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Aug. 3rd, 2011
The ending of an age
Aug. 3rd, 2011 10:17 pmMy dad called to say one of his friends had died. Stan Barstow passed away on the first of August. He'd been one of my dad's close friends since some time in the 1950s, had been an infrequent presence in my life as I grew up, but he was a constant: kind, genial, wise, intelligent, gracious, good-humoured; a man who always had time for myself and my siblings.
He was one of the great British writers of our time; of course he was. But he was also the man who told my twin and I that he'd had a dream of beautiful women in long dresses flitting across his lawn at dusk, one summer party, making it clear that we were the embodiment of his dream. Exactly what shy fifteen-year-olds need to hear, putting us at ease among his distinguished guests.
Stan wrote A Kind of Loving, a novel that helped changed the face of English literature, following it up with other novels that cemented his justly-deserved reputation as a great writer.
He's not the only figure from my childhood to pass away; Glyn Hughes, novelist and poet, passed away at the end of May. Another of our unsung literary giants, Glyn encouraged me to write, going as far as to take my adolescent stories and offer me valuable feedback.
These men helped shape my childhood, helped shape my awareness of my heritage, of the bleak-hilled industrial background I lived among. They encouraged my literary pretensions and above all they were kind to a shy and awkward girl who fit in best among the pages of books.
RIP Glyn Hughes and Stan Barstow. Great writers both; I'll miss you.
He was one of the great British writers of our time; of course he was. But he was also the man who told my twin and I that he'd had a dream of beautiful women in long dresses flitting across his lawn at dusk, one summer party, making it clear that we were the embodiment of his dream. Exactly what shy fifteen-year-olds need to hear, putting us at ease among his distinguished guests.
Stan wrote A Kind of Loving, a novel that helped changed the face of English literature, following it up with other novels that cemented his justly-deserved reputation as a great writer.
He's not the only figure from my childhood to pass away; Glyn Hughes, novelist and poet, passed away at the end of May. Another of our unsung literary giants, Glyn encouraged me to write, going as far as to take my adolescent stories and offer me valuable feedback.
These men helped shape my childhood, helped shape my awareness of my heritage, of the bleak-hilled industrial background I lived among. They encouraged my literary pretensions and above all they were kind to a shy and awkward girl who fit in best among the pages of books.
RIP Glyn Hughes and Stan Barstow. Great writers both; I'll miss you.
