The excitement and fuss over the announcement that the "Lost Booker" (from 1970) went to Troubles, by the tragically drowned writer JG Farrell, cannot hide a sense of let-down. After all, Troubles is not a lost masterpiece, and Farrell is widely-read and respected. There is not much clever in deciding to Booker this classic. It feels the safe and obvious choice. The opportunity was squandered to do something exciting and even daring with this alternative prize - to award another JG instead - JG Ballard. Ballard's The Atrocity Exhibition is probably his major work, and is still a shocking and innovative text. Given Ballard's recent death, and the growing sense of his importance, it is surprising that the mainstream view of his writing is still seemingly a tad belittling.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
Comments
I hadn't heard of the 'lost booker' before this. Will go and read more about it!
Jess.