We lost a literary giant and I had nothing to do with it, I swear |
We lost a literary giant and I had nothing to do with it, I swear
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Last month we lost a giant in David Malouf, and I had nothing to do with it, despite what his inbox says. Like you, I learnt the news from the media. Unlike you, I nursed an unease, a misplaced guilt reviving the author’s own words: “All the things we achieve are things we have first of all imagined”.
Let me explain. By chance, I’d emailed David on the eve of his death, unaware the 92-year-old was unwell. For the record, I’d contacted his London agent 24 hours before the news, eager to sort an adjective problem. Joanne Karcz, a Wordplay reader, had floated the quibble back in March, spotting a potential slip in Malouf’s 1981 anthology Child’s Play.
I didn’t know the collection, though I’d relished many Maloufs over the years, adoring the centaur boy called........