Roger Lewis (1) (1960–)

Consider:

'Burgess hated not to be grasped: "I like understanding from those who read my books", he once bellowed. "I don't get much from the people in England". Well, he's had plenty of understanding from me, fair play.'

and:

'He dared to become a genius, and this book has shown you how and why;'

2002 is a long time ago in literary terms and it's perhaps difficult now to recreate the mini controversy that Lewis's book created at the time*. I think Lewis himself ('fair play') would say he took Burgess, man and work, as he saw him and would not be the first biographer to find that his subject turned out to be so complicated as to be a different entity altogether than the one whose books first attracted him. Does he give Burgess 'plenty of understanding'? 'No' seemed to be the prevailing answer in 2002. I would say mostly 'Yes' now. He is absolutely spot on in my view in terms of his analysis of the invention of the person who went from 'John Wilson' to 'Anthony Burgess' (the 'English Borges'). He is probably right about the talent and the yawning gaps which remained, the lack of empathy and humour. He is fair too about what I suppose we must call the Burgess work ethic. He is not blind to the many flaws - e.g the repeated 'lectures', the absolute 'centrifugal incompetence' (Hans Keller's typically simultaneously withering and thrilling words quoted by Lewis) of the entire compositional oeuvre, the often borrowed unoriginality but yet there is affection and yes, respect here too.

Burgess is arguably not of course the main character of a book not short of characters (it starts breathlessly with Lewis waiting with Richard Ellmann for Burgess to arrive at Oxford railway station where they have time to bump into John Wain before Burgess arrives and doesn't let up for a minute in terms of the luxury casting that populates its 400 plus pages). Lewis himself has that honour. You are aware of him in every sentence and in the truly glorious footnotes, which are at least as compelling as the principal subject matter its appended to. (Yes, I avoided using 'narrative' for so many reasons but not least because it exists only very loosely, which works brilliantly. There is a highly informative and entertaining chronology at the start of the book and once that is done Lewis apparently and refreshingly takes the view that conventional biographical obligations have been discharged). He is a welcome presence, a very gifted writer, cultured, knowledgeable, highly intelligent, extremely funny and with whom one would no doubt get into a heated argument, if not fight, with, every time one accompanied him to the pub. The best analogy I can suggest to give you a feel for the book is to imagine Lewis as a nicer and more able Charles Kinbote (and yes, 'Pale Fire' dopes come up in the book)

I can't make up my mind if this book represents the apotheosis of the Lewis approach or if that description is better suited to 'Erotic Vagrancy' but Lewis is a genius I think.… (more)

This is such a provocative, self-indulgent work of egotism masking as a story of (amongst other things) egotism, that shouldn't work and yet - maddeningly - does. Every time you are ready to hurl the book away because of some crass comment it's followed so quickly with acute insight that you don't. Every time you groan because here Lewis is taking you through many pages of an unstructured analysis essentially of what a Burton and/or Taylor film means to him, you stifle it because you are so quickly engrossed in the quality of the observation. It gets to the stage when you don't even mind when Lewis writes openly about himself.
Baffling, acute, digressive, undisciplined, thoughtful, selfish, observant, laconic, opiniated, well wriiten, vulgar, knowledgeable, insensitive. This book is all of these things and more. And despite myself, I have to say mostly brilliant.… (more)