The selected columns of the late journalist A.A. Gill, Lines in the Sand, is crisp, clever and frequently funny.
LINES IN THE SAND:
COLLECTED JOURNALISM
A.A. Gill
Hatchette New Zealand
By ELSPETH McLEAN
Readers unfamiliar with the provocative wit and wisdom of the late A.A. Gill may not venture beyond the dreary cover of this collection.
That is a pity, because the writing in Lines in the Sand, even if you are not particularly taken with the topic (or disagree vehemently with him on it), is always crisp, clever and frequently funny.
The selection of 42 of Gill's columns span five years before his death at the end of 2016, covering subjects as diverse as a day at Trump University, lamenting the decline in popularity of P.G. Wodehouse, the plight of refugees from various trouble spots, and his own demise.
Edinburgh-born Gill was the television and restaurant critic and a regular features writer for the Sunday Times, a columnist for Esquire, and the author of several books, including an acclaimed memoir. His impressive output is all the more remarkable because his dyslexia meant he had to dictate his work.
He had worked as an artist as a young man and his note-taking often included illustrations. His record of his 2009 day at Trump University (written in June 2016) included the sketch of a trouserless man holding an umbrella in the rain. The "university'' was offering the downtrodden the hope, at a price, of making big money. He didn't remember why he had made the sketch, but "it looks like the thoughtlessness of lending a man a brolly when what he actually needs is pants''.
Reading the Wodehouse piece, I took issue with his view Wodehouse does not appeal to women, but loved Gill for describing him as the " Jedi master of hidden laughter and crouching titter''.
"His books stand alone like the lilies of the field, neither reaping or sowing, just being Wodehousian to no discernible purpose, except as an invitation to do the same, to contrarily lean against the march of modern literature and humour.''
In his columns about refugees, it is Gill's attention to homely details which makes them more powerful and memorable, such as the story of him carrying a heavy bag for a fleeing Syrian woman, later discovering she has "lugged a gallon of olive oil from Syria to Jordan, the world's 13th-biggest olive producer.''
A Palestinian tells him the refugees all bring their house keys thinking they will be back: "I still have the key my parents brought from Palestine. There are no more doors left to open.''
In November last year, Gill (62) opened an affectionate review of a cafe, famous for its fish and chips, with the news he was dying of cancer.
His last column, published near the time of his death in December, dealt with clarity and poignancy with the reality of the limitations of the National Health Service. His observations were as sharp as ever. His oncologist "does not have the morphine face; he looks amused, inquisitive, like a shaved garrulous otter''.
Fabulous.
Elspeth McLean is an Otago Daily Times columnist and former health reporter.
