Ernesto Sábato obituary
Novelist who headed Argentinian human rights commission
Ernesto Sábato, who has died aged 99, was the last of a generation of Argentinian writers whose moral rectitude in the midst of political chaos gave them an importance far beyond whatever audience their fictional books attracted. His first novel, El Túnel (The Tunnel, 1947), won him a respectful following, but it was his two later novels, Sobre Héroes y Tumbas (On Heroes and Tombs, 1961) and Abaddón el Exterminador (The Angel of Darkness), that earned him his reputation. In these books, Sábato explored the themes of isolation and the lack of communication between individuals who are caught up in a succession of events they can do nothing to control, and are hard put to understand. He likened all of us to blind people stumbling in the darkness.
Sábato was born into a well-to-do family in Rojas, Buenos Aires province. As a youth, he became involved in the effervescent intellectual atmosphere of the Argentinian capital as it grew vertiginously and entered the modern world. Among the new ideas the thousands of European immigrants brought to Argentina was an enthusiasm for the communist revolution in Russia. Sábato first came into contact with this radicalism when he began to study science at the university town of La Plata, near the capital.
La Plata was also a centre for the meat-exporting industry, and Sábato's desire for social change was fuelled by the workers' conditions: "These were the largest meat-packing plants in Argentina, where all kinds of immigrants were mercilessly exploited. They lived in tin shacks, surrounded by huge puddles of stinking water."
The first of many military interventions in 20th-century Argentina took place in 1930. Sábato's response, in 1933, was to become the secretary of the Communist Youth Federation in Argentina. However, Sábato said he was soon troubled by the news of persecution coming from Russia. When he was chosen to go to Moscow to receive more indoctrination, he escaped during a stopover in Brussels, and went to live in Paris, where he stayed for several months for fear of reprisals from his former comrades.
By 1935 he was back in Argentina, and completing his studies in physics and mathematics. Such was his ability in these fields that he was offered a grant to return to Europe, to undertake research at the Curie Institute, in Paris. By now he had married his childhood sweetheart, Matilde Kusminsky-Richter.
In Paris, he had a spiritual and vocational crisis. He decided he could no longer devote himself to science, and what he really had to do was write. When he returned to Argentina, he dismayed his scientific colleagues by abandoning his research.
There followed several extremely hard years, as Sábato struggled to make his way in his new profession. El Túnel was not only a great success in Argentina, but was also spotted in France by none other than Albert Camus. The book was immediately hailed as an expression of South American existentialism.
In Argentina, Sábato became part of the intellectual elite around Victoria Ocampo and her literary magazine Sur. He met and became close friends with Jorge Luis Borges, with whom he shared doubts about ideas of progress and scientific certainties. However, the two men fell out after the 1955 revolution that overthrew President Juan Perón: Borges was fiercely anti-Peronist, whereas Sábato typically went on the radio to defend Peronist intellectuals who were attacked by the new rightwing regime. It was only many years later that the two writers were reconciled, and renewed a fruitful dialogue.
Sábato expressed his moral pre-occupations in books of essays such as Uno y el Universo (One and the Universe, 1945) and Hombres y Engranajes (Men and Gears, 1951). Internationally, he did not achieve the reputation enjoyed in the 1970s by Borges or younger writers such as Gabriel García Márquez, as his fiction was so plainly not of the exotic magical-realist school.
It was in the 1980s that Sábato was called upon to play his most important public role. After the collapse of the military regimes and the return of democratic civilian rule, President Raúl Alfonsín set up a commission to investigate the allegations that thousand of Argentinians had been forcibly "disappeared" and killed during military rule from 1976 to 1983.
Although in other countries the selection of Sábato to preside over the commission might have seemed ludicrous, there was no doubt that a writer of fiction represented the best hope Argentina had of finding an impartial figure who could be trusted to weigh the evidence and not adopt a political position. Sábato's preface to the ghastly testimonies, included in what was called Nunca Más (Never Again, 1984), was a model of outraged sobriety and a clear statement that respect for individual human rights must be the cornerstone of any decent society. The commission concluded that at least 9,000 people had been unlawfully killed by the Argentinian state, and its findings formed the basis for the unprecedented trial of the junta leaders in 1986.
Perhaps because of these experiences, Sábato's later essays showed an increasing pessimism about the future of humanity. For him, the technological progress of the 20th century had not been matched by any spiritual advance, leaving people increasingly bereft and with an enormous sensation of inadequacy and loneliness. This sense of loneliness was brought home to him in his personal life by the deaths of his first son, Jorge, who was killed in a car accident in 1995, and of his wife, who died in 1998.
Sábato, who was also a painter, was awarded the Cervantes literary prize in Spain in 1984. One of his last books, Antes del Fin (Before the End, 1998), was both an autobiographical sketch and a spiritual testament, in which he concluded: "Only those capable of envisaging utopia will be fit for the decisive battle, that of recovering all the humanity we have lost."
He is survived by his son Mario.
• Ernesto Sábato, writer, born 24 June 1911; died 30 April 2011
ArgentinaHuman rightsFictionguardian.co.ukCheltenham jazz festival
Various venues, Cheltenham
An American saxophone legend wearing the mantle of John Coltrane, a virtuosic British duo working the cracks between jazz and modern chamber-music, and a star jazz eccentric were among Saturday's confirmations of the Cheltenham jazz festival's enduring instinct for quality.
The chamber-duo was the intimately congenial partnership of saxophonist Julian Arguelles and pianist John Taylor, which delivered its intricate time-jugglings and melodic switches in the afternoon. Taylor's ambiguous harmonies and Arguelles's penchant for long-lined melodies can leave the music without explicit anchor-points at times, but the pair's gospelly account of In the Bleak Midwinter provided plenty.
The 70-year-old Arkansas tenor saxist Pharoah Sanders, Coltrane's firebreathing tenor partner in his final 60s bands, left much of the work to his inspired local rhythm section in the evening, but they ran with it so dynamically as to resoundingly wake the legend up. A poignant account of the ballad Naima, a honking, bass-walking blues workout and a yearning My Favourite Things all showed that Sanders charisma is still intact.
Later on, Django Bates delivered a new Radio 3 commission of typically spiky and affably eccentric swing – inspiring his band (augmenting the Kit Downes electric trio Troyka with horns) to play raucously bumpy riffs over low electronic churnings, mind-boggling polyrhythms, or cheery circus-band struts bursting out of free-improv squeals. It's yet another sound-palette for an already prolific composer currently on perhaps the biggest roll of
Linda Chase obituary
My friend Linda Chase, the American poet, who has died of cancer aged 69, lived in Britain for 40 years, but never lost her US accent, either literally or metaphorically. If ever it softened, she told me, she made it shape up. The American grain ran deep and true in every aspect of her work and life.
Linda grew up in Long Island, New York, and studied English and creative writing before moving to San Francisco. There, in "the ecstatic, blurry 1960s", she set literature to one side and worked as a theatre costume designer. She met the British academic Paul Broda and, after insisting on seeing the Grand Canyon first, married him and left for the UK. They soon had two children, Cleo and Andrew, and although the marriage eventually failed, they remained good friends.
Linda's interests included the women's movement, fundraising and t'ai chi. At her home in south Manchester she created a garden and "village hall", an outbuilding that she made available to many groups close to her spiritual and artistic interests.
She returned to poetry in the late 1990s. Her sources were back in America: William Carlos Williams, Frank O'Hara and the Beats. Deceptively informal, her verse is colloquial and uninhibited, both in subject and form. She found material everywhere: in a new lover or in new curtains, or perhaps in a piece of spinach lodged in a tooth. She wrote with a disarming straightforwardness, candour and charm, and swiftly published two collections, The Wedding Spy (2001) and Extended Family (2006). A third, Not Many Love Poems, will be published by Carcanet Press later this year.
Given her social gift, she was bound to contribute to poetry's wider life. Founded with the musician Chris Davies, the Poets and Players series of readings was soon attracting 120 people to the Whitworth art gallery in Manchester. Seizing quickly on social networking, she publicised these readings, and eventually every other poetry event in the region.
Liberality of hand and spirit was Linda's hallmark. Besides her own writing, she gave unforbidding counsel in countless workshops to beginners of every age and experience. This generosity was beautifully expressed in her poem What to Do With Sorrow: "I could take your sorrow out somewhere … / I don't think we will be back early. / Go ahead and eat without us."
Her children, and four grandchildren, survive her.
Poetryguardian.co.ukLetter: Ishbel MacAskill obituary
Veronica Gordon Smith writes: Ishbel MacAskill (obituary, 15 April) sang at the funeral of John Smith, the former leader of the Labour party, in Edinburgh in 1994. The service was relayed by loudspeaker to hundreds of mourners in the streets outside. The crowd's silence deepened when Ishbel began singing Psalm 23 in Gaelic. Her rich voice swept over them, almost keening. There weren't many dry eyes that morning.
Folk musicguardian.co.ukNocturne: A Journey in Search of Moonlight by James Attlee – review
A rationalist tries to pin down the moon's lure but finds himself succumbing to its mysterious charm
When the astronaut Neil Armstrong first walked on the moon, he realised that if he raised his hand to within a few inches of his face and looked out into the velvet depths, he could blot out the Earth with his thumb. "Did that make you feel big?" asked an interviewer afterwards. "No," Armstrong replied, "it made me feel really, really small."
All the men who made the journey from Earth to moon came back altered. Some went mad, some vanished, some got God, some got art, most got divorced and some simply accepted that everything in their lives from then on would be a pale shade of that incandescent experience. It was not life on Earth which shone for them any
The Forgotten Waltz by Anne Enright – review
Anne Enright's novel of love and betrayal is set in Ireland's boom years
"I just can't believe it. That all you have to do is sleep with somebody and get caught and you never have to see your in-laws again. Ever. Pfffft! Gone. It's the nearest thing to magic I have yet found." That's the Anne Enright voice all right – wry, disabused, reckless, candid, funny. The hardened, suffering speakers in her recent fine story collection, Taking Pictures, use this tone; the grim damage of her Booker-winning The Gathering is energised by all that darkly comic unflinchingness.
The Forgotten Waltz, as its romantic title suggests, has more of a soft centre than she usually allows herself. Each chapter is headed by the title of a tear-jerking pop song ("Will You Love Me Tomorrow"; "Stop! In the Name of Love"; "Save the Last Dance For Me"), and the woman who tells the story has to keep telling us how deeply in love she is: "This is what puts me beyond regret – the sweetness of my want for him, the sense of something unutterable at the heart of it." "By Mullingar I thought, if I did not see him soon again, that I would surely die." "We want to hold on to the knowledge that comes when we look into each other's eyes." "I love him. And that is as much as any of us can know."
However, the context, and the object, of this sentimental intensity, is as unromantic as you can imagine. We're worlds and generations away from the risky, convention-defying sexual adventures of Edna O'Brien's isolated girls, the violent repressions of country people in a McGahern story, or the quiet, hopeless longing of William Trevor's small-town lovers. This is Ireland in the late 2000s, and Enright's people in this novel are consumers and communicators, businesswomen, property owners, Dublin suburbanites. They work in IT and consultancy and have beach houses and barbecues, they go wind-surfing and hold parties for "a guy who was taking a year out to be with his yacht". They host New Year's Day brunches in Issey Miyake pleats, their solicitors wear Alexander McQueen shoes, their love-affairs are kept going through texts and meetings in airport hotels and presents of Hermès scarves. They measure out their lives in large glasses of imported wine: there's the phase of being "mad into chardonnay", the "sauvignon blanc" years of happy marriage, alsace riesling as a spur to adultery, cracking open a "Loire white" as a reaction to bereavement.
Even the narrator, Gina Moynihan, who stands edge-on to this world, and derides her status-conscious sister for minding that the woman three doors down at Brittas Bay has wooden blinds on her mobile-home windows, nourishes her own "Sunday-supplement dreams". She belongs to a boom-town that defines itself in terms of property, "when if you wanted your kitchen tiled (and we wanted little else), you had to fly the workman in from England, and put him up in a hotel". The cost of adultery is not in shame or guilt, as it might once have been in Ireland, but in house-sales. "Who would have thought love could be so expensive? . . . The price of this house plus the price of that house, divided by two . . . Thousands. Every time I touch him."
The story is, almost, an ordinary one. A 34-year-old married woman – sexy, energetic and independent-minded – falls in love with an attractive married man she meets at her sister's house. He has a daughter, who seems a bit odd. The affair goes through all the predictable stages: a drunken one-night seduction in a foreign hotel, a clandestine office romance, discovery and family recriminations, the romantic affair turning into a bickering second marriage, the ultimate loneliness of the woman. As always, Enright is good at that, as she is at sexual desire, the "copulatory crackle in the air" between the two lovers. And she turns a sharp eye, and ear, on the cliches of illicit love ("We don't really know each other") and of marital accusations: "You never. I always. The thing about you is." The lover turns out to be a serial adulterer and not much of a person, after all, and that blank at the centre makes this a thinner book than The Pleasure of Eliza Lynch or The
Scenes from an Impending Marriage by Adrian Tomine – review
Cartoonist Adrian Tomine's 'prenuptial memoir' lays bare the fiasco of the modern wedding with acid wit
Do you have a friend who is in the process of turning into Bridezilla (or even Groomzilla, since women certainly don't have a monopoly on wedding madness)? Then I have the perfect gift for her – though on second thoughts, perhaps this is a treat best left until after her nuptials when, one hopes, your friend will miraculously recover her mislaid sense of humour. Adrian Tomine, author of the brilliant Shortcomings and a cartoonist at the New Yorker, has written a "prenuptial memoir" called Scenes from an Impending Marriage in which he lays bare, with ruthless efficiency, the bizarre effect that organising a wedding can have on even the sane and the cynical (and Tomine, as fans will know, is nothing if not cynical). Is it accurate? Yes, as a laser. Is it hilarious? All I can say is that it will make you – if not your good pal Bridezilla – snort like a dragon. Don't, on any account, combine reading it with lunch.
Tomine's specialist subject is angst and alienation among young bohemians; his characters wear heavy spectacles and cool sneakers, they eat a lot of takeout, and they worry excessively about fitting in. It's a world he knows well: Tomine has never flinched from the idea that much of what he writes and draws is thinly disguised autobiography. But because he's so devastatingly observant, he cannot be anything other than hardest on himself. Scenes from an Impending Marriage is more of the same, really, only this time it's explicit: the book began its life when his fiancee, Sarah, begged him to draw a miniature comic book for their guests as a wedding "favour". I wonder what those guests think now. One of the book's funniest sections is about who one invites to a wedding, and why. His list, compared with hers, is tiny. "Come on!" he yells, in a funk before they've even begun. "We've gotta break this endless cycle of obligation and reciprocity!"
It's all here: from choosing a venue, to picking a DJ, to registering for a wedding list ("It's emblematic of our whole culture: 'I want lots of stuff and I want to shoot a gun!'" observes Adrian in Crate & Barrel, where couples must use a barcode scanner to compile their list). There is even a section entitled: "An Even-Handed Acknowledgment of Both Families' Cultural Heritage", whose moral is that taiko drummers (Tomine has Japanese roots) and bagpipe players do not, under any circumstances, mix. The blurb on the back of Faber's British edition remarks that the book is replete with "unabashed tenderness" – which is sweet, but not entirely true. I counted just one lovey-dovey frame in the entire book. Even the moment when, late on their wedding night, the happy couple wind up companionably eating greasy burgers in their hotel is shot through with futility. At the wedding, they failed to eat anything at all; in the end, they passed through the fruits of all their labours as if in a crazy dream.
Comics and graphic novelsMarriageRachel Cookeguardian.co.ukYou’re Looking Very Well by Lewis Wolpert – review
The older people get, the older they believe 'old' to be
A couple of weeks ago I spoke at a seminar on ageing and fiction at Brunel University. My interlocutor was Fay Weldon, who in her 80th year is not only still writing herself, but also holds the chair in creative writing at Brunel. I'm not sure we had anything that insightful to say on the subject, but the audience seemed entertained. I hesitate to ascribe to Weldon the wisdom of the aged – because, inasmuch as she is weightily wise, she always leavens this with a wickedly dry
Babysitting George by Celia Walden – review
Celia Walden's memoir of her time shadowing the ailing George Best is merely muck-raking tabloid journalism dressed up as something grander
"I spotted a posse of journalists immediately loading themselves up with fried breakfasts… the most tenacious doorstepper, a lanky young man… was asleep in his car, face smeared against the window, feet propped up on a dashboard cluttered with KFC wrappers." Babysitting George, Celia Walden's new George Best-related memoir, often seems to be asking the question: is there anything more unappealing than a muck-raking tabloid journalist? Happily, the answer lies within its pages. There is something worse: muck-raking tabloid journalism with pretensions towards something grander.
Though its subject is George Best, this is not a football book. Nor is it quite a heartwarming story of an unlikely friendship, despite the best hopes of its publishers. It is, instead, a book about the mechanics of tabloid celebrity as tracked through the entropic heat of its central dying star. Walden was a junior reporter with the Mail on Sunday when she was sent for a few weeks to "babysit" their star columnist (ie follow him around to keep other newspapers at bay) during the death throes of his marriage to Alex Best in the summer of 2003. Two years later, Best was dead. Eight years on, Walden has returned cast in the role of tell-tale royal butler, not so much Best's rock as his mildly engaged companion.
Babysitting George is a strange book, as might be expected of an artistic endeavour born out of occupational happenstance rather than any particular dedication to its subject. It is nicely written. It has variations in tone and a sense of a story being told – amazingly, really, given the basic monotony of its subject (famous drunk drinks himself half to death). But what, and who, is it for? Essentially, this book exists only because Best was a celebrity, not because Walden has any great passion for or insight into either his career or character. She was simply quite near a famous man while he did quite a lot of drinking, vomiting and bullshitting.
What emerges resembles a perfectly interesting 2,000-word newspaper article stretched to 250 pages. With space to fill and limited material, other things bubble up through the gaps along the way, in particular a rather guarded sense of narratorial disgust. Disgust, it seems, is an unavoidable side-effect of babysitting George and it runs like a nagging hangover right through Babysitting George. "And then there were the women," Walden writes, and it is these women – Best's many conquests – who inspire the most astringent prose. Alex Best, in the process of divorcing George after 10 years of marriage, is "dead-eyed", a "once fair-skinned schoolgirl" who is "always worrying that her breasts were too small". Her face has "forfeited something – some natural sweetness". Another of George's babes has "an avid, opportunistic face". Another is "bulky beneath her gown with eyebrows that bore down low across her face giving her a dense look". A beauty salon owner in Ewell High Street has "three inches of creped cleavage on display". Alex's mum, Cheryl, escapes quite lightly: she is merely "assiduously made up, with a numbed quality".
The ladies get the treatment in Babysitting George – there is even a scandalous suggestion that Alex Best took pleasure in (or "got off on") being beaten by her husband – but this is an even-handed disgust. Our titular 58-year-old celebrity alcoholic gets plenty too. Best's face has "a narcissistic curl", not to mention "wary arrogance" and "eyes overlaid with a vitreous film". Occasionally, he musters "what he imagined was a rakish smile". Asleep, his mouth has "a pensioner's gape". Walden is rightly unflinching in her recollection of the details of Best's physical decline. But after 200 pages of this, you do start to wonder about the point and, indeed, the morality. These are, after all, the memoirs of a professional interloper. The first thing Best says to Walden is: "Can't you just leave me alone?" The second is: "I'm asking nicely. Now can you please, please go away?" Later, Alex Best meets Walden for the first time and asks: "Don't take this the wrong way but what are you doing in my house?" It is an excellent question, touching as it does on the basic validity of this kind of lurid personality journalism and one that is at no stage adequately addressed.
In the end, Babysitting George weaves itself around the basic narrative armature of the classic tabloid exposé. There is even a bit of kiss and tell ("He pushed me clumsily against the door frame, threading a knee between my legs"). A moment of crisis arrives with the news – disaster! – that George has given an interview to another paper "in which he claims to have enjoyed a recent threesome".
Later, Walden bribes someone to obtain a private phone number, lies about her identity and enacts a temporary de facto eviction of a young family. "To those outside the media these would sound like dubious ethics," she notes, but this is dubious stuff however you slice it and celebrity exposé is still celebrity exposé even when you write things like: "I stared at the liquid sheen of the M25."
There are essentially three interesting things about Best: his brilliant playing career; his novel pre-modern celebrity; and his frazzled late years as a famous drunk. Babysitting George concentrates entirely on peeled-eyeball detailing of the last of these. It is undoubtedly a sad tale and one that is made all the more so by the spectacle of Best being dug up once again and marched about the place in his vomit-caked dressing gown, obediently coughing up one last