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Three years ago today, John Berger died.
In 2014 he invited me to Paris to stay; I asked about his sense of the evolution of his work over 70 years, & he said he had none.
'I feel a call from a sort of silence. A silence that longs to be spoken about. And then I go to work.'
In 2014 he invited me to Paris to stay; I asked about his sense of the evolution of his work over 70 years, & he said he had none.
'I feel a call from a sort of silence. A silence that longs to be spoken about. And then I go to work.'
Sometimes it feels as if everything I've written about medicine is just a footnote to A Fortunate Man - it's a perennial inspiration.
He and Nella Bielski made me so welcome. Nella asked me how old I was.
'38! she said to me, 'A good age. You're young, but you have lived!'
Nella sadly died this year.
'38! she said to me, 'A good age. You're young, but you have lived!'
Nella sadly died this year.
Over dinner we discussed many things, and whenever I mentioned writers I admired, John would rush off from the table, searching for copies of their books, while Nella would shout after him 'Leave it, John, leave it! He's only 38! He has all the time in the world!'
So tonight is a sad evening, but a happy one too - a night to celebrate his work. What a life he had! And I'll be forever glad to have his books.
Particularly this one - an old ex-library 1st edition of A Fortunate Man that he signed for me.
Will reread it for the thousandth time and raise a glass.
Will reread it for the thousandth time and raise a glass.
*apologies, four years ago.. time, eh?
