Last week I just read all the writings of Graham Swift under the slump. It is due to constantly self-nagging, “If you do nothing with forgetting yourself, it is like giving up the life. Do anything!” I had already read five works of Swift—Last Orders, Waterland, The Sweet-Shop Owner, Shuttlecock, and Ever After— before this year. This time I have taken the other five works, which are Out of This World, The Light of day, Tomorrow, Learning To Swim and Other Stories—selections of short stories—, and Making an Elephant, most recently Swift’s autobiographical writing. All of Swift’s books are doubtlessly attractive, yet I love most this essayistic Making an Elephant. On reading the book I realised why I couldn’t help falling in love with Graham. I found he shared so much thought/perspective and emotion with me. That’s why I understood him with no difficulty. Saying understanding is not enough, it’s a sort of uniting, absolute accordance with him. I love him ever more.
Brit…
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