The other day I read in The Times that Samuel Foster’s weekly book review would be his last. The fourth leader was a kind of premature epitaph thanking him for the pleasure he had given his devoted readers for over thirty years.. “We wish him well in his retirement although we know he will still grace our pages for years to come.”
We had been friends at University. After graduation we soon went our different ways. I bluffed my way into an architect’s office and learned on the job. Foster wrote a few short stories “For practice before I could write novels,” as he put it. His stories were either ignored or rejected. He would stick the Thank you but no missives on his wall behind The Hay Wain and write another tale.
As he said at the time it was the first step in his literary career. There would be tumbles but, like the baby learning to walk, he would learn and who knows what would happen next. If Austen and Eliot; Dickens and Tolstoy; Fleming and Rankin survived early rejections so could he.
He got a job as first dragon in a fiction publisher. He usually read twenty manuscripts a week. He sadly rejected the worst and passed the more promising work to his boss for more filtering. A few were published. Some sold just enough for a profit. One or two might make a fortune.
For years our friendship had been spasmodic. We might meet for a concert or a play. More rarely the four of us would holiday in Scotland or The Lakes with the children. After those delights we might not see each other for months or even years during which we emailed Christmas cards.
Last week I heard that he lived in a farmhouse just ten miles from us. I thought it would be good to see him again. I emailed him. He answered and said he was pleased to hear from me. “ We’ll have a drink and perhaps Joanna will cook dinner. Saturday?”
Over dinner we talked old times and inevitably, about his colleagues whom he had outlived. Later, before a blazing wood fire, I felt there was something missing. He had his exposed beams, the ingle-nook, appropriately dark furniture, big tv and a music centre – but no books. He must have read my mind. “No,” he said,” My library is in the barn. I’ll show you if you like.”
We crossed the cobbled yard. Inside it was warm and, I must say, delightful. Thick carpets, comfortable sofas for resting and a desk for working. “How many books?”
`“About ten thousand. A lot of them are first editions which were part of my reviewer’s fee. Others – just my personal books for fun. They’re a permanent record of my literary life. I still surprise myself when I’m browsing.”
“What are you reading now Sam?”
“The same book as I read yesterday. The Old Man and the Sea.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“You see Harry, I can’t read any more. No, the sight’s all right. It’s the brain. Not dementia but something else. I don’t have the concentration that I used to have. A few minutes and my mind wanders. I’ve always had to be a quick reader when I read two or three books a day- many more when I was a Booker judge. But now, an odd word will distract me. Sometimes it links me to something else I had read – ten twenty, fifty years ago. I would find myself sinking into daydream. My eyes would scan but my brain was working elsewhere. So now I read the same book every day. I suppose I could recite the whole book but I don’t want to do that. I still get the suspense of the story. My sympathy for the old man will never change and I go to sleep looking forward to reading it again after breakfast.”
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