The Gerts have long been devoted readers of The London Review of Books (known as the LRB to the cognoscenti). We have passed our copies on to friends and family and have surely accounted for the rise in subscriptions from our harsh brown land. The journal is issued fortnightly, is closely printed, and amounts to around forty-one pages. They no longer have the amusing lonely heart entries in the back pages that used to divert us in the past, but there is always something humourous, infuriating or enlightening to read. Continue reading Meeting the Devil- A Book of Memoir
When she was a child, Gert used to tell her little brother stories about a place called Arrapamatta. These stories became the Denis Kodaly work The 1001 Nights Of Iarcus Oralto. The talk-back radio program was invented in Arrapamatta, as was the art of gaslighting. Continue reading Gaslighting
‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘what do they call you?’
‘Jackie, father,’ I said.
‘And what’s a-trouble to you, Jackie?’
‘Father,’ I said, feeling I might as well get it over while I had him in good humour, ‘I had it all arranged to kill my grandmother.’ Continue reading My kind of priest
The best job that was ever offered to me was to become a landlord in a brothel. Continue reading Tools of the writer’s trade
Following the announcement from Arts Council England that sales of literary fiction are plummeting, it is suggested that arts subsidies be deployed to help writers survive. I have another idea. They should write better books.
Tom Wolfe, author of Bonfire 0f The Vanities, died in May at the age of 88. Unfortunately, he never completed his biography of Napoleon:
The world has been clamouring, yes clamouring, for more of the unpublished Gertrude Stein manuscript that Gert has in her possession. We’ve even had a tweet from Donald Trump demanding it. So here are its last cryptic lines:
Continue reading On foolishness, igloos and omelettes