When I was in the 5th form at Queens Royal College in Port-of-Spain, I think it was in 1948, I used to go with some of my classmates to where the 6th formers gathered during lunch hour to talk among themselves and express their considered opinions on the school, Trinidad, the world and the universe. We fifth formers were expected to keep our silence but as an audience we were tolerated. Foremost among the talkers was V.S. Naipaul. I have read somewhere that he was pretty much an anonymous figure at school in Trinidad but that is not how I remember him. He held forth on many subjects and was particularly eloquent in assessing the films he saw. He seemed to attend the cinema all the time and had become a connoisseur and acerbic critic. I remember enjoying his sarcasm and wit as he sat balanced precariously on the stone ledge overlooking the school courtyard. I also remember with what certainty he proclaimed his view that he would surely win the Island Modern Studies Scholarship which would enable him to escape imprisoning Trinidad and enter the greater world of opportunity which awaited him.
Over the years I read Naipaul’s books and met him a number of times on literary occasions and when he came on his visits to Guyana. Once I had gone to the Pegasus hotel with others to meet him and coming into the lobby I saw him across the way berating a woman, I suppose his wife or mistress, with such appalling vitriol that in the end she fled from him in tears. Patrick French’s authorized biography makes clear that Naipaul was a deeply flawed human being – and if you want to learn how marvelous art can co-exist side by side with human failings read French’s magnificent book, The World Is What It Is, a work not only authorized but actively facilitated by Naipaul himself whom you can almost hear saying with complete defiance, “The man is what he is, and the work is what it is, and here are both displayed for all the world to see.”
I do not myself think that the bulk of his work amounts to more than that of one of the best novelists and travel writers of our time – and this, of course, sets him in the highest rank of those who are complete masters of writing English prose. But there is one supreme achievement of his that clearly and unequivocally promotes him well beyond even that high rank. This work of genius is A House For Mr Biswas which is quite simply one of the greatest novels of the 20th or any century. It is a book that will live to be read with wonder and delight as long as books are written and read anywhere in any form. And I think of that schoolboy long ago and the imperfections which grew so large in him – and the perfect gift he gave the world.
