My book of a lifetime? Easy. Coming Through Slaughter by Michael Ondaatje. I discovered it just as the cement was setting around the idea of making the dream, writing, an actual career (to the horror of my coal-miner father, who, when hearing of my vauntingly ridiculous ambition, responded – “waste of time, books.”) Ondaatje’s slim, early tome was introduced by a university lecturer, a failed and depleted writer himself, and it entered my world like a depth charge of possibility. I’ve carried my battered Picador paperback around for decades; the pages, now, are almost greasy from being thumbed, flipped, dog-eared and scribbled upon.
What is it? Not sure exactly, and that’s what makes it so damned exciting. It’s an account of the life of jazz musician Buddy Bolden, a cornet player in New Orleans in the early years of the 20th century. Not an area of interest for me generally, but my God, you’re entranced by this world that Ondaatje creates. It’s a daring, audacious little book that defies categorisation – experimenting with fiction and non-fiction, photography, and dramatic changes of tense and voice. Bolden was known for his dazzling improvisations and there’s something of that energy in it.
