Selfishness

In October 2010, when Gabriel García Márquez, by then suffering from dementia, was told that his former friend and rival had won the Nobel Prize for Literature, he enquired: ‘Who is Mario Vargas Llosa?’ This tottering, always compulsive biography of the writer who died last year and which has taken 15 years to write (‘I completely miscalculated its complications’) is Gerald Martin’s valiant answer. ‘Is there a life quite like this one anywhere in the western world in the second half of the 20th century?’ In Martin’s breathless judgment ‘this literary adventurer, politician, diplomat and warrior all rolled into one’ was a single-minded workhorse whose sheer intensity, quality and variety of life was ‘almost literally incredible’.

Richard Ellmann’s acclaimed life of James Joyce was published in 1959, with a revised and expanded edition appearing in 1982. The first edition, the work of an ambitious young American academic, received what Ellmann’s editor at Oxford University Press described as ‘the most ecstatic reaction I have seen to any book I have known anything about’. Ellmann’s work would ‘fix Joyce’s image for a generation’ wrote Frank Kermode in The Spectator, a prediction described by Zachary Leader as ‘if anything, too cautious’. By the time of the second edition, Ellmann had become a lionised Oxford don and the image of Joyce he had fixed was starting to chafe.