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Woken to the terrible news of John le Carré’s passing. One of the great writer of our time and imho the author of the greatest twentieth century English book, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. The opening paragraph is itself a work of genius.
It occurs to me that the great writers don’t just describe they define. Le Carré defined Englishness - mannered, intelligent, blunt, loyal, duplicitous, unmoored, decent, cruel, human - that is as true today as it ever was.
On a personal note, I just adored his books. I can’t remember the first one I read (my dad was a fan and I think I must have borrowed it from his bookshelf) but I do remember then devouring every book of his I could find.
And the audio version of Agent Running in the Field helped get me through the worst days of Covid. I listened to Mantel’s final great Cromwell book at the same time and the juxtaposition seemed strangely appropriate.
The Austrian / German poet, Rilke, was Rodin’s assistant for some time. People have written about the relationship between his writing and sculpture. I think this is a fine way to think about le Carré’s writing - the precision, energy and humanism of the finest sculpture.
Anyway, I’m really sad. But I’m also blessed to have read such fine books.
