D
D.M. Procida
Guest
Last week I went to see _The Flying Scotsman_, and I've just finished
reading Obree's autobiography. I thought the film was a little
simple-minded, particularly about his mental illness, but it was moving
and warm-hearted and painted a sympathetic portrait of a troubled man.
The book is not going to win the author any literary prizes, but it's
very honest and clearly Obree's own voice (rather than that of some
back-page tabloid ghost-writing hack). He has an odd trait of using a
distinctive word or phrase in successive sentences, as though he felt he
had not quite finished the job of wrestling it onto the page. It's not
unlike his own struggle with his achievements, and the feeling that
anything he attained remained elusive all the same.
He is frank and utterly unself-pitying, even when writing about the
bleakest times. I can't actually say I read the book with enjoyment,
which seems a too-frivolous word. But I warmed to him greatly, and his
openness and straightforwardness attest to the same courage that
accompanied him on his often desperate endeavours on the track and road.
The book ends in 2003, after a series of hospitalisations, and on a
quiet note of optimism. I hope he has managed to find the happiness and
balance which seems to have eluded him for much of his life, but anyone
who has to fight such a cruel illness is never going to attain that
easily.
It's his birthday on Tuesday; he'll be 43. Happy birthday.
Daniele
reading Obree's autobiography. I thought the film was a little
simple-minded, particularly about his mental illness, but it was moving
and warm-hearted and painted a sympathetic portrait of a troubled man.
The book is not going to win the author any literary prizes, but it's
very honest and clearly Obree's own voice (rather than that of some
back-page tabloid ghost-writing hack). He has an odd trait of using a
distinctive word or phrase in successive sentences, as though he felt he
had not quite finished the job of wrestling it onto the page. It's not
unlike his own struggle with his achievements, and the feeling that
anything he attained remained elusive all the same.
He is frank and utterly unself-pitying, even when writing about the
bleakest times. I can't actually say I read the book with enjoyment,
which seems a too-frivolous word. But I warmed to him greatly, and his
openness and straightforwardness attest to the same courage that
accompanied him on his often desperate endeavours on the track and road.
The book ends in 2003, after a series of hospitalisations, and on a
quiet note of optimism. I hope he has managed to find the happiness and
balance which seems to have eluded him for much of his life, but anyone
who has to fight such a cruel illness is never going to attain that
easily.
It's his birthday on Tuesday; he'll be 43. Happy birthday.
Daniele
