Everything McEwan

Last Thursday the Harry Ransom Center, at the University of Texas, announced that it had secured the rights to hold the entire literary archive of novelist Ian McEwan. This collection is to include drafts of stories, notes, letters, and his complete 17 years of email correspondence history. All for the bargain price of £1.2 million. I’ll take two! At least we’ve discovered one way to make a fortune from a career of writing literary fiction. Though I imagine the filming of his novel Atonement didn’t hurt.

Vincent Van Gogh, self portrait, 1889

Self portrait by Vincent Van Gogh, 1889, Saint-rémy-de-provence, France

The grubby details of filthy lucre aside, this announcement prompts other prurient thoughts. The first concerned the contents of his email archive. Is it truly the entirety or just those between his literary buddies Amis, Hitchens, Barnes and the rest? Or will there be every piece of trivia imaginable, from the restaurant booking enquiry, train ticket refund complaint, spam emails that somehow made their way past the filter and were never deleted? Will personal details be redacted? If so, how long will it take before those redactions that seem reasonable and necessary today, become the subject of conspiratorial, literary intrigue and over-reaching scholarly debate hamstrung by confirmation bias? Will McEwan be tempted to delete any emails that paint him in a less flattering light, or did the library pay extra for a signed guarantee that the archive would be delivered whole and unexpurgated?

In light of this, one wonders if I, and other aspiring writers of today, should now put a little extra effort into each and every email that is sent, peppering them with literary gems and flecks of waggish wit? Imagine, how disappointing if they were found to be uniformly trite and bland, of absolutely no exterior interest. Will there be anything in McEwan’s correspondence to approach the poignant sentiments that Vincent Van Gogh expressed when writing to his brother Theo?

Poetry surrounds us everywhere, but putting it on paper is, alas, not so easy as looking at it.

I keep on making what I can’t do yet in order to learn to be able to do it.

Let’s not forget that the little emotions are the great captains of our lives and we obey them without realizing it.

What dominant captains steered Van Gogh, and he was greatness-bound.

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