Opinion / Robert Bound
In praise of Clive James
To reach a career pinnacle, most of us feel the need to specialise. We’re a critic or a poet, we’re an essayist or a lyricist, a memoirist or a translator. Maybe we even get to be on TV and become an entertainer. To be all of these, and loved and admired for each, was the outlandish trick pulled off by Clive James, who died aged 80 earlier this week. Importantly, James was the kind of person who, if you called him a “renaissance man” to his face, wouldn’t steeple his fingers and nod in acknowledgment but might make a laconic joke about being sure to wear a ruff next time he discussed Dallas on TV. Wearing his learning lightly, and lampooning it affectionately and precisely, was one of his most charming traits.
As I got older I learned of James’s reputation as a great man of letters, a linchpin of literary London and a legend who jousted with Kingsley and Martin Amis and Christopher Hitchens. But the James I first knew of was the one who, in an unlikely mid-career bloom, became a TV personality. Watching him on UK TV in the 1980s and 1990s, as he talked about the medium on which he’d become a star, you could tell that something unusually bright was burning behind the squint and the laconic Australian drawl. The way James cast himself on the box lent matters an ironic, sideline-fancying air and his collected TV reviews in The Observer newspaper, titled The Crystal Bucket, summed up his attitude toward TV’s beauty and banality.
Clive James’s death was announced on the same day as that of another great polymath, Jonathan Miller. In The Crystal Bucket, James wrote that Miller was “justifiably outraged by the narrowness of modern specialisation” and that he believed “all intellectual adventures, whether artistic or scientific, are the same adventure… but there is also such a thing as being a prisoner of your own versatility.” If James had a mirror to hand that day, it would have blushed (and squinted). A toast, then, to a renaissance man who said he wasn’t.