Stephen Fry as a
mythbuster. All our myths about him – he busts them. Forget about tweedy
self-confidence and self-assured looks of the most comfortable man in the
Establishment – no, actually, it’s all about awkwardness, unwieldy appearance
and millions of insecurities, big and small, bugging him every day (and night).
Would be interesting if somebody actually took the pains to count how many
times Stephen uses the word ‘embarrassing’ and ‘embarrassed’ throughout The Fry Chronicles. I’m embarrassed to
admit… I know how embarrassing it sounds… That sort of thing. Indeed, some
readers/critics of more cynical disposition (and those most probably include
me) would be reminded of a question once asked by Fry’s dear friend, Alan Bennett:
“Who can measure the self-servingness of self-effacement?”
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Nah, don’t mind me. I
love Stephen Fry (how can you not?), and God bless those myths. For me, Stephen
has always seemed this formidable, warm wave of wit and intelligence you could
always relate to. There’s no arrogance there, no snobbery. And with this
colourful, absorbing memoir, you can probably understand why, and, as Nabokov
put it, get to the architecture of it. Which may not necessarily be the thing
you most wanted – do we really need sincerity from celebrities (awful word, I
know)? – but it is an extremely engaging read, and a brilliant way to see what
a great man is made of.
And Stephen Fry is most
certainly a great man. Wikipedia could give you a rather long list of things he
is, from writer to comedian, and if you disregard for a moment the not too
credible ‘master of none’ motif that Fry never tires of repeating, you will
have to admit that he pretty much excels in all those. Also, who else can boast
of having both Christopher Hitchens and Ben Elton as a friend?..
The Fry Chronicles is his second autobiography. The first, brilliantly
called Moab Is My Washpot, was
published in 1997, and tackled his early rebellious years. This one picks up
where Moab left off and ends with the
launch of A Little Bit Of Fry And Laurie.
If you’ve read anything by Stephen Fry, anything at all, you will definitely
recognize his style – pleasantly stodgy, verbose, literate and self-consciously
full of alliterations. Speaking of the latter, this autobiography concentrates
on Stephen’s fixation with the letter ‘C’. Which means that the title of each
chapter (and, indeed, the whole book) sounds something like this: Candy,
Cambridge, Cellar Tapes, Computer… His obsessions and whatever it was that
crossed his path at this or that point.
I’ll say it again: it is
an extremely (sometimes painfully) sincere book. From his homosexuality to his
constant sense of uneasiness and inferiority to his loose way with money
(precious little about his religious views though), he lets it all out. And
being the stellar storyteller he so clearly is, he knows just how to present
it: from a comic angle, with loads of self-irony.
It’s been a long and
eventful ride for him, and much of it is understandably lost and forgotten. So
that what is left is a bunch of unforgettable events that stick out from Fry’s
quite impressive memory. There are lots of great little stories here, like the
nerve-wrecking auditioning for an Alan Bennett play or the heartbreaking
participation in the University Challenge
show. Some of these stories are actually downright eccentric, particularly the
one where Stephen tries to insure the Cambridge May Ball in the event of the Queen
Mother’s untimely death. Also, you get to hear some quirky details about
certain illustrious personalities he had to deal with. Having said that,
Stephen is mostly generous, what with his life-long dread of offending people.
As for those fits of
modesty, insecurity and embarrassment, they are absolutely vital to the book;
in the sense that if it were not for all his complexes and insomnias, his life
would seem one of the most invigorating success stories imaginable. However,
Stephen is quick to note, God doesn’t give a fig about talent: it all comes at
a price. But Fry doesn’t have time for God: “Man’s reach should exceed his
grasp, or what’s a heaven for?”
With this book, Stephen
Fry doesn’t make himself more down-to-earth, more like everyone else (which, if
I understand the memoir’s confessional introduction correctly, wasn’t exactly
the last thing on his mind). But it does make him appear more complete, which
in all honesty is all we could really ask for. Stephen hints at the next
installment at the very end of the brief, intriguing final chapter, simply
entitled C. He thanks you for the
company, but you inevitably want more. Out of all the famous people in the
world, whose company would you most wish to share? I’m confident that quite a
lot of us would nominate a certain Stephen Fry, and who would really mind if
the famous man in question might feel embarrassed about it. And (oh God no!)
have sweaty palms.
I began reading The Fry Chronicles while sitting in a
cozy little café in Moscow. Outside I could hear muffled city noises, hissing
traffic and clicking heels, but inside there was this beautiful vibe. It was
almost idyllic: deep armchair, green tea and a chocolate pancake. I finished
the book at home, amid the disarray of books, socks and whatnot. Interestingly,
the vibe was much the same.
9/10
The Sparrow, this group’s third full-length, is an indie pop
album played in a very classy, self-consciously non-indie style. No modern
technologies, no fuzz, no nothing – just a very tasteful, very stylish
collection of beautifully executed, elegant baroque pop compositions. With
classical violins, pianos, thumping bass and James’s lovely, slightly
Lennon-esque vocals (occasionally adhering to falsetto). 
