Taylor Appointment in Arezzo

A friendship with Muriel Spark
1. Auflage 2017
ISBN: 978-0-85790-939-8
Verlag: Polygon
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 176 Seiten

This book is an intimate, fond and funny memoir of one of the greatest novelists of the last century. This colourful, personal, anecdotal, indiscreet and admiring memoir charts the course of Muriel Spark's life revealing her as she really was. Once, she commented sitting over a glass of chianti at the kitchen table, that she was upset that the academic whom she had appointed her official biographer did not appear to think that she had ever cracked a joke in her life. Alan Taylor here sets the record straight about this and many other things. With sources ranging from notebooks kept from his very first encounter with Muriel and the hundreds of letters they exchanged over the years, this is an invaluable portrait of one of Edinburgh's premiere novelists. The book was published to celebrate the 100th anniversary of Muriel's birth in 2018.

Alan Taylor has been a journalist for over 30 years. He was deputy editor and managing editor of The Scotsman, and for 15 years was Writer-at-Large for the Sunday Herald. He has contributed to numerous publications, including The Times Literary Supplement, TheNew Yorker and The Melbourne Age and was co-founder and editor of The Scottish Review of Books. He was editor of the centenary editions of the collected novels of Muriel Spark and has edited several acclaimed anthologies, including The Assassin's Cloak (2000). He also wrote the bestselling Appointment in Arezzo: A Friendship with Muriel Spark (2017). He also edited Madly, Deeply: The Alan Rickman Diaries (2022).

Autoren/Hrsg.

Taylor, Alan

Leseproben

INTRODUCTION
I may take up detective work one of these days.
It would be quite my sort of thing. THE COMFORTERS I had an appointment with Muriel Spark in Arezzo, the Tuscan town where Vasari, fabled for his Lives of the Renaissance artists, was born and bred. Mrs Spark’s fax was brief and business-like. ‘My friend Penelope Jardine and I will come to Arezzo. I suggest we have dinner there at the Continentale Hotel (not far from the station) and we can talk then. Daytimes are very hot.’ The month was July, the year 1990, and only mad dogs and impatient tourists dared expose themselves to the unforgiving sun. During the mid-afternoon, when Spark’s working day habitually began, I hid in the hotel and watched an Italian soap opera on television. At six o’clock I took a stroll and by no grand design ended up at Vasari’s house in a shaded back street in the centro storico. The house was cool, palatial, and empty save for the mute custodian who followed me from room to room with the air of someone who suspected something fishy was afoot. In that place and at that time, the connection between Spark and Vasari seemed obvious. A fairly pious Catholic and a patriot whose allegiance was to the Medicis, Giorgio Vasari divorced himself from the religious and political issues of his day; art was his obsession. Of course, no one with even a passing acquaintance with her work would say that Spark was oblivious to great world events. On the contrary, they inform her fiction to an extraordinary if subterranean degree. From the rise of Fascism in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie to her satire of the Watergate scandal, The Abbess of Crewe, she was always aware of what was going on in the world at large. But she was never flatly topical: no one with her intellectual attitude to faith and its implications for the hereafter could be. Like Fleur Talbot, her alter ego in Loitering with Intent, her sense of herself as an artist was absolute: ‘That I was a woman and living in the 20th century were plain facts. That I was an artist was a conviction so strong that I never thought of doubting it then or since.’ Even when Fleur makes love her mind is elsewhere, despite efforts to think of General de Gaulle. How like Vasari’s hero, Uccello, droning on about the beauties of perspective while his wife tries to drag him bedwards. In the Piazza Guido Monaco, the Aretini had come out to play. Old men, gnarled as walnuts, dealt cards while their sons drank beer and their grandsons harassed pigeons. Growling motor bikes raced round the square at intemperate speed. ‘There is carnage every night on the roads of Italy,’ observed Muriel – as she will now be called – matter-of-factly. She was a mite early for our appointment and in phrase book Italian ordered a gin and tonic while Penelope Jardine – Penny – parked their car. They had been together for twenty years, sharing a rambling house deep in the Val di Chiana, fifteen kilometres from Arezzo. Centuries ago the house, which is attached to a parish church, had been inhabited by a priest who added rooms as necessity determined. Two separate families had lived in it with the priest and his mother, some twenty people in all. Now it offered books a home, roughly seven thousand of them. ‘I buy books,’ said Muriel penitentially, ‘I often advertise for books; I spend a fortune. I do need rare books from time to time. We have endless encyclopaedias.’ The two women seemed comfortable together, often ending each other’s sentences, one deferring to the other when she couldn’t put a finger on a fact or recollect a date. The notion that Muriel was some kind of recluse or eccentric, as at least one ill-informed journalist had suggested, seemed absurd. Similarly, the idea of two women living together had raised prurient eyebrows. But why should it? Penny is a sculptor who has exhibited at the Royal Academy in London; she supplied the domestic and business circumstances which allowed Muriel to flourish. ‘Penny provides Muriel with emotional security,’ someone who knew them both told me. Enough emotional security to be flirting at seventy-two. I mentioned that I had tried with just a few words of Italian at my command to buy trousers in Florence. If I had told her that I’d been diagnosed with a terminal illness she couldn’t have shown more concern. ‘Let’s ask that dishy waiter who is the best sarto in Arezzo.’ While the man was summoned, Muriel asked if my hair was as nature intended. It was, I confessed. ‘You don’t do anything to it? Touch it up?’ I said I paid a man called Alfie in Edinburgh to keep it out of my eyes and off my collar. ‘I never touch up mine either,’ she trumped. As the waiter was interrogated about the best tailor in town I took the opportunity to study Muriel. She looked at least ten years younger than her age. Her hair, touched up or not, was red, as it was when she was a girl growing up in Edinburgh and before it was bleached under Rhodesian skies when she was in her early twenties. She was petite, with a gay and curious demeanour. She seemed to me someone to whom you could talk unguardedly, like a doctor or a priest, without fear of it ever being passed on. She dressed elegantly and expensively. Her dress was a riot of yellow and black. Round her neck she wore a string of white pearls and a canary-yellow silk scarf. She had a reputation for being waspish, once making mincemeat of a BBC interviewer who asked a fatuous question. When I told her – sincerely – how much I admired her latest book, Symposium, her dark eyes lit up and her face creased with pleasure. The life of a ‘constitutional exile’ appeared to suit her. No one, though, should be deceived into thinking that the road to Arezzo had been straight and smooth. At that time, her autobiography, Curriculum Vitae, had yet to appear. When it did – in 1992 – it ended with the publication in 1957 of her first novel, The Comforters, just as her career as a writer was beginning. At thirty-nine she was a relatively late starter, but, as she makes plain in the autobiography, her life up to that point was about laying foundations and accumulating experience. ‘Since I wrote my first novel,’ she stated towards the end of Curriculum Vitae, ‘I have passed the years occupied with ever more work, many travels and adventures. Friends, famous and obscure, abound in my life-story. That will be the subject of another volume.’ That promised volume never materialised. In Arezzo, Muriel was happy to revisit her distant past, which was full of obscure people, some of whom had subsequently gained prominence because of their association with her. She was born on 1 February, 1918, while the ‘war to end all wars’ was still rumbling on. She told me her brother, Philip, who was five years older than her, had had a distinguished career as an engineer with Boeing in California. We talked about her father, Bertie Camberg, a Jew who was born in Scotland and who ran away to sea when he was fourteen. ‘He got as far as Kirkwall.’ Her mother was English and an Anglican. There was no hint of gypsy blood in her, she remarked, countering a falsehood first spread by Derek Stanford, a former lover and collaborator. A memoir he had written had infuriated her and continued to cause her anxiety because it was often quoted. He was one of the reasons why she had embarked on Curriculum Vitae. ‘He is the limit,’ she said, her voice rising an octave. ‘He was very fond of me. Absolutely. But as soon as I got any form of success he went so sour. He sold all my letters to Texas University. Then he started writing books full of the wildest things about my life, and the whole thing I ignored. I never did a thing. I am much too busy and life is too short. However, I thought I would put the record straight. One critic picks it up and then another and on it goes. He’s a mythomaniac.’ Bertie Camberg was an engineer with the North British Rubber Works. He was a betting man, fond of horse-racing, an interest his daughter inherited; at one time Muriel had a share in two racehorses, neither of which was conspicuously successful. Her mother, Sarah, she reckoned, could have been a Bruntsfield Madame Bovary. ‘Quite easily,’ she said. ‘She was craving for what she called the “bright lights”.’ In Curriculum Vitae she recreated in meticulous and loving detail the first five years of her life, a whiff of Nivea cream being the equivalent of Proust’s petite madeleine. ‘Sometimes’, she wrote, ‘I compare my early infancy with that of my friends whose very early lives were in the hands of nannies, and who were surrounded by servants and privilege. Those pre-school lives seem nothing like so abundant as mine was, nothing like so crammed with people and with amazing information. I was not set aside from adult social life, nor cosied up in a nursery, and taken for nice regular walks far from the madding crowd. I was witness to the whole passing scene. Perhaps no other life could ever be as rich as that first life, when, five years old, prepared and briefed to my full capacity, I was ready for school.’ Muriel at her first meeting with Alan Taylor in Arezzo, 1990 In the 1920s and 1930s, Edinburgh, Scotland’s precipitous capital, was a provincial, culturally inward, begrimed city. To a dyspeptic observer, such as the poet Edwin Muir, it was a city of ‘extraordinary and sordid contrasts’. It is true, and something of a cliché, that it was a divided city, in...