Guardian HQ visited the future this weekend. The newspaper group hosted its inaugural ‘Open Weekend’ — a ‘festival of debates, workshops, music, comedy, poetry, food and fun’, according to the blurb. There was live music (banjos and interpretative dance, naturally). A farmers’ market ran along the adjacent canal and a selection of seedlings for sale from the garden centre. There were also some talks about urgent issues, poetry readings and exclusive access to the editorial offices. The Guardian loses £1 million a week by some estimates: alternative income must be found. It’s the same story for most media organisations these days.
Writers are good value at this sort of junket. Ahdaf Soueif, Robert Harris, Jo Shapcott, Ruth Pradel and Jez Butterworth all gave their two pennies’ worth. Butterworth, the author of the smash hit play Jerusalem, was very good company — intelligent, witty and slightly ‘ladish’. But the star turn was Ian McEwan, who gave a self-effacing performance.
McEwan told numerous stories against himself — including the time when he was buttonholed by Tony Blair at Tate Modern. The then prime minister took McEwan’s hand (‘in that lingering way that politicians do’) and said, ‘I am a great admirer of your work. We have a couple of your pictures hanging in Downing Street’. (There were, apparently, some water colours by Angus McEwan hanging in Downing Street during the later Blair years.)
Discussion turned to McEwan’s method, which he ridiculed. ‘I find it astonishing that anyone’s interested in these procedural questions,’ he said. But the punters were enraptured by McEwan’s typing technique and secrets of the trade. ‘I use…black ink always, pressing medium hard,’ he quipped.
He was more enthusiastic when talking about the tension between ‘public and private space’. McEwan believes in the importance of being idle. Once McEwan has finished a book, he lapses into inaction and remains inert for a long time. He walks at these times — ‘the rhythm of walking usually matches the rhythm of thought’. He resists offers to write on the great issues of the day, which he often is because his novels address such issues. An exception was 9/11: an enormity of such magnitude that he was compelled to confront it.
McEwan has also written extensively on the Iraq war — the subject of his 2004 novel, Saturday. He was quizzed about the subject again yesterday. McEwan is a revered author, but there are doubts about whether his work will survive his death. McEwan seems to be conscious of those reservations. Readers have already forgotten that Saturday has two protagonists representing both sides of the debate over Iraq, he said: Henry Perowne, who is not against the invasion, and his daughter Daisy, who is virulently opposed. Readers only remember Perowne’s half of the story, which suggests that Daisy is a weak character.
McEwan’s observation exemplified another of his favourite topics: how authors have no control over the interpretation of their work. His son was studying Enduring Love for A-Level, and McEwan helped him with one essay, identifying ‘some key points’. But his son received a ‘very low’ mark. Why? ‘His tutor thought the stalker carried the authorial moral centre. Whereas I thought he was a complete madman.’
McEwan’s next book, Sweet Tooth, will be published in August.
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