Another day, alone in another little box with another live mic. The trick is to stare the mic down until it blinks first.
This is the standard cell you go into when you join a live radio show down the line. You sit in silence waiting for the light to go red. If you then make an ass of yourself on live national radio, there is a standard service revolver taped under the desk & you are expected to do the decent thing.
Enjoyed my visit to BBC Manchester this morning. Gigantic facility – it’s the TV mothership.
Replicant of me signing books at my UK publishers. He’s so realistic.
First interview of the day. After this I had to be taken aside & told that hand gestures don’t come out on the wireless.
I’ve just discovered Orwell’s superb 1939 essay on Dickens, and can’t believe I’ve never read it before. The last section is reproduced below & gives a flavour of what to expect. The full text is here. In the main body of the essay, Orwell offers a clear-eyed analysis of Dickens’ shortcomings which serves to separate the chaff & identify what it was about the man that was great.
“Dickens voiced a code which was and on the whole still is believed in, even by people who violate it. It is difficult otherwise to explain why he could be both read by working people (a thing that has happened to no other novelist of his stature) and buried in Westminster Abbey.
When one reads any strongly individual piece of writing, one has the impression of seeing a face somewhere behind the page. It is not necessarily the actual face of the writer. I feel this very strongly with Swift, with Defoe, with Fielding, Stendhal, Thackeray, Flaubert, though in several cases I do not know what these people looked like and do not want to know. What one sees is the face that the writer ought to have. Well, in the case of Dickens I see a face that is not quite the face of Dickens’s photographs, though it resembles it. It is the face of a man of about forty, with a small beard and a high colour. He is laughing, with a touch of anger in his laughter, but no triumph, no malignity. It is the face of a man who is always fighting against something, but who fights in the open and is not frightened, the face of a man who is generously angry — in other words, of a nineteenth-century liberal, a free intelligence, a type hated with equal hatred by all the smelly little orthodoxies which are now contending for our souls.”
– “Charles Dickens” by George Orwell, 1939.
Just finished reading Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood (1966) and David Simon’s Homicide (1991) back-to-back. Striking parallels and contrasts between these two classics. Would highly recommend the experience, though I may actually have overdosed. Starting to have scene-of-crime dreams. But so help me god, these are two extraordinarily compelling books. As a side note, the change in attitudes to violent crime from Capote’s era to Simon’s put me in mind of Sheriff Bell from Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men (2005), and his struggle to understand the devaluation of the human currency.