A week ago, the death was announced of Christopher Priest, who I’ve mentioned several times over the years here. I think I have more books by him than any other writer excepting only Patrick O’Brian. I’ve been meaning to write something about him here all week but haven’t come up with anything adequate yet, although I shall.

I did put a couple of things on social media, though, as follows:

There are writers whom one reads with awe, constantly wondering how they did it, hoping that in reading them one might absorb just a little bit of their talent by osmosis or sympathetic magic. Christopher Priest was one of them.

 

The first of his novels that came my way when I was a teenager was Fugue For a Darkening Island. When it came out, it was criticised for being too left wing; these days it tends to be criticised for being too right wing: that says more about the shifting currents of opinion than it does about the book. That was an early work: his mature work is staggering. I particularly enjoyed The Adjacent, which is sustained weirdness hiding a love story, and many of you might have seen Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige which was an adaptation of Priest’s novel of the same name.

 

Reading through obituaries and reminiscences of Chris Priest, I’m struck that formal reaction from outside the UK, particularly from France, is more widespread than at home, as if there’s greater recognition of his talent and importance outside the UK literary establishment. Quelle surprise.

I still intend to write something more substantial, but in the meantime, John Klute’s fine obituary in the Guardian is worth a read.