Lloyd Evans believes that the lesson of Will Self’s success — which he envies — is that it is better to be a ‘writer’ than to write well
It’s happened again. The other day I was deep in the Tube, powering my way through the loose maul, when a poster caught my eye. Will Self is promoting his latest book. At first glance the photo resembles an ad for a men’s magazine. Cool guy, cool clothes, cool chair, cool glare. Self sits sheathed in impassive black tailoring, with one leg casually thrown over the other; his intense skull and cold blazing eyes appraise you with a look of narcissistic derision. Hm, I thought, another Will Self novel. Already? They’re getting more frequent than rail crashes. In his cocked left hand — a sly affectation this — he sports an accessory that links him symbolically with the Great Thinkers of 20th-century Europe — a pipe. No really; I assumed they’d all been thrown away but here it is, sleek, discreet, unlit, a philosopher’s wand. To pose with a Gauloise would be a bit sixth-form, but the pipe is a cunning vanity, combining novelty, chic, reverence and rebelliousness.
So whatever the book is like, I can see that Will Self Worldwide is trading as vigorously as ever. And that infuriates me. It drives me mad. As I scurry through the seething tunnels I feel a rush of envy surge though my veins. I am beside myself with anger. Why am I beside myself? Because I am not beside Self. I am beneath Self — way, way beneath him. Along with hundreds of other neglected word-slaves, I toil and hack through the freelance jungle while above us soars this prolific bird, plying the airy canopy of literary stardom. He outranks us, outsmarts us, outsells and out-sneers us.
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