Read: More Fool me. Written by Stephen Fry. Published by Penguin. Michael Joseph. Penguin Books. London. 2014. It is possible to write an autobiography in a single volume. Many people do it. Some with the aid of a ghost writer, or at least with strong editorial backup, and mainly toward the sunset of their life. (See Inside Trader Penguin Australia. Recommended by Phillip Adams. The autobiography of Ronald Faulkner, Ronnie or better known by the nick-name Trader) Trader Faulkner is a home-grown product, an Aussie surfer of the late 1930s who took his chance, at the advice of a friend, the actor Peter Finch, and became, not only an actor on stage and screen, but also an aficionado of Spanish Flamenco, awarded the Order of Merit by the King of Spain. Along the way Trader worked with the likes of John Geilgud, Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh. I look forward, after hearing an interview with the fellow on the A.B.C., to reading his one volume memoir. Digressing, I move back to the Fry-up of More Fool Me. A section early on recapitulates, (Page 17 to 67) in briefer form, both the earlier volumes: Moab is my Washpot, and The Fry Chronicles, apologizing and bowing as we re- read. This is simply filler. You buy a book and you expect it to contain never-before read content, not re-hash. But this is the detritus of serial autobiography of which I am afraid to say Mister Fry is guilty. And to prosecute this further, will be guilty several times over before we reach his eventual, current state of play. (Yes, I know, it is defensible by arguing that a certain number of fans will not have read the preceding books. And so it might well be, yet there is more to follow, regarding a tendency toward laziness and a swift way to bring a book to its conclusion. This is achieved by referring to his diary entries 1993, August to November, and printing them with the occasional addended remark. This may give us an on-the-spot window into those few months, but also gives me an impression of a very Kick-back this-is-a-good-enough, time and labour saving device that will get the M/S to the publisher on time, and without overly much exertion. More Fool Me is 380 pages long. 50 pages are consumed in pre-history and a further 148 by fairly dry diary entries. A total of 198 pages, leaving us with 182 freshly-scribed leaves. A pretty swift way to cobble together something that looks like a book, has a snappy pic on the front, along with a house-hold name and wow! This is a con. By all means write an autobiography. Shock us, inform us, seduce us, reduce us to tears, nobly raise us, humorously captivate us and humbly bring us to our knees, then return us to reality. But dont flimflam us. Having said all that, there are still some informative revelations and quite humorous situations, as well as the authors much to be admired habit of only ever incriminating himself. There are two things further I should like, with your indulgence, to say: The first is that I do not dislike Stephen Fry. Quite to the contrary, I am a fan from way back. I admire the man for all manner of reasons. The second is where he seeks to confound and consternate us by quoting, in one or two instances, others; theirs are quite repugnant comments, that both he and his editor should never have allowed into the light of published literature. They are uncalled for and serve no purpose other than that of shock. Sadly, More Fool Him. Perhaps the next tome might be titled Coming To My Senses Reading: Sahara by Michael Palin. Lots and lots of sand. The Happiest Refugee by Anh Do. Lots of sea and sympathy. In Montmartre by Sue Roe. Lots of souls. (Of the artistic kind.)
Posted on: Tue, 30 Dec 2014 06:43:03 +0000
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