Mastery

On the flight to Medan I honestly thought that in the days to follow I was going to make major inroads into the reading I took with me. In fact, I briefly entertained the idea I might not have taken enough. I seemed to be racing through Toibin's The Master and since I had only got a single copy of The New York Review of Books, Literary Theory (of which I'd already devoured the first three chapters before setting off) and a very slim collection of poems entitled Kid by Simon Armitage (which I picked up cheap, just 50 pence in England in December) I thought I'd severely misjudged the situation. Alas, whatever misjudgment there was related solely to the misconception that once I stepped off the plane I was going to get any time to read.

It was simply not to be, except for a stolen few minutes at the end of each day before I nodded off. Such minutes were spent in the wonderful company of Mr Toibin and his Mr James and very satisfactory they were. The Master has turned out to be much wider-ranging in its perspectives on the great writer than David Lodge's equally wonderful Author, Author. I still have about a hundred pages to go and, goodness me, am I looking forward to them.