Everyone remembers an inspiring teacher. The teacher who sticks in my mind was a bearded sage who loved Hardy and celebrated Winterval. I know in hindsight that he was a self-indulgent charlatan; but his wide-reading and enthusiasm were enthralling. That last quality made him a good teacher as well as a memorable one: it encouraged pupils to read beyond the plain texts set by stolid examiners, and allowed them to think for themselves, just a little bit.
But his enthusiasm could be his undoing. He had a weakness for making drastic announcements about the ‘state of fiction’ or the ‘role of the author’, which even his enraptured students recognised as absurd. One of these statements was that: ‘American novelists have owned post-war English literature. The British Isles have nobody to match the giants Bellow, Updike and Roth. Except perhaps Martin Amis — and even he is half-American’.
It’s a drunken parlour game (or the last resort of bored literary editors): to choose the ‘Five Greatest Authors in English Since 1945’.
Britain’s best politics newsletters
You get two free articles each week when you sign up to The Spectator’s emails.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in