The redoubtable Litlove has actually been reading The Times, and lookie here, but they listed a top 50 of British Writers since 1945. Litlove has some very good points along the lines of ‘who chose these and where the hell is everyone else who should be in here?’, and I am far too, well, frankly, intellectually feeble [Aha! The truth at last! - Ed] to make any such points myself, and so shan’t even try. But as Litlove was sanguine enough to ‘cheerfully state her ignorance’ I saw no reason at all why I shouldn’t cheerfully state mine, so any comments follow each author in brackets.
50. Michael Moorcock (Ah. Well, I have read every single thing of Moorcock’s except that Dancers at the End of Time book everyone else thinks it cool to like.)
49. Rosemary Sutcliff (Yep. Read Eagle of the Ninth. And so should you. Even if it is out of print.)
48. Benjamin Zephaniah (Deeply cool etc., but not really my type of poetry. I got bored. My bad.)
47. Alice Oswald (Errr…)
46. Bruce Chatwin (Have – oh shaming – read him in handfuls while sitting on my mother’s loo, for she keeps The Songlines next to Schott’s Miscellany. )
45. Colin Thubron (At a guess, I could tell you he’s a writer.)
44. Julian Barnes (What the hell is he doing all the way down here?)
43. Philip Pullman (And what in Christ is he doing below Rowling?)
42. J. K. Rowling (Yes, yes, yes, I have read all seven.)
41. Isaiah Berlin (Haven’t touched him since I was an undergrad.)
40. A. J. P. Taylor (At 40? Am I the only one who used to read his books for the sheer pleasure of annoying my History A-Level teachers by quoting him? [Good God yes, you lunatic].)
39. George Mackay Brown (I’m sure I’ve read some of his poetry. Possibly.)
38. Iain Banks (Now, his SF is at least as twice as good as his ‘mainstream’ stuff, so if Iain Banks is here, Iain M. Banks ought to be rather further up. Have read and indeed own a great deal of Banks.)
37. Hanif Kureshi (Yes, tick, done some, good.)
36. Godfrey Hill (even Amazon hasn’t heard of him. Poor bastard.)
35. Ian McEwan (Yes, done, tick, was merely whelmed.)
34. A. S. Byatt (I know she’s not to everyone’s taste, but she’s in my top ten and has been for years, chiefly for Possession, which is wonderful)
33. Anita Brookner (I’ve read Hotel du Lac. I remember very little about it.)
32. Kazuo Ishiguro (Only 32? Yes, well, he’s uneven, but The Remains of the Day really is that good.)
31. Derek Walcott (On my list of People To Read. And. Err. Has been for years.)
30. John Fowles (The Magus, appalling. The French Lieutenant’s Woman, brilliant.)
29. Alasdair Gray (Ah. See Derek Walcott.)
28. Alan Garner (Nod, shrug, indeed, have read, did like.)
27. J. G. Ballard (Well. Too good to rubbish, to unlikeable to re-read.)
26. Beryl Bainbridge (Have only read An Awfully Big Adventure, awfully jolly good.)
25. Barbara Pym (Philip Larkin was a fan. That’s all I know. Very bad.)
24. Philippa Pearce (Have somehow avoided reading any. Very mysterious. There’s even a copy of Tom’s Midnight Garden on the shelf over there.)
23. Penelope Fitzgerald (Read The Blue Flower. Wept. Loved it. Haven’t read anything else, possibly in case it isn’t The Blue Flower.)
22. John le Carré (Yes, done; no, wait, saw on telly. That doesn’t count, does it?)
21. Alan Sillitoe (I haven’t read a single word.)
20. Anthony Powell (Now, I have tried to read Powell.)
19. Martin Amis (Pisses me off.)
18. Mervyn Peake (Duly Gormentghasted. Incidentally, have you seen his illustrations to the Ancient Mariner? Blood so thicked with cold it’d be footling to call them anything short of awe-inspiring. )
17. Anthony Burgess (On my list of ‘Things To Avoid Because People Keep Ordering Me To Read It (or be sneered at thereafter).)
16. Roald Dahl (I think I’ve read most of his children’s books. Very excellent good subversive fun. But why all the way up here?)
15. Jan Morris (On list of people to read properly, damn it, and preferably before the end of the century.)
14. Ian Fleming ([What the fuck?] Yes, have read, and therefore, even louder and more vehemently than the Editor, what the fuck? Who compiled this cockamamy list anyway?)
13. Salman Rushdie (Loved Midnight’s Children. Was mildly impressed, mildly diverted by, and eventually mildly bored by the redux rest. Haroun and the Sea of Stories, utterly fantastic and much adored. Also, is he, technically, British, or are The Times being patronising colonialist bastards?)
12. Iris Murdoch (Always manages to leave me feeling flustered and dissatisfied, and haunted by the characters for weeks afterwards.)
11. C. S. Lewis (While I’d put him very high on my own personal list, it wouldn’t necessarily be because I think he’s that good. He’s, well, that special, like a irascible, ranting uncle who is wonderful with children but who one wouldn’t want to let loose on the dinner guests.)
10. Angela Carter (Fantabulous.)
9. Kingsley Amis (Oh for… No. Look, sorry, jolly good fun and all that, and I’m sure made a deep impression on the sort of clever young man of the 50’s who Wasn’t Getting Any, but no.)
8. Muriel Spark (Have not read, can not say.)
7. V. S. Naipaul (Not my sort of thing. Possibly because everyone keeps telling me how bloody marvelous he is all the time.)
6. J. R. R. Tolkien (I cannot possibly talk about Tolkien, I lack the cool distance from which to judge clearly much in the same way a trout lacks the ability to spot hooks and fishing-lines.)
5. Doris Lessing (Have not read. Keep buying, in order to read. Agh. )
4. Ted Hughes (Ah, now, there’s a man who can write the most intense, living poetry, and also disappear up his own arse on the next page. Must eventually discuss this at more length [if not necessarily depth].)
3. William Golding (Lord of the Flies made me sick to the marrow, anxious, ashamed somehow of being so disturbed by a ‘mere book’, and then I had bad dreams. Somehow inextricably linked in my mind with The Island of Doctor Moreau. Who the hell was letting me read this stuff at the age of eleven? Sadistic bastard.)
2. George Orwell (Fair enough. Very fond of Orwell.)
1. Philip Larkin (What the? Really? Why? I mean, I personally like his poetry very much indeed, but it rather sours it if so does everyone else. I preferred feeling slightly perverse.)
And now I am completely exhausted, and I have to get up at six tomorrow if I want a shower before I set off to work (and yes, I do want a shower, I’m very civilized that way), as I am working, or, rather, hanging about in everyone’s way, ‘on placement’, as they say, and the Placement Place likes to have everyone in, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, a good hour before they open to the panting hordes that thirst at the door for the fountain of knowledge. Me, I always was a devout adherent of Nothing Good Comes of Early Rising.
