A collection of essays, what's more - a serious collection of essays - is not going to waft its way up to the literary best-seller list, more's the pity, because this is a collection of treasurable writings. Not all of it will engage because Dyer's interests are multifarious and sometimes very specialist (I'm thinking of his writings on jazz music. You are either an aficionado or not. Or early American photography - again, maybe not). But from around 100 pages in, you will come across some marvellous writing about art, including Turner, Rodin, and early American pastoral art. Similarly with literature. His exposition of the significance of D H Lawrence's work is entirely satisfactory. Other literary interests include James Salter, Tobias Wolff and F Scott Fitzgerald. I was gratified to find one of my favourite unsung novels commented upon, Denis Johnson's
Tree of Smoke which is about the Vietnamese War bringing in so many perspectives from Viet-cong to CIA, and personalising these perspectives brilliantly. After reading what he has to say about Rebecca West, I want to read her seminal novel about the Balkans,
Black Lamb and Grey Falcon: A Journey Through Yugoslavia.
Dyer's essay on The Moral Art of War name-checks many of the non-fiction works that have attempted to make sense of recent conflicts. It is a reading list and a summary, and I now want to read some of these books, especially Dexter Filkins,
The Forever War: Dispatches from the War on Terror.
The more personal essays endorse much of the same kind of charming wastrelship as a way of life as in his fiction. I was depressed by the New York donut piece, I'm not completely sure why. It seemed empty of meaning - even if funny, it left me without the energy to laugh. I thought it might be about some kind of breakdown, but he left out rational explanation. I felt something in the background was being ignored. In fact, contrary to other books of his, I wanted more seriousness, less of a sense that life is hardly worth living, so absent are the saving moments, the joy and the love. Cappuccini? Donuts? Maybe it's me that's depressed? Still, I drag myself back to what I love in Dyer's writing. It's all done for the hell of it, even when it's serious.