Between Father and Son: Family Letters (Vintage International) - Softcover

Naipaul, V. S.

 
9780375707261: Between Father and Son: Family Letters (Vintage International)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0375707263 ISBN 13: 9780375707261
Verlag: VINTAGE, 2001

Inhaltsangabe

At seventeen, V.S. Naipaul wanted to "follow no other profession" but writing. Awarded a scholarship by the Trinidadian government, he set out to attend Oxford, where he encountered a vastly different world from the one he yearned to leave behind. Separated from his family by continents, and grappling with depression, financial strain, loneliness, and dislocation, "Vido" bridged the distance with a faithful correspondence that began shortly before the young man's two-week journey to England and ended soon after his father's death four years later.

Here, for the first time, we have the opportunity to read this profoundly moving correspondence, which illuminates with unalloyed candor the relationship between a sacrificing father and his determined son as they encourage each other to persevere with their writing. For though his father's literary aspirations would go unrealized, Naipaul's triumphant career would ultimately vindicate his beloved mentor's legacy.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

V.S. Naipaul was born in Trinidad in 1932. He came to England on a scholarship in 1950. He spent four years at University College, Oxford, and began to write, in London, in 1954. He pursued no other profession.
 
His novels include A House for Mr Biswas, The Mimic Men, Guerrillas, A Bend in the River, and The Enigma of Arrival. In 1971 he was awarded the Booker Prize for In a Free State. His works of nonfiction, equally acclaimed, include Among the Believers, Beyond Belief, The Masque of Africa, and a trio of books about India: An Area of Darkness, India: A Wounded Civilization and India: A Million Mutinies Now.
 
In 1990, V.S. Naipaul received a knighthood for services to literature; in 1993, he was the first recipient of the David Cohen British Literature Prize. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2001. He lived with his wife Nadira and cat Augustus in Wiltshire, and died in 2018.

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V. S. Naipaul is perhaps the most famous emigre writer since Vladimir Nabokov, and though he always spoke and wrote English, his self-imposed exile to England from his native Trinidad represented a cultural shift as profound as learning to think in another language. In this moving, novel-like correspondence, we witness the great writer's early transformation from an expatriate adrift to a world-renowned man of letters.
The letters collected here illuminate with unalloyed candor the relationship between a sacrificing father and his determined son as they encourage each other to persevere with their writing. For though his father's literary aspirations would go unrealized, Naipaul's triumphant career would ultimately vindicate his beloved mentor's legacy.

Aus dem Klappentext

l is perhaps the most famous émigré writer since Vladimir Nabokov, and though he always spoke and wrote English, his self-imposed exile to England from his native Trinidad represented a cultural shift as profound as learning to think in another language. In this moving, novel-like correspondence, we witness the great writers early transformation from an expatriate adrift to a world-renowned man of letters.

The letters collected here illuminate with unalloyed candor the relationship between a sacrificing father and his determined son as they encourage each other to persevere with their writing. For though his fathers literary aspirations would go unrealized, Naipauls triumphant career would ultimately vindicate his beloved mentors legacy.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

I September 21, 1949 – September 22, 1950 Port of Spain to Oxford

Trinidad September 21, 1949 Dear Kamla,*

I wonder what is the matter with this typewriter. It looks all right now, though. I am enclosing some cuttings which, I am sure, will delight you. You will note that I went after all to the Old Boys’ Association Dinner. I can count those hours as among the most painful I have ever spent. In the first place, I have no table manners; in the second, I had no food. Special arrangements, I was informed after the dinner, had been made for me, but these appeared to have been limited to serving me potatoes in various ways—now fried, now boiled. I had told the manager to bring me some corn soup instead of the turtle soup that the others were having. He ignored this and the waiter brought up to me a plateful of a green slime. This was the turtle soup. I was nauseated and annoyed and told the man to take it away. This, I was told, was a gross breach of etiquette. So I had bread and butter and ice-cold water for the first two eating rounds. The menu was in French. What you would call stewed chicken they called ‘Poulet Sauté Renaissance’. Coffee was ‘moka’. I had rather expected that to be some exotic Russian dish. Dessert included something called ‘Pomme Surprise’. This literally means ‘surprised apple’, and the younger Hannays,† who was next to me, told me it was an apple pudding done in a surprise manner. The thing came. I ate it. It was fine. But I tasted no apple. ‘That,’ Hannays told me, ‘is the surprise.

I have just finished filling out the application forms for entrance to the University; I had some pictures of myself taken. I had always thought that, * V(idiadhar) S(urajprasad) Naipaul’s elder sister, then studying at Banares (also spelled Benares) Hindu University. The eldest of the seven children born to Seepersad and Droapatie (née Capildeo) Naipaul (see Family Trees)

† Fellow pupil, son of a distinguished black lawyer in Trinidad

though not attractive, I was not ugly. This picture undeceived me. I never knew my face was fat. The picture said so. I looked at the Asiatic on the paper and thought that an Indian from India could look no more Indian than I did. My face would give anyone the idea that I was a two-hundred-pounder. I had hoped to send up a striking intellectual pose to the University people, but look what they have got. And I even paid two dollars for a re-touched picture.

I am all right. I am actually reading once more. I decided to start preparing myself for next year by a thorough knowledge of the nineteenth-century novel. I read the Butler book;* I think it is not half as good as Maugham’s Of Human Bondage. The construction is clumsy. Butler has stressed too much on passing religious conflicts; is too concerned with proving his theory of heredity. I then went on to Jane Austen. I had read so much in praise of her. I went to the library and got Emma. It has an introduction by Monica Dickens, which extolled the book as the finest Austen ever wrote. Frankly, the introduction proved better reading than the book itself. Jane Austen appears to be essentially a writer for women; if she had lived in our age she would undoubtedly have been a leading contributor to the women’s papers. Her work really bored me. It is mere gossip. It could appeal to a female audience. The diction is fine, of course. But the work, besides being mere gossip, is slick and professional.

I think you would be interested to know how my $75 will be spent. I have taken over all your debts. $50 will go to the bank; $10 to Millington;† and $15 to Dass. I have about two dollars pocket money. I get this from Mamie‡ for teaching Sita.§ Sending that child to school to get an academic education is a waste of time and money. She is the most obtuse thing I have ever met. If you want to break a man’s heart, give him a class of Sitas to teach. I wonder if you know that I have been teaching George.** He is dull but could pass if made to work hard. I am sure you will be glad to know that * Samuel Butler’s The Way of All Flesh (1903)

† Occasional Naipaul family servant

‡ Mamie (or Mamee): V. S. Naipaul’s maternal aunt by marriage, wife of Simbhoo, the elder of his mother’s two brothers (Capo S.)

§ V. S. Naipaul’s cousin, Mamie’s daughter

** V. S. Naipaul’s cousin, son of his father’s elder brother, Persad (or Ramparsad—and fictionalised by his father as ‘Rapooche’)

Jainarayan* is making splendid progress. Those people are a sorry lot. This devaluation business is going to make it even harder for them.

It is not for us at home to do extensive writing; that is your job. It is you who are seeing new countries, having new and exciting experiences which will probably remain in your memory as the most interesting part of your life. I must say, however, that your letters have improved enormously. I wonder why. Is it because you are writing spontaneously, without any conscious effort at literature? I think it is.

While you are in India, you should keep your eyes open. This has two meanings: the subsidiary one is to watch your personal effects carefully; the Indians are a thieving lot. Remember what happened to the trousers† of the West Indian cricket eleven. Keep your eyes open and let me know whether Beverly Nichols‡ is right. He went to India in 1945, and saw a wretched country, full of pompous mediocrity, with no future. He saw the filth; refused to mention the ‘spiritualness’ that impresses another kind of visitor. Of course the Indians did not like the book, but I think he was telling the truth. From Nehru’s autobiography,§ I think the Premier of India is a first-class showman using his saintliness as a weapon of rule. But I am sure it has a certain basis in fact. Huxley may have degenerated of late into an invalid crippled by a malady that has received enormous approval by the intellectuals—mysticism—but what he said in his book** about India twenty years or so ago is true. He said that it was half-diets that produced ascetics and people who spend all their time in meditation. You will be right at the heart of the whole cranky thing. Please don’t get contaminated; I will be glad when your three years will be finished; then you could breathe the invigorating air of atheism. (I don’t like that word. It seems to suggest that the person is interested in religion; it doesn’t suggest one who ignores it completely . . .)

I suppose that by now you have received the ten pounds. We got your diary. I could sense an underlying unhappiness and worry in it. I don’t * V. S. Naipaul’s cousin, his maternal aunt’s son

† The white flannel trousers of the West Indian cricket team visiting India at this time were famously stolen in Bombay

‡ Beverly Nichols’ Verdict on India (1946) had occasioned much controversy

§ Autobiography (1936)

** Aldous Huxley’s Jesting Pilate (1926)

think you were completely happy. I could imagine how glad you were when you saw Boysie* at Avonmouth. After all, who could be perfectly happy going to a strange land with only about seventy dollars to stay heaven knows how long? I doubt whether we could have stood the financial strain. I am very glad how things turned out.

I will write shortly. Goodbye and good luck.

With affection,

Vido†

[To Kamla] Trinidad October 10, 1949

My dear little fool,

You are the damnedest ass. Your letter amused me as I read the first few lines; then it became grotesque.

You are a silly stupid female, after all. I...

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Verlag
VINTAGE
Erscheinungsdatum
2001
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0375707263
ISBN 13 
9780375707261
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
320
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Nicht verfügbar

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