Laugh out loud

There are very few authors who can make you do that – so cherish the ones who do succeed

Sitting at my table for one as I waited for my lunch to be served, I slipped in my earphones and resumed listening to Meryl Streep reading that Nora Ephron classic, Heartburn. (Yes, I am happy to report that I have finally got the hang of audio books – but that’s a story for another day.) Before I knew it, my surroundings had slipped away and I was in Nora-world where her husband had fallen in love with an impossibly-tall person while she (Nora, not the girlfriend) was seven months pregnant. But while this may sound like tragedy to most of us (and it most assuredly was) Ephron managed to spin comedy gold out of the disaster that was the collapse of her marriage.

Which is how I found myself laughing out aloud at one of the (many) funny bits. And such was my absorption in the tale being told into my ears that it took me a while to realize that the people in the restaurant were looking at me funny as well. What on earth was a grown woman doing laughing uproariously into her Malaysian prawn curry? Aware that I probably looked certifiable I tried to compose myself. It lasted for about a couple of minutes. And then Meryl hissed into my ear about how her husband would even have sex with a Venetian blind, and I was in giggles yet again.

Finally I decided to just give in to the comic bits that would set me off regularly and laugh along with the narrative. After all, the other people in the restaurant had already written me off as a mad old bat, so what did I have to lose?

Besides how often do you get the privilege of reading (or listening to) a book that is genuinely laugh-out-loud funny? Not very often at all, I am afraid. So, when you finally hit upon one – or in my case, re-read it in a different format – then it makes sense to clamber on for a fun-filled ride, punctuated with giggles and chuckles, never mind if you are in public as you chortle away. You folks can keep your judgement. I am happy in my enjoyment.

As I drove back home, I began thinking of the other authors who have the knack of making us laugh out loud like Nora Ephron had managed to do with me that afternoon. The first name that popped into my head was that old childhood favourite, P.G. Wodehouse. My mind flashed back to all the many summer holidays spent devouring the entire Castle of Blandings oeuvre, giggling over the antics of the Earl of Emsworth and his prize-winning pig called, appropriately enough, the Empress of Blandings, and the ever-efficient Baxter, his private secretary, and the whole host of supporting characters who populate his whimsical plots. Once I had swallowed this whole series whole, I had moved on to the Jeeves and Wooster omnibus, which kept me whooping with laughter yet again as I navigated the world of the doltish Bertie Wooster and his ever-resourceful and masterful manservant Jeeves.

My teenage years were also when I discovered another of my favourite comic writers. I know that most people think of Georgette Heyer as a romantic novelist because she is best known for her ‘Regency Romances’. But what most people who haven’t read her don’t realize is that she is also a dab hand at comedy. Her convoluted plots provide enough space to slot in comic bits and Heyer does a great job at working them in seamlessly. If you want to see Heyer at her comic best, read The Grand Sophy, The Talisman Ring, Cotillion. Or actually, read any of her ‘romances’. Laughing out loud comes with the territory.

Gerald Durrell was another author who kept me in whoops in my growing-up years. There was a time in my life when I used to re-read My Family And Other Animals once every year just so that I could laugh at the antics of the Durrell household as they navigated life on the island of Corfu. Last year, I went back and revisited the Durrells, wondering if they would amuse the adult me just as much. And the short answer is: yes, they could – and they did. 

More recently, it is the books of some female comics which have got me cackling loudly as I read them. Mindy Kaling’s self-deprecatory humour in Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me had me chuckling along half in recognition and half in appreciation. Tina Fey’s Bossypants did the same trick as did Miranda Hart’s Is It Just Me? And Caitlin Moran’s How To Be A Woman should come with a warning that you might embarrass yourself reading it in public – as I did. (Yes, yes, I know, there are plenty of male comics out there who are just as funny. But what can I tell you? The funny bone wants what it wants. And in my case, it wants the female voice.)

I am sure that there are plenty of other hilariously-funny authors out there that I am missing out on. If there are any that make you embarrass yourself in public as you laugh out loud while reading, please share their names with me. And I promise, in short order, to share your embarrassment.

Face off

Why the unmasking of Elena Ferrante makes us all so uncomfortable

It was in the February of this year that I last wrote about Elena Ferrante. The English translations of her books were being launched in India, and it seemed as good an opportunity as any to write about one of my favourite authors.

The central theme of that column was how it helped that we didn’t know who Elena Ferrante actually was when we got lost in her fictional world. And how the author’s decision to hide behind pseudonymous anonymity was not just a writer’s caprice or a brilliant publicity stunt set up by her publishing house. Ferrante’s anonymity had a purpose: it allowed her the freedom to write about stuff that we struggle to acknowledge to ourselves, let alone say aloud to the world. And it was this liberty that allowed her voice to soar as high as it did; and to speak to the rest of us.

Well, today it is my unhappy duty to inform you that the veil of anonymity that Ferrante wrote behind has been rudely ripped apart by an ‘investigative journalist’ called Claudio Gatti, who discovered her true identity or, more accurately, invaded her fiercely-guarded privacy by rummaging through her financial and property records. And that he ‘outed’ the author in no less authoritative a journal than the New York Review of Books.

Well, be that as it may, I am not going to play Gatti’s game. I am not going to refer to the author of the Neopolitan Quartet of novels as anything other than her chosen nom de plume, Elena Ferrante. That is how she wishes to be known to the world. And it is not for us to decide otherwise.

Nor is it necessary to know the ‘real’ woman to appreciate what an enormously talented writer she is. That kind of autobiographical detail actually detracts rather than adds to an author’s mystique. The relationship between a writer and a reader is essentially one of imagination and a ‘willing suspension of disbelief’. Sordid reality plays no part in this social contract. If anything, it takes away from the reading experience rather than add to it.

So I, for one, am not going to enquire too closely into who Elena Ferrante ‘really’ is. I don’t want to know where she grew up. I don’t care about her romantic life. I am not interested in whether she is married, divorced or single. It doesn’t bother me if she identifies as straight, gay or bisexual. And I certainly don’t need to know whether her political beliefs verge to the hard right, the liberal centre, or the extreme left.

This is not a decision I make lightly. No, it is a decision born of bitter experience. Over the years, I have lost count of the number of authors whose books stopped speaking to me when I found out too much about their personal lives or even political beliefs.

It all began when I made the decision to study English literature in college. Once I had signed up, it was not enough to just read texts – poetry, prose or drama – and appreciate them for what they were. No, we also had to learn about the author’s, their lives, their beliefs, and all that had influenced them in the course of their literary careers.

Well, given that I was the bookish, nerdish type, I entered into the enterprise with all the enthusiasm at my command. I had no idea how badly this would go.

It began with T.S. Eliot, a poet I had always admired, some of whose passages constantly played in my mind like the lines of a much-loved song (“I grow old… I grow old… I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”). So you can imagine my despair when my research into the person led me, somewhat inevitably, to the discovery that he had been something of an anti-Semite.

I thought I would be okay with Philip Larkin, the writer of such immortal lines as “Sexual intercourse began in Nineteen Sixty-Three (which was rather late for me). Between the end of the “Chatterly” ban And the Beatles’ first LP”. And yes, it all seemed to be going rather well until the 1992 publication of The Selected Letters of Philip Larkin.

That’s when the essential banality of Larkin’s existence was laid bare, with its judicious mix of racism, classism, sexism and misogyny. Sample quote: “The lower-class bastards can no more stop going on strike now than a laboratory rat with an electrode in its brain can stop jumping on a switch to give itself an orgasm.” Ah, quite.

Since then, I have steered clear of getting too up close and personal with writers I admire. But I thought I was on safe ground when I picked up a biography of one of my girlhood favourites, Georgette Heyer. This was a woman who had made her reputation with Regency Romances that I had read so often that I knew the punchlines and plotlines of each by heart. And what do you know? She turned out to be a fan of Enoch Powell (yes, he of the “rivers of blood” fame)!

So, thanks very much, but I am not taking any chances with Elena Ferrante. All I need to know about Ferrante, the author, lies within the covers of the many books she has written. Everything else belongs to the private person behind that name; and that person is entitled to her privacy, keeping it safe from the rapaciously prying eyes of the world.