The day I flew in to LAX from Nashville was memorable for two reasons. The first reason was […]
Journalism
I sat with Harry Carter on his front verandah, both of us watching the bushes, and the birds […]
The cuttings of Scruff’s extraordinary life are stuffed into a fat, brown leather wallet, along with his personal […]
In February, 2013 I had the best day of my journalistic career. I travelled with my publishing and […]
It’s too easy for me to forget that love is a force and not so much a feeling; […]
There's an entire journalistic enterprise these days trying to tell people who don't sit in trailers all day watching reality television whilst shoveling down corn syrup-and-soy-based salty-sweet Walmart-brand bacon-cheese snax into their maws about how the Other America is the Only Real America. —Rick Wilson, Everything Trump Touches Dies
To this day I am fearful of cliffs and rugged west coast beaches because of what happened at […]
All the time I feel the tension between composing poetry and writing incidental prose, but I feel it as a creative interchange, not as a conflict. When I took care to describe, in my Wimbledon reports, how Jimmy Connors deployed his Early Grunt along with a two-handed line drive and Bjorn Borg returned it along with a grunt in Swedish, I was being as poetically concentrated as I could ever get. The secret of writing that kind of journalism was to give it everything. The River in the Sky is full of momentary scenes that I might have written as journalism, but the opportunity never arose. Now they have. And only just this morning I saw, out there in the garden, a butterfly getting into a flower. He would have been in the poem if he’d arrived earlier.
— Clive James, New Statesman, August ’18
