David Lodge, RIP

I was saddened, although not too surprised, to learn that one of my favourite novelists, David Lodge, had died, aged 90 (less a few days). The linked obituary provides a good background to both his life and his books, so I'll try not to repeat anything written there.

Until now, DL has been mentioned in 11 blogs, most of which mention him in passing, but they show how deep his books have entered my thoughts. In 2010, I wrote¹ "The first novel of Lodge's that I read was 'Changing places', which was recommended by some book club of which I was a member maybe twenty five years ago.... I know that CP was actually Lodge's fifth or sixth book to be published, but ... for me, it was his first book, and as far as I am concerned, there was a leap made in quality from the books which preceded it to those which came after." 

In 1998, we (my wife, children and I) went to Britain for a few weeks. The first few nights we stayed at a hotel in London (The Avalon) where I had stayed again for a few nights the previous year when I made a solo flight to Britain in order to attend Cropredy 1997 and also visit Sandy Denny's grave. That first evening, I went out for a short walk and found myself in a book store in Euston station which I where I saw Lodge's novel "Therapy". I absolutely love this book.

As far as I am concerned, his last good book was "Deaf Sentence" about which I wrote², also in 2010. I bought the paperback of "A man of parts" which is a fictionalised account of Henry James; not being a student of that period of English literature, this book doesn't have any resonance for me. This is despite the adulation accorded to Henry James in the Commissario Brunetti novels - "it occurred to him that she had left Henry James to go and check on him in the bathroom. He was immeasurably cheered by the thought". ("The waters of eternal youth", chapter 15). In David Lodge's work, Henry James is also mentioned in "Thinks...", another novel that I love.

Obviously, Lodge's writing days were over, so I don't feel the shock and disappointment that I did upon the death of Peter Robinson³, who was still an active writer at the time. The final living author in my pantheon is Robert Silverberg, who was born in 1935 (as was Lodge). He too has ceased writing.

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[2] 262
[3] 1537

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