DECONSTRUCTING DAHL

Having failed to enjoy a run of tormented, gloomy, deeply-meaningful novels - many of them by people barely out of the cradle - I started making a list of the books I've most enjoyed that are by, and about, older people.

It starts with one of my all-time favourites - Penelope Lively's Moon Tiger. Claudia, sometime war correspondent and popular historian - a law unto herself even while dying in a hospital bed in Cairo - is reviewing her turbulent life and times. Funnily enough, Penelope Lively's name, and this particular novel, came up in a Slightly Foxed literary group discussion the other day. The group, like Moon Tiger's heroine (and Slightly Foxed itself) are curious, independent-minded, and thoroughly engaging. And Lively is a wonderful writer who richly deserves to be revisited. 

Next is Embers, by Sándor Márai. This is the story of a single night in a castle at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains, where, from dusk to dawn, an ageing aristocrat and the friend he hasn't seen for over forty years 'fight a duel of words, of stories, of accusations and evasions' as they rehash their own past. An extraordinary book.

My third, thought by many to be Jane Gardam's masterpiece, is Old Filth. 'Filth' - which stands for Failed In London, Try Hong Kong - is an international lawyer whose story covers the period from the days of Empire, through World War 11, to the present. The first in a trilogy; beguiling, moving - and very funny.

There are so many others, from that Gentleman in Moscow to Patrick Leigh Fermor's two-volume account of his epic walk from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople/Istanbul, recalled some forty and fifty years later...but at this point I got sidetracked by the latest literary kerfuffle: Puffin's sanitising of Roald Dahl. 

Perhaps I should say how deeply remorseful I myself feel for using terms like fat, or bald as an egg, in my own writing, now that I understand how hurtful this must be for enormous human beings who suffer from hair loss? (Enormous? Really? Yes, really. Apparently enormous is better than fat.) But actually, the whole thing is such arrant nonsense that I can't be bothered. I am sorry, though, for younger writers who find themselves having to negotiate today's obstacle course of sensitivity-readers, lived experience, own voices, etc. It's no wonder so many new books are tormented. 

I have a large library of original children's books to read to my grandchildren, some of which would undoubtedly fall foul of today's sensitivity censors, but I very much doubt that reading any one of my books would harm a child a fraction as much as the violence that they are permitted to see on screen any day of the week, or the vicious intolerance of so many adults towards those with whose views they disagree. How sad that civilised discussion, and agreeing to disagree, seems so difficult these days. For my money, there are worse things than hurt feelings to worry about in this world - the dire state of the planet, poverty, war - so maybe what we should be teaching our children is to think less of their own feelings and more about others, and to learn from the past, rather than waste time trying to erase it. 

I see that Puffin has now promised to re-release the unexpurgated works of Dahl, so obviously I'm not alone in thinking they're idiots. And yes, I know Dahl had some deeply offensive views, but a great many unpleasant people have produced extraordinary art, and I've always thought this cult of the personality rather than the work was a mistake. In fact, the less we know about the writer, the better. The thing about Dahl is that his writing has introduced the joy of reading to countless children, and given pleasure to millions.

Children aren't interested in our adult obsessions - or ordinary, boring adults for that matter. They prefer wizards, witches and nasty, incompetent criminals they can easily outwit. And I make no apology for posting, once again, this picture of one of my own favourite older characters in children's literature (and my personal role model) - Quentin Blake's glorious illustration of 'a wicked old woman' propped up in bed and laughing, with a bottle of champagne beside her. John Masefield's Miss Piney Trigger of Trigger Hall. I don't think she'd have been too worried about hurting your feelings. She'd have told you to get a grip and then booted you down the stairs.