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A review by milocross
The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories from My Life by John le Carré
2.0
This was apparently le Carré's riposte to the excellent Sisman bio by [a:Adam Sisman|81984|Adam Sisman|https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/user/m_50x66-82093808bca726cb3249a493fbd3bd0f.png]. It turns out not to be a memoir in any complete sense, but more a 'greatest hits' rehash of le Carré's favourite anecdotes and previously-published essays. Many are about the famous people or 'exciting' research missions that fed his wonderful fiction of which I am a sincere fan.
But as often is the case, the fiction is better than these 'Pass the port, old man' versions the author (real name David Cornwell) has probably dined out on for decades. If there are any self-deprecatory or revealing paragraphs in this version of the author's life, they fall—for the most part—into the humble-brag category. Watch him deftly avoid any indepth discussion of his personal life at all, with the exception of his parents, of course—except to mention that a son accompanied him on a trip or wife Jane answered the phone. There are no three-dimensional wives, partners, lovers, siblings, children to speak of. He certainly explores the headliners Alec Guiness or Richard Burton, but hardly-glanced-at agents, publishers, etc, come and go like wisps that waft him upwards, with a few entertaining setbacks, to his well-earned glory among the ranks of stars.
His subliminal message starts to disturb the reader. He gives nobody much credit but himself, with a kind of hollow self-loathing chuckle and it's sad to read he invited Rupert Murdoch to a lunch and then whines that Murdoch left him at the Savoy holding the tab. It feels 'small' for someone who so dearly wants to be seen as 'large.' There are other petty revenges taken between the lines. It becomes obvious that this is an aging man who has to have the last word on still-rankling experiences which he packages as 'telling' on his victim.
The Sisman bio told le Carré's story in a conventional way and explored the now-familiar scars and social snubs that make up part of le Carré's emotional baggage that will be evident to any careful reader of his fiction. There is here, too, the excruciating combing-over of the sins of his conman father who criminally charmed and then robbed everyone he met. Move on, David, is my comment, or go back to a shrink. The fact that the author can't ditch this boogeyman or stop milking the dreadful creature for more saleable copy is now sad.
I write this knowing it may disappoint his fiction fans, of which I am one. I can listen to Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy almost as a beloved lullaby to see me off to sleep—I know it by heart. The author's gift to all of us for creating his own 'secret world' has been enough to a legion of readers. I think he could have left this rehash in the hard drive.
But as often is the case, the fiction is better than these 'Pass the port, old man' versions the author (real name David Cornwell) has probably dined out on for decades. If there are any self-deprecatory or revealing paragraphs in this version of the author's life, they fall—for the most part—into the humble-brag category. Watch him deftly avoid any indepth discussion of his personal life at all, with the exception of his parents, of course—except to mention that a son accompanied him on a trip or wife Jane answered the phone. There are no three-dimensional wives, partners, lovers, siblings, children to speak of. He certainly explores the headliners Alec Guiness or Richard Burton, but hardly-glanced-at agents, publishers, etc, come and go like wisps that waft him upwards, with a few entertaining setbacks, to his well-earned glory among the ranks of stars.
His subliminal message starts to disturb the reader. He gives nobody much credit but himself, with a kind of hollow self-loathing chuckle and it's sad to read he invited Rupert Murdoch to a lunch and then whines that Murdoch left him at the Savoy holding the tab. It feels 'small' for someone who so dearly wants to be seen as 'large.' There are other petty revenges taken between the lines. It becomes obvious that this is an aging man who has to have the last word on still-rankling experiences which he packages as 'telling' on his victim.
The Sisman bio told le Carré's story in a conventional way and explored the now-familiar scars and social snubs that make up part of le Carré's emotional baggage that will be evident to any careful reader of his fiction. There is here, too, the excruciating combing-over of the sins of his conman father who criminally charmed and then robbed everyone he met. Move on, David, is my comment, or go back to a shrink. The fact that the author can't ditch this boogeyman or stop milking the dreadful creature for more saleable copy is now sad.
I write this knowing it may disappoint his fiction fans, of which I am one. I can listen to Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy almost as a beloved lullaby to see me off to sleep—I know it by heart. The author's gift to all of us for creating his own 'secret world' has been enough to a legion of readers. I think he could have left this rehash in the hard drive.