Having parents who lived through the war as children on opposing sides – and uncles on each side who fought – I reflect on the German half of my family’s experiences: the grandfather who fought on the Eastern front, the grandmother who negotiated depression at home, and the aunt and uncle who tried to stop the Americans advancing.
This morning my German aunt died, leaving my mother as the last survivor of four German siblings. I recall a few things in tribute to her.
In commemoration of St. Lucian poet Derek Walcott’s death on 17th March 2017, I recall the one time I met him, Port of Spain, 2001 – and my regrets at having been jejune and prickly..
There are, I find, many advantages to being born relatively late for your generation. Your parents know pretty much what they are about; they grow old when you still have a strong arm with which to support them; and,…
In my home hangs a two-thirds life-size reproduction of George Stubb’s almost life-size portrait of the second Marquess of Rockingham’s favourite race- and stud-horse, Whistlejacket. Painted in 1762, it resonates with every artistic and intellectual movement going from its own time onwards, and induces a meditation on life – horse life – and art.
Invited by the students of New College of the Humanities to contribute to an edition of their newspaper with the theme ‘Metropolis’, I considered the kind of symbol that Moscow has been over the centuries, and whether it is one now.
I attend an Orthodox funeral and reflect on the appeal of Orthodoxy’s uncustomisability…
The recent ITV series ‘The Durrells’ has prompted some reflections on Gerald Durrell’s Corfu trilogy, on Lawrence Durrell’s and Theodore Stephanides’ own memoirs of Corfu of the 1930s, and on the exclusions that they make in their memoirs of that happy time and place.
John Bradshaw’s ‘In Defence of Dogs’ has inspired a few thoughts on the good ways in which humans resemble dogs..
My saintly Dad has a few quirks in spite of his saintliness. It has come over me to share them.
This morning I felt unsettled at being at home on Easter morning. So I wrote this blog, recalling the intensity of Easters past, and how strange is the waxing and waning of the great stories in our lives. Happy Easter!
There are two ways of looking at things: tragically and comedically. Tolstoy recommends tragedy. But when it comes to personal troubles, there’s everything to be said for comedy.
The newly-reopened Tottenham Court Road Station is a crushing disappointment. But the sinister Centre Point which soars above it still inspires me.
A yearling dog-owner, I decide to write a numbered list – of the kind that I adore to read – of that things that I have learned that no listicle had ever alerted me to.
I do something that I try to avoid doing, and revisit my old university. Nostalgia-averse, the day turns out better than I’d expected, and much better than a similar visit was for Nabokov in 1937.
A few weeks ago I visited one of the only Gulag memorial sites – Perm-36 in the Urals. In the company of my English friends, I tried to work out what I – and we – were doing there.
I try to argue why contempt for age, not age, is the real enemy of life…
I recently visited Southwell and thought, not just of its Civil War past, but of D.H. Lawrence’s characters, for whom Southwell represented, variously, the past and the future.
On the occasion of a friend’s namesday, I meditate on friendship.
Helen Bamber, founder of the Medical Foundation for Victims of Torture, died 21st August 2014. I recollect the one time I heard her speak.
This post is the text of a talk which I gave at the 6/20 discussion society today in London, and which I hope to develop and publish elsewhere.