That Hamilton book
Scottie Bowman (rbowman@indigo.ie)
Fri, 27 Nov 1998 08:46:24 +0000
Whereof one cannot speak - as Wittgenstein pointed out -
thereof one must remain silent.
So, properly, I should keep quiet about the Hamilton book
which I haven’t read for many years. Still, I’d like to add my own
tuppence worth to Andy’s defence of it. My distinct memory
is of a civilised & amusing piece of writing which, in its emulation
of The Quest for Corvo, was tracing a marvellous set of footprints.
I’d hate newcomers to be put off it by the powerful draughts
of disapproval wafting up from Capricorn.
I should point out for all you chaps who insist on the importance
of the context of a book that Hamilton (as a well regarded poet
& - I think - at that time literary editor of the Spectator) was writing
in the ambience of a highly sophisticated culture that regarded Salinger
with affection but something less than the breathless awe that
permeates this list. Anyone who withdrew from the literary world
of London to some remote village in Scotland insisting on Trappist
seclusion would become overnight the butt of the very cruelest mockery.
(And the blood runs cold at the thought of anyone trying to do it
from Dublin.)
The inhabitants of these little islands can, from time to time, take
themselves quite seriously but - unlike Americans - they would rather
die
than be SEEN to do so.
That, in my eyes, is Salinger’s real sin. Vanity in vanity, saith the
Preacher.
All is vanity.
Scottie B.