguous politically. The thing about Genet is that he himself was a homeless person and hated France. He thought that he was an orphan. He was always rejected by everybody, and the two political groups he identified with were the Black Panthers and the Palestinians, both of whom had a government but no country. He once said that the day the Palestinians recovered their land, then he would no longer love them. It was very important to him that they were marginal homeless people like himself.

He identified with them?

Absolutely. He hated France and never thought he was French. When he was a child, he had a persistent fantasy that he was Polish. He loved it when people told him he looked Polish.

Could you write a novel without any trace of homosexuality in it?

I’ve already done it, and that’s Caracole where there are no homosexual characters. Mind you, it’s been a very difficult book to sell because our society is one which packages everyone, and so people were very puzzled by it, especially in the English-speaking world. Why would a homosexual writer write a book where there are no homosexual characters? I found it exciting and liberating to write. For one thing, in this book I wrote compulsively about heterosexual sex, which I have very little experience of, so it was all my fantasies, and I found that very exciting. Several heterosexual readers have told me they found it exciting too. It was a pure act of imagination, projection and voyeurism.

What’s the greatest ambition left to you?

I want to finish the cycle that has begun with A Boy’s Own Story and The Beautiful Room is Empty. I want to write two more volumes, one about the 1970s, the heyday of gay life, then one about the 1980s, about the Aids period. So I want to finish that as a cycle, and I certainly want to finish the Genet book. After that, we’ll see.



I love Italian food in general and pasta in particular. Although I do not suffer from obesity, I’m still careful to monitor what I eat for fear of putting on weight. I was naturally delighted to read recently that pasta, contrary to what people think and say, does not make us fat, researchers have found.

In recent years, pasta has been labelled as stodgy and calorie-laden, even by proponents of low carbohydrate diets. We have even been told to replace spaghetti with spiralized vegetables. But pasta is perfectly fine in moderation, according to US researchers. They looked at 32 studies involving a total of almost 2,500 people who ate an average of 3.3 portions of pasta a week. A portion was half a cup of pasta.

The participants did not gain weight after three months of easting pasta, instead losing more than a pound each. They were all following a low-glycaemic diet – eating foods that release energy slowly. These foods, which include lentils, beans, oats and nuts, help blood sugar levels stabilise and make people feel fuller for longer. They are often labelled ‘low-GI’ which stands for ‘low glycaemic index’.

The researchers said pasta may be also low-GI, which is why eating it did not lead to participants putting on weight. Lead author Dr John Steven Piper from St Michael’s Hospital in Toronto, said: ‘The study found that pasta doesn’t contribute to weight gain or increases in body fat. In fact analysis actually showed a small weight loss. So, contrary to concerns, perhaps pasta can be part of a healthy diet such as a low GI diet. Pasta has previously been lumped in with other high carbohydrates food such as white bread, but its structure and nutritional composition is different, meanings its sugars are broken down more slowly by the body.’

Jodie Relf, a spokesperson for the British Dietetic Association, said: ‘People demonise pasta along with bread as they believe these are stodgy foods that cause you to gain weight. This can force them into restrictive low-carb diets which they then fail to stick to. In fact, pasta can be a nutrionous part of a balanced diet as the energy from it is slow-released. The gluten in it is a protein so acts to slow down the normal spike and fall in blood sugar. It means pasta helps people stay full for longer so that they are less likely to snack between meals and over eat.’

Most of the people involved in the study were middle-aged and overweight. One study showed a group of participants lost almost 5lbs each on average. Those involved in the studies lost more than 2 inches from their waistlines.

The review, published in the journal BMJ Open, said: ‘As the role of saturated fat in chronic disease has been called into question, carbohydrates have come under attack in the media, popular books, statements of health advocacy groups and commentaries in leading medical journals.’ The authors add that pasta has even been implicated in the ‘obesity epidemic’. They conclude: ‘Lower GI diets may result in greater body-weight reduction, compared with higher GI diets because lower GI foods have been shown to be more satiating and delay hunger and decrease subsequent energy intake.’

It’s good news for people who love pasta so long as they eat in moderation, which is probably key to everything one eats.

No Longer With Us


Conor Cruise O’Brien was born in 1917-2008 into a strongly nationalist Dublin family. He was an outstanding student at Trinity College, Dublin, where he took a BA and PhD. His doctoral dissertation, later published as Parnell and his Party (1957), was a remarkable mingling of political analysis and literary insight. Between 1956 and 1960 he was a member of the Irish delegation to the UN. His book To Katanga and Back (1962), widely considered to be his finest work, is an autobiographical narrative of the Congo crisis of 1961, when he served in Katanga as representative to UN Secretary General Dag Hammarskjold. Following academic office in Ghana and New York, he was elected Irish Labour TD (MP) for Dublin in 1969, became Minister for Posts and Telegraphs in 1973, and was defeated in 1977 because of his opposition to IRA violence in Northern Ireland. Between 1979 and 1981 he was editor-in-chief of the Observer and has been pro-chancellor of the University of Dublin since 1973. He was appointed senior research fellow at the National Humanities Center, North Carolina (1993-4), and in 1996 published On the Eve of the Millennium to wide critical acclaim.


You have said that in your youth you were more strongly drawn to the Protestant than to the Catholic ethos. Why was that?

The second school I attended was a Catholic convent school and I have unpleasant memories of the severities practised there, not actually by the nuns, but by some of the lay teachers. My recollections of Catholic teaching are of being told this is how it is, repeat after me; it was all authoritarian. Then I went to my main school, and found that I was invited to discuss, to question, and I liked the atmosphere. What appealed to me was not Protestantism, but enlightenment, and I have related to it ever since.

This was a Protestant school?

It was a school attended in equal parts by Protestants, Jews and liberal Catholics, that is to say Catholic families who did not want their children to get a Catholic education for reasons which I later came to understand. I remember being confused on my first day there when the headmaster said that the Church of Ireland boys would stay for prayers. It never occurred to me that the Church of Ireland could be anything other than Catholicism and I knew our family were supposed to be Catholics so I stayed for prayers, and witnessed the horror of people kneeling on one knee only. But I got over that initial shock.

In 1916, the year before you were born, your uncle was killed by a British officer during the Easter Uprising. Your maternal grandfather has associations with the Irish Republican Brotherhood, forerunners of the IRA. To what extent has your family background helped shape your own attitudes?

One of my uncles, the one who was married to my mother’s elder sister, was shot on the orders, as you say, of a British officer in Easter week, 1916, but another uncle, just a little older than my mother, was killed in the autumn of that year of France, wearing the same uniform as that worn by the killer of my other uncle. These two deaths are an integral part of my life. I spent a considerable part of my youth puzzling out what it meant. I’m still not sure.

Do you have a strong sense of history in your present ideological position?

Yes, I’m an historian, partly by training but more and more by inclination. I find that almost everything I read now is history in some form or other.

Is not history largely a matter of interpretation?

Yes, but you wouldn’t find any historians who would deny that a world war happened between 1914 and 1918. From then on they could start interpreting, but again it is a fact that one side lost and another won, and the consequences of that are there. The historian interprets, but there are great brute facts which he can’t interpret away.

Your mother was a Catholic, your first wife was a Protestant, your daughter is married to the son of a Protestant archbishop. Your second wife is a practising Catholic, niece of a cardinal. Have these different threads confused your sense of your own identity, or have they clarified it?

That’s a good question. All I know is that I am happy with the results, except that my first marriage broke up, and that’s always a cause of sadness to all parties. But relations with my five children and with my second wife are excellent, and I have learned a lot from my wife about Catholicism. She has taught me to be more comfortable with it, but makes no effort to induce me to believe in it. Indeed, I think if I showed signs of believing in it she would deter me.

I understand that now you do not profess any religion. Is that simply a lack of faith or were you driven from the church in some way?

I was never really near enough to the church to be driven from it. My father was an agnostic, my mother indeed during my father’s lifetime would have declared herself to be an agnostic, as would other members of the family. Though I don’t think I ever believed any part of it, I had my first communion, I was confirmed. This, according to the teaching of the Roman Catholic Church makes you a Catholic, whether you say you are or not… I say I’m not, but if I were to meet a bishop, he would say, well you are. When I think back to my childhood I think of it as something dark and oppressive in the background, something of that I was supposed to be part of but didn’t ever wish to be any part of. I was a very priggish little boy, an only child who had spent most of his time with elders rather than contemporaries, and when a pious aunt presented me on my eighth birthday with a missal, I looked at this thing and said, ‘Thank you Aunt Mary, it will relieve the tedium of the mass.’ [Laughs.] That didn’t go down terribly well.

Do you think you might mellow in years to come?

I have mellowed. Until 1977 … and that’s sixty years … I was actively hostile to religion in general and most particularly to the Roman Catholic Church. After my father’s death, my mother, acting on his request, sent me to a non-denominational school, as it might now be called. I learned around that time that a contemporary of mine, who also belonged to a family of Catholic background, was taken away from the school because his mother had been warned by a priest that every day the boy stayed at the school lengthened her late husband’s sufferings in purgatory. I believe my mother got similar advice, but the poor thing sweated it out, and kept me at that school though she was being mentally tortured by those people. So I didn’t grow up with any feelings of kindness towards the Catholics. Then my wife in the late 1970s was involved in a very bad car accident; her right leg was broken in thirty-three places, she was in intensive care for quite a long time in a hospital in Ireland run by nuns, and their care for her and kindness to all of us was something really marvellous. When the recovery happened it was very much ‘thank God’, and something melted then. I ceased to have the hostility towards the religion that I had before. But that didn’t incline me at all towards belief in any credo.

You have had academic appointments as well as political, administrative and diplomatic ones. What drew you to the universities?

A desire for knowledge, for instruction, for leisure in which to turn around and think, to meet other people interested in ideas; and I found all those. Most of my teaching has been done at various American universities, and I have enjoyed that. I found that American students start with absolutely nothing in the way of knowledge of the subject, but they learn prodigiously fast, and are very highly motivated and full of curiosity. Most recently I was a research fellow at the Woodrow Wilson Centre in Washington DC, and I found it delightful actually to be paid for reading books which I would be doing anyway.

The universities are currently in turmoil. What do you think their function ought to be in the late twentieth century? Has Cardinal Newman’s ‘idea of a university’ been superseded?

All kinds of things are going on in the universities. There is, as we all know, the multi-cultural agenda which in broad outline I dislike. The idea of the politically correct is obnoxious to me, but I did have a curious experience in that regard. When I went out to the Wilson Centre I said I would like to work on the phenomenon of the multi-cultural, the politically correct, and of course race studies and gender studies are a part of that. This was during the period of the Senate hearings over Clarence Thomas and Anita Hill’s accusations against him. This was a strange happening, because within that agenda, race studies and gender studies people have been allies, but here the black-rights people and the woman’s-rights people were opposed. A poll showed that sixty-seven per cent of blacks were for Clarence Thomas, whereas all feminists of whatever colour were for Anita Hill. This prompted me to read black feminist writings. I had expected – and I’m not proud of myself for having expected – to find a great deal that would be propagandist and attitudinizing. To my surprise and delight I found a very considerable body of valid and splendid historical writing by black women thinking about the past of other black women, not to make some propaganda point, but to find out. I also found that the alliance in gender studies and race studies is essentially based on white feminists and black-rights people, males mostly, zeroing in on the white male. It is Manichean stuff and the white male is the arch enemy, but the black feminists are aware that white women can be racist and that black males can be sexist, and this gives it a richness and a maturity that the other lot don’t have.

In view of the turmoil which appears to be typical of sub-Saharan Africa, do you have any sympathy at all with the South African whites and their dilemma? If they prevent majority rule they are anti-democratic … if they permit it they may be completely overwhelmed.

I certainly have a lot of sympathy with many white people there, especially the Afrikaners. De Klerk is working on the right lines; he is not about to give in to the ANC, but is looking for a power-sharing formula in which the whites would still have considerable power. It now looks as if Mandela is prepared to go down that road, which means on his part a sizable compromise. I think the ANC as we know it is about to split, and what you will have will be a coalition of all those, white or black, who have anything to lose. It is basically the people on the outside who are going to be unemployed. This is not an exhilarating prospect, but it’s better than the apartheid state. I’m politically now fairly optimistic, but the demographic and social and economic realities are absolutely horrendous. Anyone you talk to in South Africa is more likely to be talking about crime than about poverty; if you’re a young black and can’t get a job, crime is your only career.

I believe you visited South Africa three years ago and in Cape Town you were forced to leave the platform by anti-apartheid demonstrators. What exactly happened there?

I’ll tell you exactly what happened. In 1986 the World Archaeological Congress was held in Southampton, and scholars from every country in the world were invited, including South Africa which has one of the richest schools of archaeology. Then, under pressure from the ANC and the academic left in Britain, the South African scholars were disinvited; they were told they were not wanted here, not because of any flaw in their scholarship but on account of their South African nationality, although these scholars were actually from universities like Cape Town which was desegregated. This struck me, as it struck a number of other academics, as a dreadful thing to do. So I protested against it. Then, having been invited to give a course of lectures at the University of Cape Town, I publicly announced that I was accepting, thus breaking the academic boycott of South Africa. I was to give a course of fifteen lectures. In the beginning there was no serious trouble, then I was invited to a debate on the subject of the cultural boycott. Naively I accepted, thinking a debate was a debate. When I arrived in the hall there was nobody on the other side of the debate, and although I insisted on making an initial statement, the evening consisted mainly of hostile questioning. The first question was, ‘Why did you come here to South Africa – was it to mock the sufferings of the oppressed people?’ That was just a foretaste of what was to come the following night when I gave a public lecture about the Middle East and Israel. There was quite an audience, mainly Jews from off-campus, but the same crowd gathered outside in the corridors around the lecture hall and chanted slogans just when questions had started from the audience; I was most edified by my Jewish audience who went on as if nothing had happened. They thought, wrongly, that this was an anti-Semitic demonstration, but it was actually part of the cultural boycott. The audience remained attentive until the mob broke down the doors and surged in and drove us all out. When I met my regular class in the morning, a class of about a hundred people who were racially distributed as in the general population of the University of Cape Town – about fifteen per cent black students, the rest white – again the mob broke down the door. The vice chancellor, Stuart Saunders, rang me later that day to say that there was a danger of much more serious violence, so I had to call them off. The impression it left on my mind was that I wouldn’t like to be in a South Africa that was run by the ANC. I wouldn’t mind a government of which the ANC was a part, but not in control.

So there was no hostility directed against you personally – it was simply as a result of the boycott?

Yes. Of course, they subsequently claimed that I had treated them in an intolerably patronizing manner, but in those circumstances you either bow down or you are accused of being insufferably patronizing. On the whole I’d rather be accused of being insufferably patronizing.

You were devoted to the whole concept of the United Nations. What was it that attracted you to the UN?

To enter the United Nations for the Republic of Ireland; we were admitted in 1955 and took our seats in the General Assembly in 1956. It was like returning to the world, because Ireland had been neutral in the Second World War and, understandably, rather cold-shouldered by the victors. We had been vetoed by the Soviet Union for membership of the United Nations for which we had applied as soon as it was set up, it had been a pretty claustrophobic existence before that.

Katanga was described by Brian Urquhart as ‘the most frustrating, nerve racking and isolated of all the UN posts in the Congo’. Did you feel honoured to have been chosen by Hammarskjöld for the job or did you think you were being exiled?

Katanga was the great challenge to the United Nations at that time. I did feel honoured, and I knew it was a high-risk post and also that it was for that post I had been chosen. Formally the request to the Irish government was to second me for service in the political and security council affairs department in New York, but I always knew I would be sent to the Congo. And I had no sense of being isolated or banished or anything of the sort.

You had been selected by Hammarskjöld for your qualities of courage, independence of mind and spirit, as a radical young man who would be able to put Hammarskjöld’s own ideas into practice. You for your part admired him equally. This mutual high regard must surely have made the break all the more painful when it came?

Yes, it was very painful indeed. Your summary is correct, but I’d like to add an element or two to it. This is the background to why I was appointed to go to Katanga: in January 1961, Mnongo, then minister of the interior of the so-called independent state of Katanga, announced the death of Patrice Lamumba, the prime minister of the Congo. Mnongo said that he had escaped from captivity in Elisabethville and had been killed by some villagers angered by his bad behaviour. But the whole world believed that Lamumba was actually murdered by the government of Katanga, specifically by Mnongo himself. There was outrage throughout the world, in the third world in particular, and also among American blacks. The United Nations and Hammarskjöld in particular were being blamed, with – though I didn’t know at the time – a good deal of substance, because Hammarskjöld’s instructions to the UN forces who controlled all the airports at the time were not to intervene between Mr Lamumba and his official pursuers. This meant that with the United Nations troops looking on he was handed over in Elisabethville to be murdered. The revulsion that followed this caused the United Nations, and Hammarskjöld in particular, to change course. My instructions were to try and bring the secession to an end. He picked me for that because the Irish delegation of which I was a part had an anti-colonialist record. Also he wanted someone who was not part of the communist bloc, or African, or Asian, and not part of the Western alliance either; and I had those qualifications. But the break with him was a very grim thing. The first I knew of it, that I had lost contact with Hammarskjöld, occurred in this way. We had moved to arrest Tshombe and his ministers (Tshombe had been helped to escape by the British) but whether Hammarskjöld knew exactly what we were going to do or not, I don’t know. He certainly knew what we had done because it was reported to him, and he issued a statement in Leopoldville in which he represented Tshombe’s people as having been the aggressors, which they were not; we were. But he gave the impression of the United Nations being peacefully engaged until fired on by Tshombe’s lot. Of course, the meaning of that was that Tshombe could have a ceasefire at any time he wanted. The legs were cut from under us. I’ll never forget the reading of that dispatch.

I know it’s going back a long way, but how would you sum up what went wrong in the Congo? A lot of people say that you were going to be sacked by Hammarskjöld, had he not been killed. Is there any truth in that?

I think so. Once he nullified what I had done, he couldn’t live with me. He would certainly have got rid of me.

How much did your personal affairs contribute to your resignation? There must have been enormous pressure on you from the press, given that you were living, not with your wife, but with the daughter of a cabinet minister.

That was raked up, but the decision had already been taken on political grounds because I had become identified with a policy that had not worked and had to be repudiated. It was, incidentally, a policy to which they reverted after I went, because they did use force to end the secession of Katanga, partly because they were embarrassed by what I had revealed. My wife’s presence in the Congo then became a convenient way of notifying my government that I would have to be withdrawn.

What are the practical limitations of the United Nations as an organization?

I think one has to distinguish between the United Nations when there is consensus among the permanent members, and when there isn’t. For most of the existence of the United Nations there was no consensus. For example, when I was in the Congo only one of the permanent members supported the secretary general in what he was doing. The Soviet Union openly opposed, Britain and France covertly opposed, so that’s the context in which I and Hammarskjöld had to work at that time. No wonder it became a bit crazy. But then of course in the late 1980s, towards the end of the Iran-Iraq war, five-power consensus emerged. The secretary general in his mission to Baghdad and Teheran was backed up by the embassies of all the five super powers, a blissful condition which I had never thought to live and to see. That five-power consensus is still there, though there is of course uncertainty as to whether it can be preserved. Nobody knows what’s going to happen in Russia.

But do you think it’s a good thing for the super powers to dominate the United Nations?

There is only one super power, and it dominates; that’s a fact of life. But there is a qualification to it: the United States likes to get the blessing of the security council on what it is about to do. It was the United States who determined that a war should be fought over Kuwait… nobody else. But the fact that they need to get the agreement of other powers is welcome as a limiting factor. If for example the United States at the time of the Vietnam War had needed to get consensus in the security council, I don’t think they would have got it.

You were once interested in Yeats’s relation to the idea of Nietzsche. Was Yeats in any real sense a fascist?

No, he wasn’t; he was a person who in certain moods was attracted to fascism. He was attracted in the 1930s when the Blueshirts limped out – I won’t say emerged – in Ireland, imitating the paraphernalia of Mussolini and Hitler. They were never really a formidable lot – they never killed anybody, for instance. In 1938, the last full year of his life, his poetry is more seriously fascist. He wrote, ‘You that Mitchel’s prayer have heard, Send war in our time, O Lord.’ The poetry of that time is certainly attracted towards Nazi Germany; it never fully flowered, but that’s where it was all tending in the last few years. Yeats felt the pull of violence, and violence attracts the imagination. He was a sort of heat-seeking missile.

A lot of politicians were also attracted to Nazi Germany at the beginning.

There was something very powerful and attractive about success after success from 1935 onwards. Everyone’s eyes were riveted on what was happening there and a lot of lesser politicians hitched their wagon to that, to their later regret.

You are known in some nationalist quarters as the fascist of the left. How do you react to that?

First of all, I laugh at the said nationalists using fascist as a term of abuse, because during the Second World War the IRA was pro-Hitler. Their chief-of-staff went to Berlin and they were trying to liberate Ireland with the aid of the Nazis, so when they call me a fascist I ask them, who do they think they’re kidding?

But is there anything you might have done that could label you as a fascist of the left?

Yes. And not so much of the left either. I am in favour of the introduction of internment for the parliamentary godfathers on both sides of the boarder in Ireland, and the IRA in opposing that would of course have liberal allies.

For a long time you have been pro-Israel and anti-Arab, and have been especially vitriolic about the Palestinians. How did you come to adopt this position?

I would like you to quote – if you can – anything vitriolic I have ever said about the Palestinians, or indeed any Arabs. I have never attacked them. What I have said is that I don’t think it is possible for Israel to obtain peace with the Arabs by handing territory. There will always be, and for quite understandable reasons, a great many Arabs who don’t want peace with Israel except on the basis of the destruction of Israel. That is not true of the people who are at present negotiating with them on behalf of the Palestinians, but there are other Arabs out there who will not give Israel peace on the grounds of anything that could be negotiated by the Palestinians.

Wouldn’t you acknowledge that there are people on the Israel side who are equally extreme, if not worse?

This is part of my case. This is why territory for peace is not possible either on the Arab side or the Israeli side. If, for example, a government in Israel were to say that the Palestinians can have the West Bank and Gaza, that they can set up their state there and the settlers will be withdrawn, that would mean civil war in Israel.

But one has to acknowledge that there will be no peace ever unless there is compromise on both sides. Whereas in the old days one could have accused the Arabs of intransigence, today the intransigence seems to come more from the Israelis. The majority of Palestinians want peace, and your stand on the issue, if I may say so, does not help the cause of peace.

You’re quite right that the Palestinians in negotiating on the basis of autonomy have come a long way; they have come to it in the terms of Shamir’s own offer. I regret that he now seems to be backing away from what he has offered, and as you say that is an unreasonably intransigent position.

Let’s talk some more about this. I have the impression from reading articles you have written that you are very pro-Israeli. Presumably you don’t deny that Begin and Irgun gang modelled themselves on the IRA of Michael Collins?

Indeed, Shamir’s own clandestine name, Michael, is after Michael Collins.

Since you are opposed to the IRA, how do you reconcile the two positions in your own mind?

The IRA of 1919-21 were acting at least nominally under democratic authority; they were the armed forces of the First Dáil, which was an elected body representing in free elections in the majority of the Irish people. The modern IRA since 1922 has no democratic mandate at all from anyone; they are an unlicensed body of terrorists.

But Begin and Irgun were terrorists too. In one way you seem to oppose terrorism, in another way you don’t condemn it.

Essentially the Zionist movement has its roots in Europe and is an outgrowth of the European history that produced Nazism. Chaim Weizmann said of 1921: ‘We must have a Palestine if we are not going to be exterminated.’ That seemed a very extreme and bizarre thing to say in 1921 but by 1933 it was not. And the degree of sympathy I have for Israel is based on the realization that Israel is the result of horrendously extreme conditions. That is why I write as a do. It’s an emotional issue with me.

What about the poor Palestinians? They weren’t responsible for the Nazi atrocities?

No, they were not, and they have suffered as a result of the Nazi atrocities. But they haven’t suffered quite as much as the Jews. Of course, nothing that one can say or do will make amends to any of those who have suffered, either among the Jews or the Palestinians. But one has to look at the here and now and see the best that is actually available. I have a high regard for the present negotiators on the Palestinian side, I think they are very brave people, but there are high risks, especially if they succeed. I wish that Shamir would meet them halfway. Palestinians are not at present demanding territory; what they are asking at the moment is autonomy, and I would hope they get it.

Most Israelis recognize that the 1982 invasion of Lebanon was a terrible mistake, yet you defended it strongly at the time. Would you now agree you were wrong?

I didn’t defend it strongly at the time. I merely went against some of the denunciations of Israel that were going on at the time. I defended it to this extent, and would still defend it; the PLO on the soil of Lebanon were claiming to be carrying a war on Israel, and they had their vast heavily armoured encampments there for the destruction of Israel; I put the point that if in the Republic of Ireland you had a similar situation with the IRA, legal and condoned by Dublin, carrying on bombings of Britain from the Republic, British intervention in the Republic would be the probable outcome and would be rather generally accepted. That is the parallel I drew. That was regarded as outrageous.

I regard it as outrageous. Shall I tell you why?

Am I interviewing you or are you interviewing me?

You are being interviewed, but I want to pick up on your reference to the destruction of Israel. Nobody can destroy Israel today; the world would not allow it.

Under certain conditions the destruction of Israel could indeed occur. For example, if as a result of an attempt at peacemaking the people of Israel should be divided to the point of civil war; that would be the end of Israel. There are great divisions in Israeli society, there’s no doubt about that.

One more question about Israel before we drop the subject. You are known as a vocal champion of Israel, perhaps an uncritical one…

Not true. You wish to portray me as uncritical.

Not at all. It seems almost a case of ‘My country right or wrong’. Whereas there might have been a case for supporting the state of Israel to begin with, what do you say about Israel’s treatment of the Palestinians – well documented by Amnesty and Israel’s own human-rights organization?

The Israelis are in occupation territory whose inhabitants reject them and resist them. And these things happen under these conditions. I wish that Israel could withdraw from the territories it occupies. I find it difficult to see that it can, for reasons which I have set out analytically and not emotionally. The treatment of the populations of the West Bank and Gaza is based on the laws, regulations and practices with which Britain governed all of Palestine, under the mandate. The military regulations are there; they are British ones.

But you were always anti-colonial…

Yes … all right…

I’d like to ask a question in a different area now. There is a great deal of controversy about the efforts made to suppress the freedom of information. You have been a member of government – did you feel the need to keep the public in the dark as far as possible?

I don’t recall keeping the public in the dark about anything in particular. In this domain I am blamed for being the author of the legislation currently in force which prevents spokesmen for the IRA and other paramilitaries from broadcasting; and there are those who hold that this is a limitation on freedom of information. I defend it on the grounds that all broadcasting codes prohibit incitement to crime, that terrorist violence is of its nature criminal and that the spokesmen in question have no other purpose than to promote this criminal conspiracy.

During your time as Minister for Post and Telegraphs, it has been suggested by some that you will be remembered chiefly for attempts to censor and control RTE. Is that an unfair assessment?

I would accept it to this extent: that if prohibition of broadcast interviews with spokesmen for terrorist organization is censorship, then I am a censor. Beyond that not at all, never one step beyond it. While I was minister responsible for broadcasting, the RTE regularly ran a series of satirical broadcasts about the government of which I was a part, including pieces about myself. They ran it every week, for two years I believe; it was still running when my government fell. I don’t think that’s censorship exactly.

Mary Holland recalls that when she went to work for RTE in the mid-1970s people were ‘quite simply frightened out of their minds’. Were you aware of that at the time?

Utterly ridiculous. Nobody was ever frightened out of his mind at RTE, nobody at all. They were frightened under Mr Haughey because he intervened regularly; whenever he objected to a programme, he was on the line. We never interfered with RTE at all.

Yet Mary Holland described the atmosphere as follows: ‘Self-censorship had been raised to the level of an art and a caution lay like a thick cloud over everything.’ Do you accept that it was like that or at least appeared to others in that way?

I think it appeared to Mary Holland like that, but it’s a ridiculous portrayal. I don’t think you’d find anyone in Dublin to agree except Mary Holland and some republican sympathizers.

In an interview with Bernard Nossiter of the New York Times you attacked the Irish Press and said you were collecting clippings printed in the paper with a view to having the editor, Tim Pat Coogan, arrested on the grounds that the letters supported Sinn Fein. The interview was duly published in the Irish Press and it was suggested that only the ensuing public outcry prevented you from putting your plan into practise. How do you defend your position on this issue?

It’s not true that I suggested that Tim Pat Coogan should be arrested; I didn’t. I simply showed Bernard Nossiter certain letters that they had published which amounted to incitement to violence.

In 1978 you left politics and became editor-in-chief of the Observer. Why did you do that?

Because it was an attractive thing to be asked to do. I had been writing for the Observer on and off for a good many years. I was invited by Lord Goodman to meet with him and the new proprietors of the Observer, and then they offered me the post of editor-in-chief of the newspaper which I was happy to accept.

There is speculation among your opponents that you got the job at the Observer because of a possible connection with the British Intelligence Service. Do you find this an absurd idea?

Are my opponents the IRA? I imagine they are, since nobody except the IRA has its spokesmen talk like that. I never had any connection with the British Intelligence or any other intelligence organization…
But have you ever heard it mentioned before?

I’ve seen it chalked on walls by the IRA, but I won’t dignify it by further discussion.

During your time at the Observer there were suggestions that you used your editorial powers to censor articles on Ireland, notably from Mary Holland. What do you say to that?

An editor is a kind of censor. You decide what goes in and what out, and if you don’t like things you want them to go out. Mary Holland wrote a piece during one of her IRA strikes, a tear-jerking thing about the dependents of the people who were on the dirty strike, and the whole article was an IRA sympathy kneejerk performance which appeared in the Observer magazine, not something that normally engaged my attention. When I saw it I naturally complained about it to the editor, but it was too late to stop it. I certainly did create when I saw it, and Mary would of course have seen it as censorship.

Do you think any sort of reconciliation is possible between Rome and Canterbury? I recall you speaking of the Pope’s missionary attitude towards Protestantism. The two positions do not seem to be hopelessly intransigent.

When the present Pope talks about the unity of the Christian churches, he means unity under him and according to his laws, and if I were an Anglican I wouldn’t be too keen about being incorporated into all that; but that’s their business. I’m neither Anglican, nor a Roman. I wish the Pope well.

You were one of those who was instrumental in deleting from the constitution the reference to the special position of the Catholic Church in Ireland. How powerful does the church remain in Ireland?

The results of two referenda would suggest that the church still does have a lot of authority. They defeated the referendum which would have made divorce legislation possible in Ireland, and they succeeded, most ironically, in inserting the provision which appears to make abortion illegal in all circumstances but is now found actually to have legalized abortion in certain circumstances; so they really shot themselves in the foot over that one. Their authority is now less than it used to be, even considerably less, despite the results of these referenda, for the real test of authority is on the matter of contraception. The teaching of the church is still implacably against artificial contraception, and yet it is quite clear that married Catholics are using contraceptives – the reproduction patterns are the same as those of other groups – so the teaching of the church in a centrally vital matter has gone. Also the public reaction to the original court decision in the rape-victim case was quite negative in relation to the church. You may have seen a piece of mine in The Times, an open letter to the Catholic bishops. That letter in a more extended form appeared in the Irish Independent, the largest circulating newspaper among Irish Catholics. The fact such a letter could appear is a sign of the times.

Yet last year in an interview you described abortion as ‘a great evil’…

My point about abortion is that it is an evil always, but there are a number of cases in which it is a lesser evil.

How long do you think the Catholic Church will be able to hold out against letting their clergy marry, with all the ramifications of providing for widows and children and housing and pensions and divorce and remarriage and the whole secular round? Do you think it will come eventually?

I don’t know. The convention of celibacy is so long established that the rule won’t go unless there is such a shortage of clergy that they make the concession. I would certainly wish to see celibacy at an end. It is a bit sick to have celibate males deciding how other people should behave in bed. In fact it’s disgusting.

In an article in the Observer written twenty years ago you said that socially you belonged to the Irish Catholic community, that you were motivated by affection for it, identification with it, and a fear that it might destroy itself and you through infatuation with its own mythology. Twenty years on do you still believe that, and is it any closer to destroying you?

I feel more relaxed about it than I would have then because the power and authority of the Catholic Church have been eroded. It doesn’t inspire the same amount of fear and therefore revulsion that it used to when I was younger.

The trouble in Ireland is always put down to the differences between Catholics and Protestants, but how true do you think that is? Some of the IRA appear to be extreme left-wing revolutionaries who have only the most tenuous connection with Catholicism.

I don’t think that’s true. Indeed if you look at the times when emotions have been greatly raised, for example during the hunger strikes when men died, you wouldn’t have seen too many volumes of Das Kapital around, but you saw the missal, the rosary beads, the holy water, all the paraphernalia of Roman Catholicism. Catholic Ireland was there; the Marxist stuff was very much top dressing. There is a story that illustrates this in the Provos. There was a time before the split in the IRA when the leadership was Marxist, and in that period, the late thirties, they were trying to detach the IRA from anything that would identify them with Catholicism. They sent a circular saying a decade of the rosary at the funeral of any given IRA volunteer was to be discontinued, but eight battalion commanders sent it back with the word that they were not going to obey. Those eight battalion commanders were later the founders of the Provisional IRA, so the good Catholic boys are the core of the Provos. For that reason the Catholic clergy in Belfast encouraged the emergence of the Provisional IRA because they thought it meant saying goodbye to those bad communists who had been in charge. And of course by bringing about a purely Catholic and nationalist IRA which fitted much more naturally into the scene that the old Marxist stuff did, they produced in fact a more dangerous strain of the virus. To do them justice they didn’t foresee the lengths to which the Provisional IRA would go, and I think those of them who are still around now regret what they did in 1969.

Do you think the Anglo-Irish Agreement can ever do any good? It seems obvious that whatever the political talk about guarding the rights of the majority, it does put Northern Ireland in quite a different category from the rest of the United Kingdom – because of deep-rooted historical differences.

As long as the majority of the population in Northern Ireland want to remain in the United Kingdom they should be allowed to do so, and we should leave them alone and stop trying to nudge them in the other direction. By nudging them we appear to be partners with the IRA. When I say ‘we’ I mean the government. The historical differences in political allegiance are there, but you can’t argue the population of Northern Ireland out of existence, nor can you induce the people who fundamentally disagree, to agree. It is therefore an inherently unpleasant and enduring situation.

But do you see there ever being a solution to it?

I think it could be ameliorated. One thing that would have been a positive effect would be for the Republic of Ireland to amend articles 2 and 3 of its constitution, which lay claim to the territory of Northern Ireland. This claim is very offensive to the majority of people there. I won’t say this would change everything overnight; it would just reduce the temperature a little.

In 1972 you sketched two positive models for the Irish future, the ‘benign’ and the ‘malignant’. What you said then has turned out to be largely true. Twenty years on, are there any new models?

I’m afraid not. As long as the British stay, you’ll have the IRA and in turn the Protestant parliamentary response to the IRA. But if Britain goes you’ll have full-scale civil war. That’s my malignant model, and I still believe in it.

Do you enjoy popularity in Ireland?

When I walk down O’Connell Street, for example, I’m likely to be stopped four or five times by somebody who wants to talk to me, and those people are invariably friendly. That’s not to say there aren’t other people who recognize me and cross to the side of the street. Let’s say I never feel uncomfortable in the parts of Ireland I do walk around in. I wouldn’t go to South Armagh or Anderson’s Town, places which are IRA turf, but I would regard myself as popular with everybody except people who are pro-IRA or very traditional Catholics.

I hope you don’t find this offensive, but a lot of people say you’re a British stooge, and I wonder how you react to that?

For ‘a lot of people’, read the IRA and their stooges, some of whom you have clearly been talking to. Give them my regards.

People have seen a parallel between you and Paul Johnson – both intelligent journalists, and initially socialists, who have become increasingly right-wing.

I can understand that. We’re also both pro-Israel. Paul would certainly be to the right of me, but otherwise there’s a parallel, certainly one that I would not resent.

You are known to be a very good family man. Has the experience of adopting two half-African children been a rewarding one?

Richly rewarding. This is one thing I’m extremely happy about, because there is a close and loving relationship, not merely between my wife and myself and those two children, but also between the three children by my first marriage and the two young adopted ones. That is a great joy.

Why have you spent so much time out of Ireland? Do you prefer to live somewhere else?

Ireland is the place where I like to live, but I couldn’t bear living in it if I couldn’t get out of it often and for long periods. As it happens I have never spent an entire year in all my long life outside Ireland.


What The Telegraph did not tell us…

Yesterday’s Daily Telegraph features an article by Rosa Silverman on the subject of butlers who, apparently, are much in demand in today’s high-net worth foreign society in Britain, and particularly in London. Statistics published this week by Greycoat Lumley, a recruitment consultancy, show that the wages of live-in butlers in London have increased by 8.2% in 2 years, hitting an average of £43,000. Living-out butlers can command an average of £45,000 a year, a sum 14.2% higher than in 2016.

The news comes as no surprise to Paola Diana, the Italian founder of Nanny & Butler, an agency that provides butlers, nannies and other household staff to the great , the good and the very, very wealthy. Indeed the figures look conservative against the £80,000-£150,000 salary she says a good butler can earn today, with demand now outstripping supply. She told the paper’s reporter: ‘The British butler is a status symbol; it’s iconic.’


Hiring a butler, she says, is a sign they have: ‘made it … These kind of people, they travel constantly, so maybe on paper they’re based here but they [also] have the yacht in the south of France, for instance. So maybe for three months during the summer, they’re around the world with the yacht; then in winter, they have the chalet in Gstaad or St Moritz, so they spend time there, or maybe go to America, to Aspen, and then a festival in California…

‘[Our] clients are looking for someone who really can manage the house because they have no time. Their social lives are hectic, they’re busy, they travel a lot, and managing the staff can be really hard, so a good butler is sometimes also now a crossover with the house manager in many households… They need to have impeccable good manners, of course. They need to be respectable and to have respect. It’s very important. And to have this kind of charisma and allure. It’s a very important role.’

What the Telegraph failed to mention is that Quartet has just published a book written by Paola – Saving the World – which is reaching the best-seller status it achieved in her native Italy. Needless to say, Paola is a dynamo raring to go on all fronts, not only as a successful entrepreneur but also as a writer who cares about and fights for women’s equality in a world which she maintains is still not particularly advantageous to women.


For those who have still to buy a copy, it’s not too late to show solidarity.

The Jewish Chronicle hit the nail on the head

The review pages of the Jewish Chronicle are invariably worth reading. This week their review by Stoddard Martin of Heavy Years by Augustus Young refers to the book as a piece of writing which is awesome and credits Quartet for having produced a work whose value will doubtless far outstrip its receipt. The author, he says ‘ long known to discerning eyes in Jewish literary London, deserves wider notice but like his protagonist, he has already stitched himself into the rather fragile tapestry of lives dedicated to being neglected and under-appreciated, and at the same time glorying in it.’


Here is the review in full, which I am sure despite the economic climate, will ensure that the book is not ignored.

APART FROM Jews, who are the foremost people of the book? In the English language, arguably the Irish — an association James Joyce semi-deliberately tagged by putting a Jewish protagonist at the heart of his great Irish novel. Joyce loved the word, what it morphed out of and into and how it could be welded into a syllogistic phrase. So does his fellow Irish expatriate Augustus Young (nom de plume), who has lived his adult life in London, distinguishing himself as a poet while keeping the wolf from the door by working in what he might euphemistically (or damningly) call “the health care industry”.

To the protagonist of Heavy Years: Inside the Head of a Health Worker (Quartet, £20) — a sequel to the author’s Light Years — the NHS is part Alice in Wonderland, part Kafka’s Castle. He progresses by deploying “verbal floats” and deciphering requirements behind “speech melodies”.

Intrigue is ubiquitous, mask and manipulation essential, power shifting constantly between “Mandarins”, “Eminent Persons”, “the Great and the Good” and on down. Precepts from Descartes, Kierkegaard, Freud and the like are invoked to illumine the path. Aphorism, allusion and Isaiah Berlin’s favourite apothegm from Immanuel Kant glimmer in the murk.

Occasionally, the protagonist’s boldness (or madness?) evokes “ethnic comment”, reminding that, until not long ago, the Irish, like Jews, were regarded as suspect, even treated with an equivalent of “Blacks not Welcome”.

But our man is deft: “What could be seen as a disadvantage was an asset. I could use my Irishness, and English colleagues couldn’t, at least directly.” Ethnic pride is tempered when he sees shrapnel scars on the face of the son of a colleague who has served in the army in Belfast.

On a practical level, Young has fashioned a handbook — we are never quite sure whether it is a novel or a memoir — on how to cope with vast bureaucracy. As a memoir, his text offers an amusing troll through the ever-changing, everstaying- the-same state of this nation in the past half-century. As a piece of creative writing, it is awesome, and credit is due to Quartet for having produced a work whose value will doubtless far outstrip its receipts.

The author, long known to discerning eyes in Jewish literary London, deserves wider notice but, like his protagonist, he has already “stitched [him]self into the rather fragile tapestry of lives dedicated to being neglected and under-appreciated, and at the same time glorying in it.”

At £20 a copy it’s worth a flutter if one is a serious book addict.


Insomnia, or lack of enough sleep, can cause no end of discomfort and lead to depression. The recommended amount of daily shut-eye is seven to nine hours but research involving more than 20,000 people found those sleeping six hours were 60% to 80% more likely to feel restless, nervous, anxious and hopeless. It seems one hour less of sleep makes a lot of difference to one’s wellbeing.

Researchers from Georgia Southern University found those who sleep less than five hours are three to four times more likely to suffer negative emotions. The link between sleeplessness and negative emotions was strongest in women in the months or years leading up to the menopause, the Journal of Neurology, Psychiatry and Brain Research reported.

Those who miss out on sleep miss out on ‘housekeeping’, time used by the brain to process new memories and manage older ones. This can lead them to become fixated on repeated negative thoughts.

How very true, since for the past two years I have experienced constant struggle to sleep on average notably less than seven hours, which has affected my alertness and proved a nuisance to contend with, vis- à-vis memory retention. I find less than seven hours sleep every night in old age can cause hidden disabilities to which most people seem unaware. So watch out folks before it’s too late…

No Longer With Us


Enoch Powell was born in 1912-1998 and educated at King Edward’s Grammar School, Birmingham, and at Trinity College, Cambridge. He was a fellow at Trinity from 1934-8 and was then appointed professor of Greek at the University of Sydney. In 1939 he returned to England to enlist as a private in the Royal Warwickshire Regiment, was commissioned in 1940 and rose to the rank of brigadier in 1944. He joined the Conservative Party in 1936 and entered parliament in 1950 as MP for Wolverhampton. Because of his opposition to the common market he did not stand for election in 1974, but returned to parliament in October of that year as an Ulster Unionist until he was defeated in the 1987 general election. He is the author of numerous publications including, The Evolution of the Gospel (1994).

You were a very precocious scholar, both at school and at university. Was there a price to pay for all that solitary dedication?

I think one has to examine the term ‘precocious’. I was not precocious in the sense that I was enormously in advance of the year of birth to which I belonged. It is a handicap to be too far ahead of your contemporaries, and I doubt if I actually was. I was probably put in a form of an average age a year older than mine, but no more than that. Prococity is therefore and idea to be handled very gently in this context.

You said of your early days that what drove you was the urge to ‘rise’. What was it to rise in your sense?

My father used to say to me that if I were not a teacher that would be contrary to the laws of biology because both he and my mother were teachers. My father always said that the great thing in life was to write and speak good English. The nature of attainment as it presented itself to me in the first two decades of my life was therefore academic.

But was it something you wanted or were you driven to it?

I was not driven. I have no sense of having been physically or mentally pushed, but the implication of the environment was that there was no point in education unless one was academically successful.

In retrospect, who do you think was more influential in your life? Your mother or you father?

I think it was my mother, whom I remember describing, in the preface to a book published in the 1940s, as my first teacher and certainly my first Greek teacher. But it was a household in which learning was respected and the prizes in life were prizes to be won mentally.

You have often been described as a puritan, which is a word sometimes used unkindly. Is it a label that offends, or do you think of it as a badge of honour.
I think of it as a severe inaccuracy. After all, I am a high churchman in the Church of England and how a high churchman can be a puritan I do not understand, because puritan and Anglican are incompatible terms. A puritan is distinct from and opposed to an Anglican. Which is why the attempt was made by William III in 1689 to find a via media between the Church of England and the puritans. All those characteristics which predispose a man to be comfortable and find his natural niche in the higher end of the Church of England are incompatible with puritanism.

You are using puritan in the intellectual sense. But it is a term also commonly used to mean someone who is offended by sex.
I think the word ‘squeamish’ is perhaps eluding us here. I’m certainly not that, and if puritan is used in the sense of squeamish I disavow the description. There is no subject to which the human mind cannot properly be applied.

People constantly use the word austere in reference to you. Would you accept their judgment as appropriate?

Here again the word is used in a narrowed sense. Presumably it’s intended to describe a person who does not find life primarily and self-evidently enjoyable. Well, I enjoy life; life without enjoyment would be intolerable. Indeed, sometimes when I’m asked what I have been doing for thirty-eight years in the House of Commons, I am disposed to reply that I have been enjoying myself. I don’t think that comes under the heading austerity.

There seems to have been a marked reluctance on your part to take up the academic life. You said you felt a sense of enclosure when you passed in under Trinity Gate. Why did you preserve if that was the case?

I didn’t preserve. I tried to escape from Cambridge and eventually succeeded. From the time that I became a fellow of Trinity I sought appointment as a professor of classics or of Greek at any university which had a vacancy and when one occurred at Sydney and I was offered the appointment I accepted it. But all through those years I was quite certain that this was a very brief temporary phase, which would be terminated by the coming of a war. This notion was derived from my observation and knowledge of what was going on in Germany and Italy. I had close connections with contemporary scholars in both those countries, so that I was aware of the rising threat which I perceived as a threat to the independence and self-government of the United Kingdom, and which I believed would have terminated sooner in hostilities than it actually did. If you’re interested in one of the reflections upon life from an older person’s standpoint, one of the things which has surprised me most is that events take longer to happen then one would have supposed. One can be sure that there will be war, but one thinks it will come sooner. The causes are there but the causes are not necessarily effective at the earliest possible time. I’ve always underestimated the speed with which things can happen and the promptitude with which the foreseeable can occur. I’ll enlarge on that if you like.

Pleas do.

It has been one of the experiences of recent years that after eighteen years of trying to make people understand what was being done to this country by European unity, what they were losing and what they were being asked to sacrifice, I’ve observed that at last they have woken up to it’s importance. I wouldn’t have thought it would have taken so long, but I was mistaken; my fellow countrymen had only one eye half open. They did know, and they show signs now of remembering that they were told. So I think if I were advising my younger self I would say: you must not suppose that because saltpetre, charcoal and sulphur cause an explosion, they will cause an explosion now. There has to be a set of special circumstances arising before that explosion occurs, so do not imagine because you can trace the causes of events, because events are predictable, that they are imminent. From this I would engage in another reflection; which is that one of the great laws of life is patience. Do not imagine that because such and such a thing is ripe to happen it’s going to happen immediately. You may have to spend a long time waiting for it to happen, but if you are right the world will come to meet you. If you are wrong, then you don’t matter. That might almost be written up as a favourite adage of my declining years.

Your inaugural lecture in 1938 showed you conscious even then of the difficulties which attended maintaining Greek as a central part of higher education. Do you think that the battle is still capable of being won, and does it matter all that much anyway?

All battles are capable of being won, even the most apparently hopeless battles. In the mid 1920s it was the received wisdom that classical education was on its way out, and I remember the revival of classical studies which took place in the late 1920s and 1930s. There is a natural predisposition amongst people who belong to Western culture to be inquisitive about the Greeks and when you show them what Plato said, or what Jesus said, they say, let me get at it. People will not be indefinitely content to be held at arm’s length from that which is ultimately intelligible or appreciable only in Greek. So long as Greek thought is immortal, Greek studies will be immortal, because people will not submit to being estranged from the source of that thinking.

In your collected poems you recall what you call the ‘compulsions’ under which they were written. Did you ever think of yourself writing poetry in the consciously public classical manner or was it restricted to a more self-absorbed romanticism?

Self-absorbed romanticism is a rather cruel but not entirely inaccurate expression. I wrote poetry when I had to write it, in obedience to an emotional compulsion, as a form of self-expression. Of course I was aware that I was using form, that I was entering into a tradition. Nevertheless, the necessity to do so was internal; it was not an exercise, it was not a chosen activity. In fact I was liable to write a poem in the most adverse circumstances, on the back of an envelope in a train.

Were you at all sympathetic to the modernist tradition which was being established while you were growing up? Were you able to share Eliot and Pound’s sense of a need to break from an older tradition?

I’m afraid I was absorbed in what you describe as the older tradition, and Tennyson and Milton were the principle fountains from which I drank.

Have you ever written poems which remain unpublished?

I suppose all poets have. ‘Ev’n copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, / The last and greatest art, the art to blot’ – that’s somewhere in Pope, isn’t it? The art to blot is part of the art of writing poetry, and the knowledge that you must scrap a poem is a sign that you may be trusted, at any rate.

I have heard that you have written poems to your wife which remain unpublished. Is that correct?

I write a poem a year on our marriage anniversary and I have been guilty of jocularly saying that this is part of my wife’s pension. I give her a rose for each year we have been married and a poem, sometimes referring to the number of roses, sometimes not. And I can imagine a book being published one day with a reproduction of a print of a rose on one page and on the other side the serial poem for the year.

Philosophers and even historians, like Lola Martinez, now think of poetry as a valuable source of evidence. When you write poetry do you think of it as a way of exploring or as a way of persuading? Is it cognitive in some way, do you think?

It’s communicative, that is certain. A painter wishes to exhibit the landscape which he has painted because he has seen something which he thinks his fellows may not have seen. Similarly a poet says, here, listen, that’s what I felt. The perception brings with it an urge to communicate. We are after all a herd animal and communicating our perceptions is bred deeply into humanity. This has a political application. As a politician I sometimes used to be asked: How do you go about your business? And I used to say it was rather like Luther in his Reformation hymn: ‘I hear the nightingale in the dark hedge, the dawn is coming…’, that is to say, I sing in the hedge to my fellow countrymen in case the song I want to sing is a song which they also want to hear. But there is a compulsion to sing it and see if somebody else will react to it; it’s part of the communication mechanism of Homo sapiens. Homer knew that he would have an audience – perhaps he didn’t know how large it would be – but if no audience had been conceivable, he would not have sung.

Why do you find it so hard to believe that Shakespeare wrote the plays and poems attributed to him? So far no one has been able to establish that he was not the author.

I find the whole chronology from the earliest quartos right through to the publication of the first folio in 1623 or 1624 highly suspicious. Here are works, some of the earliest of which are the most mature, which appear in unofficial editions in the 1590s, then suddenly in the 1600s this flow is interrupted, with one exception, which is Troilus and Cressida in 1609. Then in 1623 we have a volume which contains some of the greatest plays, which have not only never been published before but of which there is no trace of a performance. How do we reconcile this with the biography of an individual who undoubtedly existed (because we must believe the parish records in Stratford-upon-Avon)? I find the whole chronology challenging and I have seen no convincing or satisfactory explanation of the appearance of those plays before the world. In 1972, after the European Communities Bill had been forced through parliament, I thought I wouldn’t remain in public life much longer. I saw no point in seeking to return to the House of Commons, and when I thought of what I was to do, the answer seemed to lie either in the authorship of the plays attributed to William Shakespeare or in the Greek New Testament. The Greek New Testament beat William Shakespeare by a long head, but it’s a half-open door which always beckons me whenever I glance in that direction.
But do you think you will ever open it properly?
Probably not.

But if he didn’t write them, who did?

A committee. You may laugh, but we underestimate the extent to which great art can be produced by two or more hands, and undoubtedly the furnace of court dramas under Elizabeth and in the early stages of James I was fed by a group of people, and that group was a necessarily changing group, though there is a voice and a mode of apprehension detectable in that joint product. I have not been convinced by any specific proposal to put a name to that voice, but do not underestimate the possibility of a joint creation of great works of art.

But has it happened before?

Yes, it happened in the Old Testament, the content of which is largely a joint creation. We tend to associate works of art with individuals, but in doing so we over-individualize. It’s a natural human fault to exaggerate the importance of the individual – there’s a Tory statement for you.

I wonder if your own poems form in the way you describe one of Shakespeare’s coming to him: that is, as a germinal phrase carried in the head until a suitable framework is gathered round it?

That was certainly my experience, and incidentally it is also the sort of experience which is described by Housman in his lecture on the name and nature of poetry. I would think it quite common among those who write poetry, that it comes in pieces, that an emotionally charged blob arises in the mind, and a framework for this must grow around it.

At Cambridge you were a fervent admirer of A.E Housman and in some ways he became a role model for you. How far do you think his homosexuality was an integral, even an inseparable, part of his creativity? And did this matter to you or deduct from his greatness in any way?

I probably was not conscious of it in the years that I attended his lectures, and I doubt the practicability of detaching one element from all the rest in an individual’s character, particularly an artist’s.

But a lot of great artists are homosexual…do you think that homosexuality and art complement each other?

If homosexuality is a common human characteristic then that would account for what you’ve drawn attention to. To say that artists have two eyes doesn’t prove that they are different from other men, because having two eyes is quite common, pretty well invariable. If this strain is common in humanity then we shall find it in all manifestations of humanity, among artists, among painters, among politicians. Only if we could produce a statistical survey for the incidence in mankind at large at a particular time and in a particular society, and then show that the incidence was greatly exceeded among artists, might we be justified in coming to any such conclusion.
How do you yourself look upon homosexuality? Are you tolerant of it?
Well, I voted for its decriminalization, for it seemed to me grotesque that male homosexuality continued to be criminal from the reign of Henry VIII when female homosexuality was not. Nor did I regard it as a proper area for the criminal law to operate in.

But why do you think homosexuality appears to be on the increase?

Ah, I notice the word ‘appears’, and I agree with that. That which is more discussed appears to be more common. It’s not a matter to which I’ve applied my mind. I dare say there are those who are in a position to form some rational answer to the question, but I do think we have to beware of the impression made upon our minds by publicity. Familiarity tends to multiply, so we must beware of amateur statistics.

You were keen to join up in 1939, even passing yourself off as an Australian to do so. What was the attraction of the army, was it a sense of achieved order, or a duty fulfilled, or some more basic urge to help defend Britain, the land itself, as Wilfred Owen wanted to do in the First War?

I can remember saying to my father that it was my intention to get into uniform on the first day if I could. It was a spontaneous resolve of mine, though I didn’t achieve it. It was the 20 October 1939 before I succeeded in getting enlisted. I wanted to defend my country, which is quite a natural impulse.

I was told a story that a man who had been one of your fellow privates at the beginning of the war met you years later when he had become a major and you a brigadier. When he greeted you in a familiar way you had him disciplined for not saluting a superior officer…is there any truth in that story?

No truth. That’s an easily invented type of story. Indeed, it’s a very interesting specimen of myth making. I did put fellow privates on disciplinary charges on the first day that I was a lance corporal, but that was for urinating in the barrack room.

You spent part of the war in India which was then part of the Empire. Did you have any feelings for the imperial idea or did you think the time had come for withdrawal?

Like most Indians, I didn’t think the time had come for that phase of India’s immense history to come to an end. It was as surprising to the Indians as it was to the British. And I only came to terms with it when back in this country in the late 1940s I began to apply myself to the constitutional history of my own country, and to understand that there was an insoluble contradiction in in the government of a population on the authority of an assembly to which they could not be elected. The Empire of India was a huge repudiation of the lesson of the American colonies, and one with which England is still struggling: that is, that you cannot govern responsibly to parliament those who cannot be, or who choose not to be, represented in parliament. That’s the underlying axiom of what is meant in English by democracy, and it was curious that our earliest conquistadores in India who understood this better than it was understood at the end of the nineteenth century. In India that principle was apparently unavoidably, but persistently and tantalizingly breached. Now this is not the me of 1943 speaking to you, who came back to politics in this country with the vague idea at the back of his head that it might somehow lead to the viceroyalty of India, and then had to work out his understanding of what happened to the United Kingdom when it ceased to be mother country for a worldwide empire. The me of 1943 has arrived at New Delhi station at two in the morning on a posting from the Middle East. He realizes that it is impracticable to report to General Headquarters India until a much later hour, so he undoes his valise and he goes to sleep on the platform, and when he wakes up, what he breathes he finds intoxicating. Eventually he becomes an interpreter in Urdu and one of his unrealized ambitions is to produce a critical and literary edition of the Rise and Fall of Islam by the Urdu poet Hali, which is really the story of the Moslems in India. I suppose in my eightieth year I am a real oldie, and one who has to be constantly aware that he carries a lot of previous beings around in himself and that they are liable to be still vocal. Just as one’s dreaming self is also one’s waking self, the past individuals are asleep there somehow, and occasionally their words are remembered and repeated.

What was it that attracted you so powerfully to India? As a country it can seem so hopeless, so overburdened with a huge population, so impossible to organize, its democracy so fragile, its savagery scarcely supressed…

You used the word ‘organize’. I suppose one of the fascinations of India for the British was its organizability. Here are immense resources, human above all; if these are harnessed together, what a wonderful organization could one not create? – and in many ways the British did. The creation of a railway system, the drainage system of the Punjab – these must have given immense delight and satisfaction to those who organized them. But what we couldn’t organize was a solution to the inherent constitutional contradictions of the British Raj. Nor could Indians, for they were mainly using material which they had obtained from us, and British material is very dangerous when used by those who are not British.

In an article you wrote about E. M. Forster’s Passage to India, you spoke very fairly about the difference between his India and yours. How far, or when, do you think it is right to ask for accuracy in novels? May a book not be a good novel even if it’s a bad social history?

The dramatization of the novel The Jewel in the Crown always seemed to me grotesque, because life in India was not spent as life was spent by the protagonists in that novel; but that’s not to say it’s not a good novel or drama. But if you present a drama to a person who has lived in a particular place and situation and say, what do you make of it? – he will react with the contrast between his own memories, his own sensations, and the drama. I’m not apologizing for my review, I’m explaining it. Although the political axiom is supposed to be, never apologize, never explain, I don’t mind explaining,

And you don’t mind apologizing when your wrong?

As a politician I try to follow the rule I’ve just quoted. And I’ve probably explained too much in politics, more than I ought to have done.

You now adhere to the Church of England, though you were not religious as a young man, and religious faith is often thought, perhaps wrongly, to be unusual in modern intellectuals. Does your faith ever sit uneasily alongside your intellectual convictions?

No, because worship and intellectual activity are manifestations of different aspects of the person, and they serve different – God forgive me, I was going to say biological purposes – no, they correspond to different aspects of that extraordinary animal Homo sapiens. Religion must have been very important for his survival, because he has it everywhere. One of the remarkable things which J. G. Fraser, the great anthropologist, found so alarming, was how frequently in places between which there could have been no interconnection or intercommunication, man hit upon the device of killing God and eating him. Now this is not a rational proceeding, but it may nevertheless be a proceeding which is beneficial or necessary to humanity. I hope I have not unduly alarmed you.

No. You have said that you are deeply aware of a dilemma and a contradiction between Christianity and human life. Some observers have suggested that despite your participation in holy communion and observance of religious practice it is as if you are somehow forcing yourself to believe, if you like; that you are really struggling with agnosticism.

Well, who is to look into the heart of a man and declare what he sees there, and who is a man to say what is in his heart? I can only observe that at no stage in the last forty years can a credible political motive be assigned to what I have done and said as a member of the Church of England. Self-interest is difficult to establish – a very modest disclaimer I realize – but then we’re often led by motives of which we are unaware.

It is said that those who believe have the grace of belief, and that is something that comes from God. Do you feel that you have the grace of belief or do you have a constant struggle to believe?

I feel everything comes from grace; I have everything by grace. My wife and I, for example, are celebrating our fortieth wedding anniversary but our marriage was a grace; it was something I didn’t deserve, something I’ve been given beyond my desert. I find the concept of grace, that is to say an input of indeterminate origin, unavoidable in a whole range of experiences. To arrive at a logical conclusion from premises is in a way an act of grace. Perhaps this is to acknowledge what a wonderful thing it was that man originated.

Have you any doubt in your own mind about an afterlife?

If you had substituted immortality for an afterlife, I would not have hesitated to reply in the affirmative. The expression ‘afterlife’ is time-bound; immortality is not. The individual, encapsulated by time, unable to think or understand or have his being except as bounded by time, ceases to belong to that framework on death, and it’s therefore a misrepresentation to treat him as though he continued to exist on the same scale. Suppose time is a man-made illusion, which it probably is…in that case the meaning of immortality will be very different.

Presumably you have a view about the ordination of women, a matter which looks as if it might further fragment the Christian Church. Is it possible theologically in your view, and is it desirable politically?

We’re going through a bad dose of feminism, aren’t we? Certainly the chattering classes are. Under the influence of a worldwide cross-infection, we are calling in question specializations which have become necessary to the survival of humanity. It may well be that the preservative and the destructive impulses of mankind have been specialized in the sexes and that we are playing with fire when we introduce confusion into that specialization. The specialization can, of course, be defined and debated, but the anxiety is whether we can radically interfere without unforeseeable but damaging consequences. I would place the proposal for the ordination of women and the enthusiasm for it in the context of that movement which leads all political parties at present in the United Kingdom to say that we want to see more women sitting in the House of Commons, even though those who do the work necessary for putting the members there don’t think so.

There is now and there has been for a long time a great deal of agitation about women’s rights. I suspect that you are not especially sympathetic to the women’s movement. Is it that you fear the consequence of a loss of natural complementarity, or what?

I am very happy to consider with an open mind proposals for a change in the law where the law differentiates between men and women, though I am not sure that to treat the female as an independent tax band will be something welcomed by all those whom it will affect. My wife was certainly alarmed when I told her that she will be making her own tax return in future and would surely not expect any help form me.

Since you are a member of the Church of England, I assume you believe in original sin. How is the outcome of that to be combated in a society without any restraints on gain?

Covetousness, greed, are not matters which can be the subject of legislation. They belong to a category of sin rather than crime, and from sin we are saved by grace.

You acknowledged once that you are intellectually arrogant. Does that degree of self-confidence not isolate you in the political world of horse trading?

I’m also a corporate man, a person at ease in society, fulfilling the laws and obeying the conventions, just as – constitutionally – the shared responsibility for the advice tendered to the sovereign extends right through political life. I accept that the unity of that advice implies give and take between those who are responsible for it being tendered. In other words, I am a naturally complaint member of a cabinet. The intellectual arrogance leads me to perceive that the whole structure of cabinet government and of party government depends on bargaining and compromise. But I’m a good colleague, one who goes to meet his own colleagues halfway, more than halfway if necessary.

Can you tell me what it is to be a Tory?

To me a Tory is a person who believes that authority is vested in institutions – that’s a carefully honed definition. We have made the law, not for extraneous reasons, not because it conforms with a priori specifications; it has been made by a particular institution in a particular way and can be changed by that institution in a particular way. A tory therefore reposes the ultimate authority in institutions – he is an example of a collective man.

Do you believe in the Thatcher philosophy which is sometimes characterized as advocating greed and free enterprise as a way of life, irrespective of community benefit.

It is alleged that the speeches I made on the working of the competitive market in the early 1960s influenced Mrs Thatcher, but I wouldn’t attribute to her the formulation which you’ve just provided. There is undoubtedly a role in the functioning of a human society for progressiveness, for competition, for envy, and for many urges which live in a kind of balance and coexistence with the other urges within. For instance, if we take the question of denationalization: do we wish our railways to be run by politicians, or do we wish them to be run by those who will lose if they are ill run? The private enterprise corporation is founded upon the assumption that the resources which it puts to work are put to work most efficiently if it is managed by those who stand to lose if the customers’ demand is not anticipated and met. That seems to me a very happy and ancient device which most nations have grown up with.

You have described yourself as a man naturally sympathetic to authority and its institutions. What is to be done when authority ceases to be impressive or even trustworthy, when for example a minister insists that the economy is recovering in the face of the facts, or when unemployment statistics are patently ‘managed’?

No institution is immortal, any more than any other human thing is immortal, and there is no sovereign remedy against its deterioration. Institutions are not only created and strengthened, they also weaken and disappear. We cannot deny that.

You have been the subject of a great deal of abuse for stating your views about immigration. Have you modified them at all?

The aspects and consequences of immigration as perceived now in the 1990s are not the same as those which were perceived in the 1960s. In the 1960s the level of admissions was the critical subject; this resulted in a factor of almost equal importance being underestimated and largely overlooked – the age structure of the incoming population. Age structure is now asserting itself and will result in a progressive and on-going relative increase in what are called the ethnic minorities in proportion to the total population. What we don’t know and what nobody can know, is how long institutions based upon the working of majorities can continue to operate. There is an on-going change in the population if this country, and one doesn’t know how far that will be compatible with the continued operation of our parliamentary institutions. If you cannot change your mind between one election and another in reaction to what has been your experience in the meantime you cannot operate a parliamentary system. If an election is a census it cannot form a basis of parliamentary self-government. There are the questions which with the passage of time are now emerging, but I do find that, so far as I can judge it, public anxiety is as lively on this subject as it was thirty years ago.

Except our worst fears have not been justified?

My projections have been verified. What I said in 1968, I would say again if it were 1968.

In a discourse of Wagner’s Ring, you say that Siegfried of course did not fully understand or intend the consequences of his actions. Did you fully understand or intend the consequences of your ‘River of Blood’ speech?

Those words were never used. The phrase did not occur in the speech. I don’t think one ever foresees the consequences of one’s actions and certainly in politics one never knows which utterances are going to be heard and which are not.

The sting in Paul Foot’s book about you was that you had exploited the race issue as an act of political opportunism and not, as you claimed, as a matter of principle. What is your comment on that?

That’s what he thought when he started to write the book, but after he’d met me he thought better. In fact, I ruined his book for him. When I heard he was writing it, I sent him a letter inviting him to come and talk to me. This was fatal because one can see in the course of the book that he discovered his conception was not viable.

The story goes that when you went to Northern Ireland someone called you a Judas, to which you retorted: ‘I am sacrificing my political career. Judas was paid.’ Is there any truth in that story?

That interchange did in fact take place after I’d delivered the second of my Vote Labour speeches in the election campaign of February 1974, but it was nothing to do with Northern Ireland.

You once spoke of yourself as a ‘Lansdowne man’ in the sense that since by 1943 it was clear that the axis powers could not win, we ought to have had a negotiated peace. Does that view not place you in the strange company of Oswald Mosley who also advocated a negotiated peace?

It does not put me in the company of those who see war between civilized nations as ending with the destruction of one’s opponent. The object of war is to prove to one’s opponent that he cannot gain his aim by force. When that has been proved the justification for war is at an end, and that point should be sought. Unconditional surrender was the most barbaric and inhuman concept to bring into the Second World War. You do not have to destroy your opponent; you merely have to prove to him that he cannot win, and when he can be persuaded that he cannot win, then you must take peace. Otherwise you will have to rebuild him and there will be a lot of other fallout too.

Many people have drawn a comparison between you and Mosley: intellectually rigorous, patriotic, a natural leader, a powerful orator, uncompromising, destined for – but never quite achieving – high office. It is a comparison which offends you?

It’s a comparison which is quite strange to me. I’ve never come across it. I am of course a failed politician, if one assumes that the object of politics is to gain and keep high office. Mosley was a failed politician too, so I may be included in the same category, but there is a large category of failed politicians.

Yes, but failed politicians because they were incapable…

All right, I can be placed in the category of failed capable politicians; they’re still a sufficiently large company to contain me and Oswald Mosley and dozens and dozens of others.

You once wrote that ‘no time spent reading history is misspent for a politician.’ But do not circumstances change beyond all recognition and invalidate the ‘lessons’ of history….may it not be an error to read the future out of the past?

It is an error in any case to read the future out of the past, because history is not repeatable. The lessons which we learn about the scientifically measurable and investigable world are applicable because that world is a constant. But history is not a constant; it is an artistic presentation of change in progress, irreversible and unique change. I recently improved upon my dictum about time spent reading history, and I would now say time spent reading biography is not misspent, perhaps because the repeatable element in individual human life is more substantial than the repeatable element in social or national life.

Hailsham said of you: ‘He has the best mind in politics, until it is made up.’ Did you understand what he meant by this, and did you accept the implied criticism?

No to the first question, and therefore the second does not arise.

A lot of people have said in that context you’re your own worst enemy.
Well, it depends what a man wants, what his standards are, what life means for him.

But if you were to live that period in your life again…
Don’t frighten me with such a horrible idea. Imagine putting all my prejudices as an octogenarian into the body of a forty-year-old man – it’s such a horrible notion that I decline to entertain it.

Maurice Cowling called you ‘a closet socialist.’ What do you think he meant by that?

He meant what I was saying earlier about a Tory being an aspect of collective man. Society is in the end normative, and politics is about the management and governance of a society. Society is prior (in a logical sense) to the individual; the individual in the last resort is an abstraction. Nobody has ever met an individual, we didn’t start as individuals, we don’t live as individuals, we only know ourselves as members of collectivity. I think it was that aspect of my Toryism that Cowling may have had in mind.

It is said that an unofficial approach was made to you with a view to your becoming a life peer, but that you made certain conditions.

That’s not a question I would ever answer.

Would you like to have been in the House of Lords? Conditions or no conditions?

You mean, would I have liked to have a different father? [Laughs.]

The House of Lords would have provided you with a forum in which to express your views…

I find no difficulty in getting my views onto paper, or getting what I put on to paper printed. Nor do I find any shortage of my fellow countrymen who are anxious to lend me their ears.

The house of Lord wouldn’t interest me in the least?

You’re putting words into my mouth.

Would it interest you?

I do not wish to say anything disrespectful about the upper chamber.

I am puzzled by your suggestion that the greatest act man is capable of is to chose death instead of life. I assume you are not writing in praise of suicide. Are you describing the capacity to sacrifice oneself for someone or something else?

Yes. It was the only way out for mankind that God could discover. It was the only way to save mankind, to allow someone to sacrifice his life for the remission of sins. It is an idea endorsed by the strongest authority.

Are there circumstances in which you would sacrifice your own life for that idea?

I suppose my decision to enlist is the only evidence that I have to offer. And I know now that I’m not the only person who put on a uniform and took it off again who has a lurking feeling at the back of his mind that there must have been something wrong with him if he came back. When I was asked on a radio programme how I would like to be remembered, and I replied that I wished I’d been killed in the war, I received a large correspondence from people who wrote that they were glad I had said that, because until then they thought they were the only people to feel that way. A large number of people who voluntarily went into the forces in 1939 are dogged by the idea that they were left unscathed when others were taken. Those who survived concentration camps also have this feeling.

Now that you have reached a certain age, are you afraid of death?

The nearer Death comes actuarially, the more he tends to present himself in the guise of a potential friend, a hand laid upon the shoulder saying, never mind old chap, I’ll come along in due course and carry you away. There’s a wonderful line in Homer where the prophecy is made to Ulysses that Death will come to him from the sea, with the words (in Greek) ‘gentle, ever so gentle’. And one does come to regard Death as a gentle presence.

Many people have commented on your seemingly cold exterior, yet in private you are obviously a compassionate man. Are you aware of this tension between the public and the private personae?

The surprise that I sustain is how widespread and undifferentiated is the friendliness towards me, evidently entertained by large numbers of my fellow countrymen. It constantly comes as a happy but still remarkable thing to me. Perhaps that is an act of grace.

What in essence so attracted you to the music of Wagner?

Hearing it. There’s a line in Caducci: ‘When Wagner breathes into the sounding metal a thousand spirits, men’s hearts tremble.’

What is your view on the current debate in Israel about Wagner’s music? The Isreali Philharmonic wants to play Wagner but the public continues to reject him because of the association with Hitler and the Nazis.

That is their business, and I thank them to mind their business in declining to express corresponding opinions about the affairs of the United Kingdom.

Siegfried proclaimed what you call the great moral discovery of humanity: that it is better to die than to live in fear. While it is an idea which greatly captures the imagination, is there not a case for saying that in practice it is all but worthless. Many people live in fear of life itself or in fear of God, but their life still has intrinsic value.

Well, that will turn upon the word ‘intrinsic’, won’t it? We live because we cannot help it, and we die because we cannot help it. You remember in front of Bolingbroke Richard II says: ‘Give Richard leave to live till Richard die.’

When you reflected on age you said that to your surprise it was ‘a constant opening of doors.’ Can you elaborate on that?

I’m surprised by how much new there still is to think and to see, and the apparent immunity of one’s thinking mechanism from those ravages that are making their advance in other parts of the organism. That one continues to think and enjoy thinking, to observe and to enjoy observing, is a constant marvel.



A curious item last weekend attracted my attention and made me wish I was a tortoise, still going strong at the age of 186. Apparently, never again will the hills of St Helena resound to the eerie sound of Jonathan, a giant tortoise, trying to mate. At an estimated age of 186, Jonathan appears doomed to celibacy after vets decided against an operation that might have helped him pursue female tortoises.


The British government revealed that although Jonathan continues to lead an active life, vets have decided that surgery to remove the cataracts that have blinded him is too high risk. Jonathan has also lost his sense of smell, leaving him cruelly bereft of the senses he needs to mate.

Lord Ahmad, a Foreign Office minister told the Lords that St Helena, a South Atlantic island, is not conducive to breeding the species of tortoise. The last female known to have become pregnant died in 1918 after she apparently fell over a cliff while attempting to lay eggs, according to a website maintained by island resident, John Turner.

For years, Jonathan’s companion was a giant tortoise named Frederica who never fell pregnant for reasons that became clear when vets found that he was male. He was subsequently named Frederic. It may never be known if Jonathan is gay, as reports have suggested. But St Helena appears to have lost forever the sound of his mating activity, described by a vet as like ‘a loud, harsh escape of steam from a giant, battered old kettle, often rounded off with a deep oboe-like grunt.’

I feel sorry for Jonathan, gay or otherwise, who must now miss his love-mate when, at his age, he kisses love goodbye. On the other hand, he had a jolly good run which we humans would yearn to have.

Is the Book Trade on the Verge of a Slow Extinction?

I have been a publisher since the early ‘70s and have never experienced such a decline in the book trade as in the first half of this year, which I believe threatens the very fabric of our cultural heritage. People seem to have lost interest in the written word and have switched their attention to more mundane matters, triggered off perhaps by the instability of the political scene throughout the world.

Reading my Sunday newspapers last weekend I came across a most telling news item which confirmed my notion that books are in crisis everywhere. In Paris, Bouquinistes are appealing for UNESCO status to avoid being swamped by traders selling tourists trinkets. Described as the keepers of the ‘biggest open-air bookshop in the world,’ these are the booksellers who ply their trade along the Seine. They are asking to obtain UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage status. With their trademark dark-green stalls on the parapets overlooking the river, the bouquinistes have a rich history of selling second-hand tomes all the way back to the sixteenth century.

Some made their fortunes by selling the libraries of guillotined aristocrats during the French Revolution, others braved death by passing on messages from the French Resistance in books during the city’s occupation by the Nazis. But after surviving centuries of censorship, political turmoil and floods, they face a new threat: a tide of plastic Eiffel Towers, love-locks and other tourist knick-knacks.

In theory, the trade is strictly regulated. Each bouquiniste is allowed 4 boxes, three must contain books, and the fourth can sell anything from prints and collector’s fashion magazines to old postcards and souvenirs. Yet a quick stroll on the Right and Left Banks suggest this rule is wildly flouted, as many stands near tourist sites like Notre-Dame and St Michel are crammed full of Chinese-made keyrings and ‘I Love Paris’ bags.

‘If we wait any longer it will be too late, the trinket markets will have consumed the booksellers completely,’ said Jerome Callais, president of the Cultural Association of Paris Bouquinistes, who is spearheading the drive for UNESCO status. He is one of just three self-professed diehards among 237 bouquinistes who sell books only. ‘We are as important as the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Montmartre. People come from far and wide to see these sites, but also us. But some of my colleagues think the writing’s on the wall, that we are the last generation.’ Recently he received the backing of the Paris Town Hall which voted to send a request to the Culture ministry for the booksellers to be considered for UNESCO Intangible Heritage status. France can only put forward one request every two years and competition is fierce.

Florence Berthout, mayor of the 5th arrondisemnt said: ‘UNESCO Heritage Status would shine a light on an activity that shapes the intellectual identity of Paris and participates in the French cultural exception.’ Not all bouqinistes back the idea though. Many fear that an ensuing restriction on selling non-literary items could kill them off. ‘We can’t live of books alone,’ said Ghillaine Thibaud, a bouqiniste for 30 years, who said sales had nose-dived amid stiff competition from online dealers and changing tastes. ‘When times are hard an extra few Euros from a photo or bag can stop us from going under.’

And one despondent vendor, Andres Brisson, said: ‘If I sell one book per day, it’s already a lot. I sell more pictures and trinkets. I frankly think the best thing to do would be to let bouquinistes die out and leave the space open so people can make the most of the area and get a better view of the Seine.’

It’s obvious that books are in crisis. The trend is unfortunately downwards. As publishers we must, however, fight back and ensure that we publish better books and convince readers that we need their support. For without it, we are doomed. On the other hand, their intellect would help the nation prosper.