E D I T O R I A L . 9

N.B. 1 April 2002

One book that often comes up in conversation, when I am with other writers, is Nicholson Baker's U&I.

If you haven't read it, do. It's about his relationship with John Updike, mainly through Updike's writings, but also through Baker and Updike's desultory meetings. (I remember an excrutiating scene which takes place at a golf club.)

The conceit of the book (you might argue that it's one of the most conceited books ever written - which, I think, is one of the reasons writers admire it) is that Baker will write the entire thing without checking his references: quotes are as he remembers them, all errors are left in.

What we finish up with, therefore, is a more honest approach to how books live in our mind. How they remain as both a general sense and as a few specific, often ludicrous, details.

I like this: it removes what I call the photocopier relationship between literary critic and text - as if our relationship to a paragraph was merely of taking it in, perfectly, digitally, and then reproducing it within inverted commas for someone else to read.

I thought, as an experiment, I would write about U&I, which I read about six years ago, and haven't looked at since (apart from a sneaky peak at the opening page when I bought a copy last month) without checking my references.

I made a few notes:

'The thing I remember most clearly of all is the advise about how to spread butter on toast. "Start from the edges, because the middle always gets enough." This oppressed Nicholson Baker, too - and I believe it may have come to Updike from some respected elder.'

'At one point Baker describes meeting Updike. I think it may have had something to do with golf (one of Updike's golf books?) - or a literary prize. For some reason I am reminded of the scene in Clint Eastwood's Charlie Parker biopic, Bird, where Parker goes to Stravinsky's house in L.A. and rings the bell on the gate. Igor comes to the door, like a scared mole dug out of its burrow. 'Hello,' he calls, 'who is it?' - with a strong Russian accent. Then Vera comes and takes him by the arm, drawing him inside. 'Who is it?' she asks. 'I don't know...' he says. It may even be that Igor sees a black man at the gates, and is afraid. I don't think that's it, though. I'm not sure why, in thinking of U&I, I'm reminded of this. I shall have to watch the film again, to check the accuracy of my memory - no hardship.Recently I wrote an article about Beat Cinema, and I wanted to say how much better jazz cinema has always been. Didn't get a chance.'

Those were the notes.

Honestly, I can't remember that much more. I think Baker writes about 'Wife-wooing' - making the fair point that he can't imaging how Updike's wife would have reacted to the writing and publishing of such a warts-and-all story

I'm fairly sure Baker expresses some uneasiness with the conclusion of 'Pigeon feathers'. But I may just be projecting this.

There's a description of Updike physically, and references to his amazing productivity, his fathering a large number of children, his rural living (Shillingford? Shillington?), his ensconcement at the New Yorker.

Updike wrote about reading Proust at the kitchen table, bathed in golden light, but I'm not sure if I didn't read this in an Updike piece rather than in U&I.

I remember details from Baker's other books. The shoelaces in The Mezzanine; the slow build of Vox; the unbearableness of the opening chapter of The Never-ending Story of Nory.

Baker, as one might expect, writes a lot about Updike's distinctive way with significant superdetail. Baker is guilty of having stolen a few tricks, perhaps even based his whole style on a magnification and slowing down of Updike.

And that's about all I can recall.

So now, I have to go and re-read U&I. I'll report back when I do.