“Literature is mostly about having sex and not much about having children; life’s the other way round.” (“Literature is mainly about having sex and not so much about having children; life is just the opposite.”) Who can say something like that, except a perceptive savant, an illusionist of concepts with the didactic ability necessary to convert the literary intention into a fun and intelligent saying, like this one.
British writer David Lodge died on New Year’s Day 2025, three weeks before his 90th birthday. He was known worldwide for his “campus trilogy”, a literary genre that he cultivated together with his friend Malcom Bradbury, among others, bringing fiction to the students and professors of Rummidge University, a branch of Birmingham University. But Lodge’s work goes far beyond this imprecise, although necessary, labeling into which humanistic studies often fall.
Lodge cultivated dramatic comedy with great success, from The Picturegoerspublished in 1960, until his last work of fiction, Deaf Sentencefrom 2008, through his famous trilogy, composed by Exchange (1975), The world is a handkerchief (1984) y Good job! (1988), translated into Spanish by Editorial Anagrama. In them we witness the creation of an endogamous and well-planned universe, in substance and form, with original characters, potentially comic narrative plots and an emotional tone of disenchantment, perhaps sadness, necessary in any comedy worth its salt. He would later write two different novels, with a historical background, based on the experiences of writers he admired. Were The author, the author! (2004), about Henry James who is torn between literary quality and sales and audience success, and A man with attributes (2011) where the literary and love adventures of HG Wells are narrated, the latter published in our country by Impedimenta.
After that, Lodge wrote his own autobiography, a delightful text, full of curiosities and anecdotes, in which he portrays himself in all his facets: as a novelist, as an academic, as a husband and also as the father of his three children. It occupies three volumes: Quite A Good Time to be Born: A Memoir: 1935-1975, Writer’s Luck: A Memoir: 1976-1991 y Varying Degrees of Success: A Memoir 1992-2020.
His essayistic work is equally recommended reading, even for those of us who are not academics. I highlight two gems that should be present in all libraries: The art of fiction (1992, Austral) and The practice of writing (1997), in which, through examples of novels and novelists from different periods, Lodge tells us about the art of writing and also the art of reading, through the analysis and reflection of each case, always playing with surprise factors that delight
David Lodge came to me with Out of the shell (1970), at a time in my life when I read compulsively in English. I couldn’t say why, but I got along with Lodge’s clean and precise prose, with his wordplay and with those endearing characters, antiheroes who, I didn’t know it then, were part of himself. Next, I read the famous trilogy and its previous works to finally read it in chronological order: News from paradise (1991), Therapy (1995), Thinks… (2001).
And in that year 2001 I looked up his email and wrote him an email. Like this: “Hey, excuse me, I don’t know if you’re the writer David Lodge, but in any case, you probably know him.” And David responded to me the next day with some words that, today more than ever, have an inevitable echo of transcendence. “I am the David Lodge you are looking for” (I am the David Lodge you are looking for), as if they were said by way of introduction by a fictional hero, who knows if Bond himself, James Bond. Since then and for more than 20 years, David read my emails and responded to them dutifully, encouraging me to continue writing and warning me of the unpleasantness that comes with a public exhibition, full of competition, such as the exercise of literature.
And finally, in September 2011, we had the opportunity to meet at the La Risa literary festival in Bilbao, where each year an author of “literature with humor” is honored. That year the honoree was David. When asked if he knew any Spanish journalist or writer who could do a public interview in the BBK room, David remembered me, as long as I had the necessary level of English. He did not say it guided by that British phlegm that repudiates the linguistic inaccuracies of non-natives, but simply because he was going deaf and was afraid of not understanding his interlocutor. And perhaps also because he was hopelessly shy and preferred to be interviewed by someone he knew, even if it was only through email.
Of course, I accepted the assignment, not without a thousand fears, and I prepared to fulfill my dream of meeting the master. I discovered that David Lodge, then 76 years old, retained the mischievous manner of that witty but discreet schoolmate we have all known. The one who planned the pranks and made others laugh while escaping the punishment that came later. There was a gleam of perpetual irony in his eyes, a mischievous and disturbing reflection, but his mouth reflected kindness and camaraderie. We hit it off. We walked through the capital of Biscay, we talked about literature, we did that interview in a crowded BBK room and we posed for some photos taken by his wife, Mary, always David’s accomplice. And this is how we have been portrayed for posterity, carrying around our necks the cachirulo that I gave him as a souvenir of my homeland, like two smiling kids of different nationalities.
David Lodge is dead and will never die. No one can die completely if they leave behind a written work as complete and brilliant as theirs. Maybe that’s why we become writers, because we want to be immortal and remain in the existence of others when ours ends, as long as there are readers who want to have sex and not so much want to have children. You know what I mean.