What made me fall in love with books was the flair of my mother, Rhoda, in reading aloud to her children growing up in Cape Town. She read Katherine Mansfield’s New Zealand stories, where the children lead lives like ours at the Cape and, reading dramatically – taking multiple roles - the whole of 'A Tale of Two Cities' in a room darkened against the sun when I had measles.

That year, aged eleven, I objected to her bedtime choice of 'Treasure Island'.

‘It’s a boy’s book.’

‘You don’t have to listen’, she countered.

Crossly, I stamped out of the room and banged the door against the sight of her and my brother under the lamplight. Her voice carried faintly into the passage, as sinister Long John Silver arrived on the scene. It was so compelling that, though I was too stubborn to give in, I tiptoed to the door and stood with my ear pressed against it.

So, in childhood, I heard the pulse of language: the throb of the Dickens sentence (‘It is a far, far better thing...’); the humorous pathos of Afrikaans phasing in the folk life of the veld in 'The Little Karoo' by Pauline Smith, which Rhoda pronounced with the intonations of a native speaker (she grew up in Klawer on the edge of Namaqualand), pausing to recall the country-folk of her own childhood; and I heard too the arduous plod of Eliot’s ‘Journey of the Magi’ – that spiritual journey like Rhoda’s own. She taught me how to see and feel; my perceptions are in truth hers.

I have particularly enjoyed Alice Mattison's novel Hilda and Pearl about two Jewish sisters of her mother's generation, putting the domestic affections at the centre of existence - as I feel they should be rather than the horrors of aggression and power - and her interlinked stories of a Jewish family in Brooklyn, In Case We're Separated. At the Edinburgh Festival one August, I picked up Candia McWilliam's novel, A Little Stranger, an absorbing read, drawing us into a relationship between a pregnant woman who is eating compulsively and a too-perfect nanny. McWilliam's extraordinarily fertile vocabulary brings out the nuances of strange situations. After that I read her stories with the same intent pleasure in her siftings of character in distinctive Scottish settings. Lynn Freed's collection of autobiographical essays about Leaving Home, published by Harcourt, my favourite being the trauma of a schoolgirl from South Africa who comes to America on a field service scholarship and, being Jewish, is assigned to a Jewish family whose tastes and habits are totally incompatible with those of her own literate theatre family back in Durban: I loved Lynn's treatment of this hilarious mismatch, but more important is the deep, bonding subject of expatriation.

"You wouldn't last a day", my daughters used to assure me. They were referring to an adversarial tone - scoring and bullying - at an Oxford girls' school fixated on results. Reading my mother's letters, I am struck by the tone of women's friendship in the 1930s, when young women, breaking with the habits of their mothers, were venturing into the professions. As I read, I contrast the expressive love of Winifred Holtby and Vera Brittain with the fifties' style of supportive intimacy (a girls' world preserved at school and distinct from our destined gender roles) as I was growing up in Cape Town. This expressive love has a fearless sound - less heard now because the boundaries between love and friendship are perhaps too distinct.

I interviewed Elinor Sisulu in Birmingham as part of an "African Visions" tour of England. She has published a biography of her parents-in-law, Walter and Albertina Sisulu (Abacus). As a South African, I'd known them as heroes of the Struggle; what I didn't know was Sisulu's domestic tenderness - his capacity to listen, rare in political leaders - a capacity sadly lacking in the disastrous wars of Blair, Bush, Sharon, and those Muslims who turn the bodies of their young into weapons against innocents, calling it religion. In the brutal present-day contexts of Iraq and Sudan, it's heartening to learn of a man who could be gentle and modest as well as effective. I asked Elinor Sisulu about her decision to do a dual biography - to include a wife along with a more famous husband. Instead of the expected feminist reply, she said that the marriage had survived all those years of Walter's imprisonment (alongside Mandela at Robbin Island) because of his extraordinarily loving character.

Five Innovative Biographies

Reading Chekhov by Janet Malcolm. It shows the work growing out of the Russian landscapes. Chronology proves less important than forays into the inner life in its physical surroundings. Slid into the book is a critique of the genre: Malcolm shows up six biographers who give different versions of the facts of Chekhov's death. How slippery, how hard-won is truth.

The Ballad of Dorothy Wordsworth by Frances Wilson. The fascination of Dorothy Wordsworth lies in two things most of us wish to experience: creativity and depth of feeling. For Dorothy, the two are interfused in her scrutiny of nature and in her closeness to her brother, the Romantic poet, William Wordsworth. Separated as children, they come together in Dorothy’s late twenties when they roam the countryside and share a cottage. During Dorothy’s childhood she lived in others’ homes, and after William’s marriage, she will be again a third party. Frances Wilson has made a boldly original decision to focus on the few years of Dorothy’s creative union with her brother, a life wholly given to poetry at the high point of her brother’s output. Part of the fascination of reading this book is the way it stretches our capacity for feeling out rarities of apprehension between the facts. For though it’s impossible to define genius, this book takes readers as close as we can go.

Jane’s Fame: How Jane Austen Conquered the World by Claire Harmon is a delightfully amusing history of the novelist’s afterlife. Claire Harmon’s ironic voice is worthy of Austen herself, as she relates how Austen was remodelled as inoffensive “dabbler,” and then mounted on a pedestal as ‘Divine Jane’. Once fame is on the way, families strive to control it. So the Austen family alters an ‘ugly’ portrait of the novelist, to promote an image of pretty, modest, retiring lady. Harmon undercuts this with a teasing denial from Jane Austen herself: ‘I write only for Fame.’

Her Husband: Hughes and Plath – A Marriage by Diane Middlebrook is a dual portrait about what marriage can do to develop literary stars. Turning away from the public fixation on Plath’s suicide and the standard story of a destructive union, Middlebrook’s heartening research reveals the extent of Hughes’ and Plath’s co-operation and mutual encouragement as poets. Sometimes they use the same paper to draft their works. Middlebrook sustains our curiosity about the integration of domesticity and children with ambitions on the Hughes-Plath scale.

The Convert by Debbie Baker, published by a small press in the U.S., is a biography of an unknown woman, a Jewish New Yorker who converts to Islam and makes a new life in Pakistan. The originality of this work lies in its blend of delicacy and questioning determination of its approach to a subject who has twisted her story in the mass of papers she donated to the New York Public Library. The biographer takes you with her into the archive with its grey boxes, and you sit at her side as she peels away outer layer after layer until she comes literally face to face with the convert manifesting the killer ethos of the Islamic terrorist. What a meeting of biographer and subject: it deserves to be a classic of the genre.


The time scale that Alice Munro packs into her stories through flash-backs and startling flash-forwards have something of the pathos of Hardy who takes the reader close to an individual like Tess, and then shocks you with a long-shot of two girls crawling like flies across a grey landscape --motes in creation. Munro gives us this continuum of existence, its humanity and tragedy. Her stories are unlike others because their extended time-scale - the scope for characters to develop over time - packs the experience of reading a novel into a short space.

Katherine Mansfield, The Montana Stories from Persephone Press: puts together, in chronological order, the great stories of her last months. My favourite is the frieze of family scenes in her longer New Zealand story At the Bay, a sequel to Prelude. My mother, a devotee of Mansfield, read this story aloud when I was a child - a mirror of our own family: sporting father, dreaming mother, beside the sea.

Lyndall Gordon and her mother on a beach

Lynn Freed's collection from Harcourt, The Curse of the Appropriate Man. Praised discerningly in the New York Times. As South African expatriates at Columbia, Lynn and I met in a chilly Trilling seminar on Wordsworth in 1967 (described in Shared Lives). Freed's story of a Jewish girl arriving in New York and finding herself misplaced with a Jewish family, and then misplaced again with a WASP family, is a deliciously comic take on being new and alien in America.


My all-time favourite is Dr Johnson on Detractors. The most damage to reputation is done not by the "Roarers", nor even by more dangerous "Whisperers", but by that "most pernicious enemy", the "man of Moderation" - he who "discovers failings with unwillingness, and extenuates the faults which cannot be denied… Such are the arts by which the envious, the idle, the peevish, and the thoughtless, obstruct that worth which they cannot equal."

I delight in the honesty and self-mocking humour of New Yorker Phillip Lopate, have read every one of his essays, and wish there were more. All writers should read his essay on the stages by which an author becomes aware that his book is being killed by its publisher before publication.


I constantly reread Jane Austen, relishing her perfect ear for language.

Homemaking for the Down-at-Heart, by prize-winning poet (the Olive Schreiner award) and novelist, Finuala Dowling, is a delightfully comic and rueful story of a night-time radio communicator who, in different ways by night and day, lends herself to other lives and carries them on. The epic heroism of the mother and carer is sung at last, and without bravado. A wonderful flair for the absurdities of dialogue, especially the self-absorption of unpromising men on blind dates. I finished this novel sorry to stop living with these characters. This novel is as great as the author's previous novel, Flyleaf, where we see through the experience of a divorced and struggling language teacher the impact of words on our lives.

Zakes Mda, The Madonna of Excelsior (Oxford/ Farrar Straus). A novel based on an incident in 1971 in a South African dorp. Under the notorious laws of apartheid, leading citizens were charged in court with "immorality" - sleeping with local black women who worked as servants in their homes. This novel transcends its sensational origins; it celebrates an African tradition of generosity and mutual support - offering a vision of hope for the new South Africa in the face of political corruption and the neglected ravages of AIDS.

Anne Tyler is always perceptive about people on the margins, wives in particular, as in my favourites amongst her novels: Breathing Lessons and The Ladder of Years.

Maggie Gee, The Flood (London: Saqi) Brilliant interplay of urban reality and apocalyptic allegory. Stands out as a daring, ambitious book.

Anita Brookner, Rules of Engagement. I like the Jamesian intentness on states of mind; the steady gravity; the elegant prose, an instrument for cumulative awareness.


A little boast: Persephone books took up my suggestion that they reprint Hilda Bernstein's domestic memoir of a woman's political life at the height of apartheid, The World that Was Ours. It's published (2004) with a new foreword by the author, bringing out what she and other determined women achieved, through protest in prison, during the Treason Trials of the late fifties. A review by Albie Sachs notes how well this book endures to speak to a new generation. The fact is Hilda Bernstein can write. Her calibre reminds me what Eliot said: there's no substitute for being very intelligent.

There has been a surge of memoirs on the impact of the holocaust on the second generation. I was gripped by Lisa Appignanesi’s portrait of her mother, a Jew who passed as Polish and used this advantage with extraordinary instinct and daring to preserve her family throughout the war. I admired too Eva Hoffman’s After Such Knowledge and an earlier memoir that is already a classic, Lost in Translation. Two stories. Two languages. There’s the daughter of holocaust survivors growing up in postwar Poland. And then, across a mute divide, there’s an adolescent transplanted against her will to the New World. Her unmaking and remaking as a writer is relayed in terms of language. Tesknota, Polish for nostalgia, echoes with ‘tonalities of sadness and longing’. English, by contrast, appears a language of ‘will and abstraction’. At the core of this memoir are inward debates between different mentalities shaped by language. The triumph is that Eva Hoffman is far from lost in translation; her loss provokes a language of her own. She is unafraid of words like ‘triangulate’ and ‘bituminous’. Her introspective and unashamedly serious vocabulary is extended beyond the range of native speakers. Readers are drawn into her crossings, as into friendship which in Polish, we’re told, carries the strongest connotations of ‘attachment bordering on love’.

Two New York memoirs by Joyce Johnson, Minor Characters: A Beat Memoir and Missing Men should also be classics of the genre. I found them more absorbing for the story of the author herself than for her Beat milieu including Kerouac. This is a portrait of a responsible woman who lends herself to the creativity of irresponsible men in the fifties. The ethos of the time is for a woman to prop up a man but the reader feels the proto-feminist passion of the author and admires her extraordinary resilience in tough situations.


At night, when I can't sleep for thinking about the fate of books, it's cheering to read Pope's "Essay on Criticism" (1711) with its distilled judgement - What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd.

Isobel Dixon looks at creatures with a dazzling, playful eloquence in The Tempest Prognosticator. Her 'Postcard from the Colonies', playing out an image of a monkey with the face of one-time foreign minister, Malcolm Rivkind, is haunted by the contours of the Africa colonials encountered and imprinted with their weird ways. It recalls the first poem of hers I read, a surreal, intrepid swim from England to South Africa, which spoke to me strongly of expatriate separation and dreaming. I loved too the tenderness of 'Meet My Father' in a previous collection, A Fold in the Map.

The unpublished poems of Faith Williams, a school librarian in Washington DC, blend the largest issues with domestic life in a quirky, edgy, humorous way that's reminiscent of Emily Dickinson.

Kieron Winn: unpublished collection - unafraid of the big subjects. A refreshing contrast to a stale fashion for small ironies.

Rhoda Press - unpublished. My mother's visionary poems, a spiritual journey emanating from illness and the African landscape.

Lyndall Gordon and her mother in Klawer, South Africa