To realise that
Malcolm Bradbury, who died yesterday, was 68 years old, is strangely to be
reminded how vividly his name is associated with youth. Although his most
recently published novel, To the Hermitage, has (ominously, it now seems) an
elegiac feel about its concern for reputation and achievement, much of his
previous writing is pre-occupied with people at the start of their lives. The
main characters of The History Man (1975) may have been adults, but their
audience - and in a sense, their stimuli - were their charges: the undergraduates
and postgraduates who would be the building blocks of post-war Britain.
Malcolm
had a kind of genius for seeing things in such terms. In the same way that his
fiction is engrossed by the evidence of evolution, his critical writing is
brilliantly alive to ideas of progress and change. And it was written in a
sympathetic, complementary style: where the fiction fizzes with comic
possibilities, the critical prose is measured, highly organised and - though
never dull - always methodical. The two together give the impression of a man
whose gifts were in perfect balance.
And,
of course, there was another gift: the gift of teaching. His arrival at the
University of East Anglia, where he was appointed professor of American
literature in 1970, marked the beginning of something exceptional. In those
days, creative writing courses were generally sneered at by the general public
(and by many academics, too), who preferred to think that good writing, if it
happened at all, was likely to be produced by lonely individuals starving in
attics. The MA course that Malcolm set up with Angus Wilson did more to
challenge such prejudices than anything else - and now might be said to have
destroyed them altogether.
When
I took over the running of the course from Malcolm on his retirement five years
ago, I was in no doubt that it was - and should, in a sense, remain -
"his". It was his foundation, and although I was bound to adapt it in
certain ways, the core values that he had shaped were unquestionably good and
true. He had delighted in the success of former students such as Ian McEwan
(the first person to sign up) and Kazuo Ishiguro, and had appreciated that the
reputation of the course depended on such conspicuous figures.
But
he had also encouraged the idea that the course could be evaluated by other
means - by helping people to discover themselves in ways which might not take
them on to a world of bright lights, but would make them better at whatever
else they did. Better readers, better teachers, better at being decent people.
Why?
Because he himself was a person of unusually broad humanity: compassionate in
his politics, generous with his time and attention, courteous in his habits, by
turns amusing and grave in his talk, and expansive in his interests. Although
he is associated with a particular place, his work and his sympathies depended
greatly on his experience of travel.
His
legacy is highly significant and substantial. At a time when the study of
literature within universities was undergoing a huge rethink (the expansion of
the institutions themselves, the challenge to "new criticism", the arrival of critical theory), he positioned himself at
the heart of all the important debates. As a novelist he was at once satirical
and engaged; as a critic he was adept at fielding new ideas and expert in
elucidating them; and as a teacher, he was a pioneer.
When
Malcolm left UEA he behaved impeccably, stepping back from the course and
keeping a fatherly watch from afar. He never interfered, never offered unwanted
advice, and was always encouraging. I felt, in our conversations about
"how things were going" - as I suppose his students must have done -
at once defended and set free.
Like
others, I had hoped that his retirement would be a great deal longer, and allow
a great deal more time for the books, TV adaptations and lectures that a
full-time job had kept him from writing. Yesterday's news is utterly dismal. He
had already given so much, yet had so much more in him to give.
'There was a liberating feeling'
Kazuo Ishiguro
Malcolm
Bradbury was a gentle, respectful teacher of creative writing. These qualities
showed not just in his manner when discussing the work of students, but in the
way his course was structured. No prescribed work, no exercises, no set lines,
acres of time. He believed in the seminar format. Perhaps this was because, as
a shy man, he wasn't comfortable with one-to-one sessions; more likely, he felt
the seminar would prevent unbalanced responses to a person's work.
He
always discouraged dogmatic stances; the emphasis was always the diversity of
what constituted good writing. There was a liberating feeling that you could
turn up with almost any kind of writing - an intense Joycean
monologue, a gritty slice of northern realism, a piece of soft porn - and he
would insist the group look at it with seriousness and evaluate it on its own
terms.
Two
things he used to say in those groups have remained with me over the years.
"Never assume that English is the only language," he muttered one
afternoon, lighting his pipe. And perhaps, most important of all, his gently
asserted refrain, that a person could only become a "real" writer by
"discovering his or her own voice".
He
never took the easy way out by falsely flattering writers. But he was generous
as a tutor, and, unsurprisingly, generous in the wider world as a critic.
Perhaps he did do hatchet jobs, but in the 20 years since I ceased to be his
student, I never came across any.
Published
by The Guardian,
Tuesday
November 28 2000
guardian.co.uk
© Guardian News and Media Limited 2008
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2000/nov/28/highereducation.education
Other
interesting articles about his death: [Next] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]
Página creada y actualizada por grupo "mmm".
Para cualquier cambio, sugerencia,etc. contactar con: bargasca@uv.es
© a.r.e.a./Dr.Vicente Forés López
© Bárbara Gasquet Carrera
Universitat de Valčncia Press
Creada: 06/110/2008
Última Actualización: 06/11/2008