How’s things?How’s the novel going? The Book of Carthage, Or was it Chiswick?’ ‘You remember that?’He said. ‘Well, the title’s changed severalTimes since then, but it’s pretty much done.The market, though, is unforgiving these days.If I’d finished it a few years back,When novels about Muslims were still new,It might have stood a chance – as things are,I have my doubts.How are things with you? Still doing poems?How’s Ann? How’s the department?’‘Oh, it’s OK,’ I said, ‘You know,Nothing much changes.’ ‘Well, don’t let them dragYou down,’ he said, ‘these ungratefulAnd malignant scholars will become,For your good work, your enemies – and notWithout reason: among the bitter berriesIs no fit place for the ripe fig to bloom.But if you keep writing, things will work out.Steer a path between the mainstream and theExperimenters, that way nobody can claim you, You’ll always be your own man.’‘Oh, if everything I wished had been granted,’I replied, ‘they’d have made a chair for you.My mind is still etchedWith your early encouragement of my work,When I showed you my first primitive efforts,Playing about with Aesop – in fact I still haveYour copy of L’Estrange somewhere,And I’m not about to give it back.Your example first showed me how I mightCombine a job in teaching with the realWork of writing, and while I liveI’ll always talk of my debt to you,And of my gratitude.
