I think you will get back to festivals soon Hanif and will realise how happy people are for you that you survived and are starting to thrive again . Will be v emotional.
It has been heartening watching you and Salman Rushdie, in the wake of life-changing injuries, not resigning to fate but pushing back at it. The human spirit that is evident in your writings is also present in your recoveries, such as they are. The archetype of those professional writers who don't rise to the level of socialite is that of a desk-bound wraith. I still wouldn't want to back one of these wilful individuals into a corner. A.J. Ayer stood up to Mike Tyson in the flesh, defending the honour of Naomi Campbell. I bet Emily Bronte could marshal her bony knuckles into a serviceable uppercut.
During the 90s, I would attend the Reading Festival. I love music, many more magnitudes than I love the written word, even though I can't play a note. From my perspective a performing musician is effectively a sorcerer. I can't equate what comes out of an instrument with whatever they are doing to produce those sounds. A few years ago, a friend on mine died of a massive heart attack on his front doorstep. I inherited the acoustic guitar he was allowed to have towards the end of his prison sentence. There is a chunk missing from the bodywork. I attempt to tune it occasionally, but I never play it.
At the Reading Festival I would work out an itinerary where I would be continuously watching live music. I wouldn't eat. I would barely drink. I have allergies to practically everything in creation and, of course, hay fever. My body is a walking over-reaction. By the end of the three days, I would be in a terrible state, barely able to breathe. I loved the density of the crowds; when everybody starts jumping up and down in unison and suddenly there is no oxygen at eye level. Your lungs burn. Giant voids form spontaneously amidst the scrum of bodies. You brace yourself so as not to fall in, and get ready to haul up anyone who does lose their footing and go down.
I stood at the front of a stage surrounded by besotted young women who had assembled to watch Jeff Buckley. He was extraordinarily good looking, like something chiselled out of marble. I was there to see Morphine who were on after. They were a beatnik jazz trio – a saxophonist, a drummer and home-made two-string bass guitar. Jeff Buckley drowned in the Mississippi in 1997. A couple of years later, Mark Sandman – the lead singer and bass player for Morphine – suffered a heart attack on stage in Italy and died.
At the end of a set by Mogwai – the sonic equivalent of a temple roof being pulled down on our heads – the drummer stood up and hurled one of his sticks into crowd. Everyone around me dived down to retrieve it. I regarded myself above such things and remained standing. A second later the other drumstick came spinning out of the darkness and hit me squarely in the mouth. At the moment of contact I locked eyes with a member of the stage security team, who visibly flinched. I ran my tongue along my teeth to make sure they were all still there, spat out a globule of blood and flesh and went on my way. The entire lower part of my face swelled up. My right cheek felt like a rotten orange that was about to collapse in on itself.
I felt a sense of purpose and belonging at music festivals. At literary events I feel adrift; a stranger in a strange land. I don't know how to talk about books. My ignorance and the limitations in my comprehension are too close to the surface to conceal. I sometimes feel like I am holding back the conversation.
Reading is something that I do in private. I consider it a solitary pursuit that is both solipsistic, while also allowing the possibility to study the human condition from a distance. Like one of the angels in Wings of Desire, you observe life but take no part in it. I have just finished 'Everybody Loves Our Town' – Mark Yarm's oral history of Grunge, which is by turns hilarious and incredibly sad, given the talent that was lost to hard drugs, suicide and murder. This evening, or maybe tomorrow, I will begin The Levant Trilogy by Olivia Manning.
My attempts at writing are a private thing too. I am trying to work out what I think about things. It's transformative – autobiography beaten out of shape, buried under so many layers that you would never know the inspiration, nor would I want anyone to know.
If there is ever a literary festival for morons, where you can play 'pin the tale on the Brothers Grimm', then I'll go to that.
I thought David O. Russell was clever in the way that he used Morphine's second album - Cure For Pain - as the soundtrack to his film Spanking The Monkey. He took an album - a piece of art - that was created in an entirely different context and then repurposed it in order to set the tone of a piece of art that he'd created.
Originally he wanted to use one of Mark Lanegan's solo albums - I think 'Whiskey For The Holy Ghost' or it may have been 'The Winding Sheet'. Lanegan turned him down because he was troubled by the script and because he was eye deep in an odyssean heroin addiction. If one of those albums had been used as a soundtrack, instead of Cure For Pain, Spanking The Monkey would have been a completely different film in terms of its overall mood.
I had a friend from in Germany who wanted to attend a concert in Amsterdam. He was sixteen and his mother absolutely against. "Let him go," his father said. "Otherwise he'll never forgive us." : )
Hanif, I hope that soon you will be back at literary festivals, talking about your newest book. And maybe after Shattered, you will write another blisteringly satirical novel. We re all gunning for your improved health and for more literary sparkles!
Took me right back in time this one… Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell and all the other now famous pop-artists, the festivals, the sense of being free. Ahhh those were the days 🥰
"Writing is a lonely hallucination; at festivals, you meet others who share in the dream." Yes, what is it they say about workshops being simply "poets falling in love with poets"--. Talent is everything, but luck isn't far behind. That you can write and publish a book despite severe obstacles --ah, I admire that. I'll buy the book.
Great stuff Hanif. Talking of festivals I once interviewed Robert Harris at Cheltenham Festival and foolishly asked the organisers if I could try and flog my paperback “Hatchett and Lycett” at the same time. Robert’s queue was about a 100 yards long. I did not have a queue.
Lost in sandwich generation duties over the past couple of years, I somehow missed the news of your dreadful injury and subsequent experience. Terribly sorry to read about it — much sympathy — and delighted to see your writing is as sharp and distinctive as ever.
I interviewed you once in the Merrion Hotel. Perhaps 15 years ago? You were rude, cranky and monosyllabic for at least 20 minutes, and I used up all the questions I had prepped for the hour, including the second-rate back-up ones.
Turned out you had crocked your back the night before while playing with your kids, then had barely slept due to the pain and the early start demanded by the red-eye to Dublin.
Determined not to leave without fodder for my 1,000 word slot in the books pages, I persevered with our conversation. Possibly because you felt sorry for me eventually, you surmounted your misery and apologised profusely, and we had a great old chat. And my editor was delighted with the resulting 1,000 words.
So I wish you the absolute best and, as a considered friend of mine always says, I hope you have the best day available to you. Look forward to buying your new book when it’s published. And to seeing you shine at a literary event, of course.
One of the few ways in which writers have the upper hand over cats is that the latter only have nine lives. Fortunately, we can have as many lives and worlds as we can imagine, and expand them in the lives of our beloved readers. Blessed lives, though like festivals, they may only be blissful hallucinations.
Dear Hanif you have my undying respect for all you have done and continue to do and for your weekly Dispatches that are such good reading. There is something that’s been a bit of a mystery. There was no word of your Spring writing competition, not who won etc., Tasmanian wildfire had my vote, did it win? Susie
I think you will get back to festivals soon Hanif and will realise how happy people are for you that you survived and are starting to thrive again . Will be v emotional.
It has been heartening watching you and Salman Rushdie, in the wake of life-changing injuries, not resigning to fate but pushing back at it. The human spirit that is evident in your writings is also present in your recoveries, such as they are. The archetype of those professional writers who don't rise to the level of socialite is that of a desk-bound wraith. I still wouldn't want to back one of these wilful individuals into a corner. A.J. Ayer stood up to Mike Tyson in the flesh, defending the honour of Naomi Campbell. I bet Emily Bronte could marshal her bony knuckles into a serviceable uppercut.
During the 90s, I would attend the Reading Festival. I love music, many more magnitudes than I love the written word, even though I can't play a note. From my perspective a performing musician is effectively a sorcerer. I can't equate what comes out of an instrument with whatever they are doing to produce those sounds. A few years ago, a friend on mine died of a massive heart attack on his front doorstep. I inherited the acoustic guitar he was allowed to have towards the end of his prison sentence. There is a chunk missing from the bodywork. I attempt to tune it occasionally, but I never play it.
At the Reading Festival I would work out an itinerary where I would be continuously watching live music. I wouldn't eat. I would barely drink. I have allergies to practically everything in creation and, of course, hay fever. My body is a walking over-reaction. By the end of the three days, I would be in a terrible state, barely able to breathe. I loved the density of the crowds; when everybody starts jumping up and down in unison and suddenly there is no oxygen at eye level. Your lungs burn. Giant voids form spontaneously amidst the scrum of bodies. You brace yourself so as not to fall in, and get ready to haul up anyone who does lose their footing and go down.
I stood at the front of a stage surrounded by besotted young women who had assembled to watch Jeff Buckley. He was extraordinarily good looking, like something chiselled out of marble. I was there to see Morphine who were on after. They were a beatnik jazz trio – a saxophonist, a drummer and home-made two-string bass guitar. Jeff Buckley drowned in the Mississippi in 1997. A couple of years later, Mark Sandman – the lead singer and bass player for Morphine – suffered a heart attack on stage in Italy and died.
At the end of a set by Mogwai – the sonic equivalent of a temple roof being pulled down on our heads – the drummer stood up and hurled one of his sticks into crowd. Everyone around me dived down to retrieve it. I regarded myself above such things and remained standing. A second later the other drumstick came spinning out of the darkness and hit me squarely in the mouth. At the moment of contact I locked eyes with a member of the stage security team, who visibly flinched. I ran my tongue along my teeth to make sure they were all still there, spat out a globule of blood and flesh and went on my way. The entire lower part of my face swelled up. My right cheek felt like a rotten orange that was about to collapse in on itself.
I felt a sense of purpose and belonging at music festivals. At literary events I feel adrift; a stranger in a strange land. I don't know how to talk about books. My ignorance and the limitations in my comprehension are too close to the surface to conceal. I sometimes feel like I am holding back the conversation.
Reading is something that I do in private. I consider it a solitary pursuit that is both solipsistic, while also allowing the possibility to study the human condition from a distance. Like one of the angels in Wings of Desire, you observe life but take no part in it. I have just finished 'Everybody Loves Our Town' – Mark Yarm's oral history of Grunge, which is by turns hilarious and incredibly sad, given the talent that was lost to hard drugs, suicide and murder. This evening, or maybe tomorrow, I will begin The Levant Trilogy by Olivia Manning.
My attempts at writing are a private thing too. I am trying to work out what I think about things. It's transformative – autobiography beaten out of shape, buried under so many layers that you would never know the inspiration, nor would I want anyone to know.
If there is ever a literary festival for morons, where you can play 'pin the tale on the Brothers Grimm', then I'll go to that.
Your posts on this page are brilliant. Don't know what else to say other than that they are moving, evocative, quite special.
Comment of the week 💪
Wow! You saw Jeff Buckley and Morphine live!!!
I thought David O. Russell was clever in the way that he used Morphine's second album - Cure For Pain - as the soundtrack to his film Spanking The Monkey. He took an album - a piece of art - that was created in an entirely different context and then repurposed it in order to set the tone of a piece of art that he'd created.
Originally he wanted to use one of Mark Lanegan's solo albums - I think 'Whiskey For The Holy Ghost' or it may have been 'The Winding Sheet'. Lanegan turned him down because he was troubled by the script and because he was eye deep in an odyssean heroin addiction. If one of those albums had been used as a soundtrack, instead of Cure For Pain, Spanking The Monkey would have been a completely different film in terms of its overall mood.
I had a friend from in Germany who wanted to attend a concert in Amsterdam. He was sixteen and his mother absolutely against. "Let him go," his father said. "Otherwise he'll never forgive us." : )
Hanif, I hope that soon you will be back at literary festivals, talking about your newest book. And maybe after Shattered, you will write another blisteringly satirical novel. We re all gunning for your improved health and for more literary sparkles!
So happy to read this optimistic post
Took me right back in time this one… Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell and all the other now famous pop-artists, the festivals, the sense of being free. Ahhh those were the days 🥰
The Boomers were the lucky generation, that's for sure.
I can’t wait to go to one of your events! Please come to Yorkshire xx
i do so enjoy your articles, Hanif, and you insights into a writer's life. Thank-you.
"Writing is a lonely hallucination; at festivals, you meet others who share in the dream." Yes, what is it they say about workshops being simply "poets falling in love with poets"--. Talent is everything, but luck isn't far behind. That you can write and publish a book despite severe obstacles --ah, I admire that. I'll buy the book.
Great stuff Hanif. Talking of festivals I once interviewed Robert Harris at Cheltenham Festival and foolishly asked the organisers if I could try and flog my paperback “Hatchett and Lycett” at the same time. Robert’s queue was about a 100 yards long. I did not have a queue.
Lost in sandwich generation duties over the past couple of years, I somehow missed the news of your dreadful injury and subsequent experience. Terribly sorry to read about it — much sympathy — and delighted to see your writing is as sharp and distinctive as ever.
I interviewed you once in the Merrion Hotel. Perhaps 15 years ago? You were rude, cranky and monosyllabic for at least 20 minutes, and I used up all the questions I had prepped for the hour, including the second-rate back-up ones.
Turned out you had crocked your back the night before while playing with your kids, then had barely slept due to the pain and the early start demanded by the red-eye to Dublin.
Determined not to leave without fodder for my 1,000 word slot in the books pages, I persevered with our conversation. Possibly because you felt sorry for me eventually, you surmounted your misery and apologised profusely, and we had a great old chat. And my editor was delighted with the resulting 1,000 words.
So I wish you the absolute best and, as a considered friend of mine always says, I hope you have the best day available to you. Look forward to buying your new book when it’s published. And to seeing you shine at a literary event, of course.
I always look forward to reading your posts!!!
I definitely will be reading your upcoming book.
MK San Pedro
One of the few ways in which writers have the upper hand over cats is that the latter only have nine lives. Fortunately, we can have as many lives and worlds as we can imagine, and expand them in the lives of our beloved readers. Blessed lives, though like festivals, they may only be blissful hallucinations.
Dear Hanif you have my undying respect for all you have done and continue to do and for your weekly Dispatches that are such good reading. There is something that’s been a bit of a mystery. There was no word of your Spring writing competition, not who won etc., Tasmanian wildfire had my vote, did it win? Susie
Beautiful, Hanif. I am so happy for you, after following you these 18 months.
May your becoming a writer again and your reengagement with "the business of literature" come sooner than soon.🌹