14 December 2020
Tom Stoppard, playwright
He was David to his friends, and, enormous though that company was, one couldn't help taking pride in belonging to it. The rewards were several. His handwriting on an envelope gazumped all other business, and to be at his table was an entertainment, an education and a catch-up on the news behind the news. As a storyteller, he did the police in different voices. And then there were the books; the prose, the perfect epithets, the throwaway gems. We all delighted in Smiley fumbling at his shirt front to polish his glasses with the end of his tie, forgetting that he was in evening dress. It's so many years since I read it but I still remember the little shock of pleasure I felt.
