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And so, as a young English student, on I went through the Ford oeuvre and the following already-published Bascombe books: Independence Day, The Lay of the Land and, when it arrived in 2014, Let Me Be Frank With You. I remember what a young Martin Amis called “the shock of recognition” when he first split the spine of a Saul Bellow novel: I have to read every word this writer has put to paper. I could go on at similar length about almost any passage across the life of Frank. We are far, we now know, from that smoking cop’s interiority we are inside Frank, and party only to his vision of the world. Strikingly, I think, we see not “the policeman looking” but his face, not the person but the isolated part of his body where his eyes happen to be, treated as an object and listed like any other. Note the gentle rhythm of the prose and the undulation of thought it follows: the allusion to ghostly afterlife in the description of the natural world, the high and the low, the requisition of “murmured” to denote movement, and the transition from the present tense to the past.
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I saw a match flare briefly inside the car, saw the policeman’s face looking at a clipboard. A police car has murmured in through the gate, stopped, cut its lights and placed me under surveillance. I am a sportswriter.” – and then jumped the fence from his house, which abuts the resting place of his dead son:Ī spectral fog is lifting off the cemetery grass, and high up in the low atmosphere I hear the wings of geese pinging. He has introduced himself – “My name is Frank Bascombe. Then, studiously working my way through the modern classics, I hoped vaguely that a future as a novelist awaited me, that my life then was on a trajectory opposite to that of our narrator, Frank Bascombe, who we first meet beside the grave of a son whose 13th birthday it should be, soon to be joined by his ex-wife, his once-promising career as a novelist forsaken in favour of writing sports from Haddam, New Jersey. I began rereading Richard Ford’s The Sportswriter a month or so before the family enlargement, and soon found myself submerged, just as I had been when I first picked it up in my early twenties. The family completed: two perfect human replacements for the lives of my partner and myself, and the hope of decades in which to enjoy the overlap. She arrived in a darkened room at Waitākere Hospital at 10.30 on a hot, blustery Thursday morning, and was home to meet her big sister that afternoon. Our newest daughter – who lies against my chest as I write in bed, tiny breath whistling through her nostrils, ear against my heart – was born several days into that distant war, in the midst of the omicron invasion then rapidly ascending towards its Auckland peak. From the car’s speakers, testimony from traumatised survivors of war from the backseat, my daughter in her excitement endlessly repeating the name of the lovely old beast we were on our way to see – Daisy May – to the tune of the half-dozen songs she knows. There seemed no way to synthesise knowledge of the latest European catastrophe with the experience of driving to visit the friendly cow who lives on a farm nearby. Ukraine, and the retrograde horror – tanks, death, suffering – rolling from one country into its neighbour, which the BBC World Service piped into the air of our sensible grey hatchback as I ferried my two-year-old around quasi-rural west Auckland, seeking entertainment in the parks, petting zoos, and beaches of the city’s fringe. The Sunday Essay is made possible thanks to the support of Creative New ZealandĪs autumn chased summer from the sky, life fell under the spell of an incantatory potion that three main ingredients – war, birth, books – conspired to brew.įirst, the war. No writer captures the everyday wonder of human consciousness quite like the great American novelist Richard Ford, writes James Borrowdale.