The Information Junkie by Roderick Leyland Read Free Book Online Page A

the lift for speed. I walked along the corridor. She was waiting for me at the end, door open, extending one of her thin, red-downed, freckly arms. I noted again the perfect nails as she waved me in.
     I blinked before going through the door and there they were. A few turned. A tall man with badly-cut dark hair, a thin moustache and deeply-lined cheeks caught my eye. He seemed unsure but as I approached he warmed a little. After I'd introduced myself he said:
    'Was it beastly? Was it horrid?'
    I said I preferred not to talk about it now, but we shook hands and looked at each other for a long moment; his eyes twinkled. I said,
    'But I know you.'
    He said, 'Call me George. Have you met Tom?'
    I turned and there was Hardy as large as life—well, larger; he shook my hand in a polite Victorian manner. There was a pause before he said,
    'Have you met the upstarts?'
    I looked round and in the corner sat a smallish man with a scowl on his face. Thomas said,
    'That's Martin Amis.'
    I said, 'Who kicked his balls?'
    For a moment Thomas registered shock. I said,
    'It's okay. You're allowed to say that now.' He looked unsure. I went on: 'Thomas, if Jude or Tess were published today they'd be considered very tame.'
    I looked around. Martin Amis continued to glower. He glanced my way for a moment, looked me up and down perfunctorily before turning back to a man who kept slipping in and out of focus. I overheard part of their conversation. Martin was saying:
    '...but, Chris, you're doing the splits across two genres—or, at least, one genre and the mainstream... But because of the system you end up inhabiting neither...'
    There was a familiar smell in my flat; I noted both George and Martin smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Were they sharing the same tobacco? Had Martin offered George his pouch, or vice versa?
    In another corner I saw a tall man in a black suit behaving furtively. He approached me:
    'Charles, how do you see the relationship between junk and creative activity?'
    Both Tom and George swung round. I held up the hand of peace to my interlocutor, turned to George and Tom and said,
    'Don't worry...'
    They then both looked at the tall half-bald man on his way back to the corner before returning to their conversation. Meanwhile Martin and Chris were talking very animatedly. Martin was saying:
    '...but don't you think you're asking for it...?'
    Chris just smiled.
    Over in another corner, another huddle. A smallish lady came up to me:
    'Hello, I'm Barbara. Are you any good at sorting type?'
    'I've done a little but most of us use PCs now. All major printers work from electronic files.'
    Barbara cocked her head: 'P's and C's...? Don't you mean P's and Q's?'
    'No—personal computers. What I type is what appears on the page.'
     She searched my eyes and for a moment there was a glimpse of understanding, almost as if she could see into the future, but she quickly dismissed the thought by saying, 'Leonard needs a hand.' Her attempt to introduce me to him failed because he, poised over some papers, didn't want to be disturbed. Barbara directed me to boxes of type over which stooped a tall too-thin lady who turned round. Both Barbara and she had ink on their fingers. I wanted to say, Virginia, do you realise what you've started? I wanted to say, Long after you'd walked into the Ouse, long after the twentieth century was closed, you're still there, still being read. I also wanted to mention the modish arguments pro and contra Bloomsbury , I wanted to tell her about the snobbery and elitism on both sides. But I couldn't. I did none of these things because somehow she was living in her own time. Instead I said,
    'I'll come back to help you later.'
    'Come on, Barbara Chickabiddyensis,' said Virginia.
    I returned to the centre of the room and looked around at all the groups talking to each other: George had slipped off to the side, smoking a cigarette on his own. Martin, looking very very serious was now speaking with Saul Bellow. Norman Mailer