by NRB | 6 Jul 2018 | The Godfather: Peter Corris |
I’ve just finished Sebastian Faulks’s take on PG Wodehouse, Jeeves and the Wedding Bells (2013). Taking up this kind of challenge … or perhaps accepting this kind of commission from a dead writer’s estate, more accurately, has become something of an industry among...
by NRB | 29 Jan 2016 | The Godfather: Peter Corris |
With notable exceptions – Ian Fleming’s fulsome praise (to his face) of Raymond Chandler in a 1958 BBC broadcast interview, for example – writers are not usually particularly generous to each other. It’s a competitive business with everyone, as it were, fighting for...
by NRB | 14 Aug 2015 | The Godfather: Peter Corris |
Some time ago I wrote a column about how my defective eyesight had pushed me first to big print books and then to e-books where I could blow up the font on my e-reader. This was a great boon and by 2014 all 40 or so books I read that year were e-books. Unfortunately,...
by NRB | 26 Jun 2015 | The Godfather: Peter Corris |
I hate winter – my nose runs, and due to poor circulation from long-term diabetes, my feet get cold in bed. I use a walking stick these days and juggling stick, umbrella and a bag of groceries is no fun. Gloves off to handle the credit hard, scarf coming loose, eyes...
by NRB | 31 Oct 2013 | Fiction |
Moneypenny, M, danger, sex and cigarettes; the self-indulgent, worldly tone: William Boyd’s James Bond gets it right. I imagine that writing a Sherlock Holmes or James Bond pastiche is something like ghost writing or co-authoring an ‘autobiography’....
by NRB | 19 Jul 2013 | The Godfather: Peter Corris |
Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York. Shakespeare, Richard III Winter always discontents me. As a kid I disliked the cold and Melbourne was colder back then, 60-plus years ago, than it is now. I shared a bedroom with my brother...
by NRB | 14 Jun 2013 | The Godfather: Peter Corris |
A writer and his agent were having lunch in an up-market London restaurant a few years ago. The agent was paying. They started with oyster soup and moved on to Dover sole with a bottle of German Riesling. The writer, 45 or thereabouts, had published a string of...