The Pedestal Magazine has a poem of mine in this issue:
For the first time in ages, I’m up at an ungodly hour staring at the walls. I just finished The Last Samurai (the DeWitt book, not the foul film) and it makes me wish I was not so utterly bored with The Seven Samurai. Like sushi, it is something I wish I could say I liked, but I can’t. The book itself was a big slice of buttercream cake for a classicist, but I’m not sure what to make of the end, or of the total abdication of any attempt to tell the mother’s story halfway through the book. Must the son always eclipse, outweigh, outshine, outstrip the mother? I don’t know.
The book was all about this daisy chain of geniuses, prodigies, who were reaching out for something and couldn’t find it, not anywhere, not at Oxford, not in Africa, not in a piano. They were all so close, but couldn’t reach it. It slipped away at the last minute, and they fell into obsession with one thing or another to try to forget how close they were. They couldn’t even say what it was, and there is this awful, sneaking implication that suicide is maybe the best thing for them.
It made me want to have a baby, though. What a thought for 4 am. Ludovic is such a beautiful name.