V.S. Naipaul has offered definitive proof against the adage that to be a good writer, you must be a good reader.
First, the happy news: Naipaul has ended his 30-year feud-over-nothing with Paul Theroux. The root of the matter seems to be that Naipaul thought Theroux was horsing around with his first wife. From the Telegraph:
A furious Naipaul retaliated by trying to sell one of Theroux’s books, inscribed to Naipaul and his first wife, online for $1,500. When Theroux found out, Naipaul told him to “take it on the chin and move on.” Naturally Theroux didn’t, and went on to write a book, Sir Vidia’s Shadow, in which he’s said to detail Naipaul’s “elevated crankishness”. The fracas went on until last weekend when – in what is surely Hay [Festival]’s biggest literary coup to date – they made up, “corralled” into a handshake by Ian McEwan in the festival’s green room.
The episode has brought to mind other great literary feud of our times, recounted here:
We all love a good literary feud, not least because they are much more amusing and erudite than a spat between, say, a footballer and a reality television star. Of Tom Wolfe’s novel A Man in Full, Norman Mailer wrote: “Reading the work can even be said to resemble the act of making love to a 300lb woman. Once she gets on top, it’s over. Fall in love, or be asphyxiated.” Wolfe retaliated in his essay “My Three Stooges,” casting Mailer alongside his other critics, John Irving and John Updike.
Revenge can take many forms. Norman Mailer punched Gore Vidal. “As usual, words failed him,” said Vidal. Evelyn Waugh used the name of his tutor at Oxford for such diverse characters as a quack doctor and a psychopathic burglar. Salman Rushdie and John le Carré had a row over who had suffered more at the hands of religious fanatics, which ended in Rushdie calling le Carré “an illiterate pompous ass”.
In 2006, Salman Rushdie also fell out with John Updike after the latter panned Shalimar the Clown, in particular Rushdie’s choice of names. “A name is just a name,” Rushdie retorted. “Somewhere in Las Vegas, there’s probably a male prostitute called John Updike.” The same year Bevis Hillier duped A.N. Wilson, the writer of a rival biography of John Betjeman, into publishing a spoof love letter; the first letter of each sentence spelt out: “A N Wilson is a —-.”
Which all goes to show that maturity or character, also, isn’t a prerequisite for being a writer, either.
But in the Telegraph here you can also read about the feuds between Mary McCarthy and Lillian Hellman (that one will not be resolved; the principals are dead) and Harold Bloom and J.K. Rowling.
Naipaul must be anxious to promote himself, because he made these cranky comments to the press. From the Guardian:
In an interview at the Royal Geographic Society on Tuesday about his career, Naipaul, who has been described as the “greatest living writer of English prose”, was asked if he considered any woman writer his literary match. He replied: “I don’t think so.” Of [Jane] Austen he said he “couldn’t possibly share her sentimental ambitions, her sentimental sense of the world”.
He felt that women writers were “quite different”. He said: “I read a piece of writing and within a paragraph or two I know whether it is by a woman or not. I think [it is] unequal to me.”
The author, who was born in Trinidad, said this was because of women’s “sentimentality, the narrow view of the world”. “And inevitably for a woman, she is not a complete master of a house, so that comes over in her writing too,” he said.
He added: “My publisher, who was so good as a taster and editor, when she became a writer, lo and behold, it was all this feminine tosh. I don’t mean this in any unkind way.”
Of course that dropped the cat among the pigeons. Why? Why would one expect Sir Vidia to say something sensible on the subject? He’s obviously not a careful reader of Austen.
As for women’s “sentimentality, the narrow view of the world,” I have only two words to say: Simone Weil.
Jennifer Egan took the bait, however, and made these comments on the kerfuffle to the Wall Street Journal:
“He is such a kook. It makes me laugh because he sounds like such a cranky old man. It’s the classic case of how prejudice works – you feel like you see it confirmed all over the world but the prejudice is tainting your perception everywhere you look.”
“I would put money on the fact that he has not read Jane Austen in 10 years. She’s the most cool, mathematical writer to come along, male or female. It’s a word no one who’s familiar with her work would call her. The nature of the comments read as so silly that it’s hard to see it spurring a gigantic turmoil. They’re not remarks that lead to a deeply-engaged conversation because they’re just so easily dismissible, largely because of what he says about Austen. He raises questions about his authority by calling her sentimental. Only a person with an idea of what Austen is — and not actual familiarity with her work – would say that. She’s not a melodramatic writer.”
Meanwhile, the Guardian has published “The Naipaul Test: Can You Tell an Author’s Sex?” – it’s here.
Naipaul is said to be a great writer (I haven’t read him, so I’m taking that on authority), but a crappy human being. So why do we take any of his opinions seriously?
If you’ve a taste for this sort of thing, Vidal and Mailer wrangle on fuzzy clip from The Dick Cavett Show below – journalist Janet Flanner takes the better part.
se più avvien che fortuna t’accoglia
dove sien genti in simigliante piato:
ché voler ciò udire è bassa voglia.
Tags: A.N. Wilson, Bevis Hillier, Czeslaw Milosz, Gore Vidal, Harold Bloom and J.K. Rowling, Janet Flanner, Jennifer Egan, John Irving, John le Carré, John Updike, Lillian Hellman, Mary McCarthy, Norman Mailer, Paul Theroux, Salman Rushdie, Simone Weil, Tom Wolfe, V.S. Naipaul, Zbigniew Herbert