David Lodge, Author Extraordinaire: 1935-2025

My favorite author, David Lodge, died on January 1, 2025. Below is an essay I wrote about him. He would have turned 90 years old today.

David Lodge 1935-2025 In Memorium

 

I have never understood why certain things aren’t more popular: the music of the Bodeans, living in

medium-sized Midwestern cities, and the novels of David Lodge. In the case of Lodge’s books, ever since

I fortuitously pulled How Far Can You Go?off the shelf of the Peoria Public Library some 35 years ago, his novels have been one of the great joys

of my reading life. Funny, accessible, edifying—they hit every sweet spot I have as a reader.

 

So it was with sadness that I learned from the NY Times (buried many articles down in the book section)

that Mr. Lodge died on January 1, 2025, a few weeks shy of his 90thbirthday. Besides writing novels, short stories, essays, and criticism. Mr. Lodge also taught from 1960 to

1987 in the English department at the University of Birmingham in England before he retired to write

full time. Many of his novels mined his own life for material. His most famous works, the campus trilogy—Changing Places, Small World, and Nice Work (the last two short-listed for the Booker Prize)— took inspiration from his time as an academic.

They make me laugh no matter how many times I reread them.

 

For me, the past year had its challenges with family medical issues, and for a spot of pleasure while

navigating the health care systems, I reread almost all his 14 novels. They also served as the basis of my

annual Christmas letter in which I looked at the year through the prism of his writings. Mr. Lodge was a

Catholic, as am I, but not an unconflicted one, and he used this ambivalence to humorous effect. As I

culled quotes from his books, I was reminded that much of his humor is of the darker variety. For

example, from Paradise News:

 

“These people look cheerful enough,” said Bernard, gesturing at the passengers waiting to board the flight to Honolulu.  

 

“An artificial cheerfulness,” said Sheldrake. “Fueled by double martinis in many cases, I wouldn’t be

surprised. They know how people going on vacation are supposed to behave. They have learned how to

do it. Look deep into their eyes and you will see anxiety and dread.”

  

“Look deep into anybody’s eyes, and that’s what you will see. Look into mine,” Bernard thought of saying.

 

Despite the black humor, most of his novels end if not happily than with hope, a welcome salve during

these interesting times.

 

Many tributes to David Lodge contained words of praise for his kindness to his students, colleagues, and

journalists. I can report that this characteristic extended to his readers. He graciously responded to an

email I sent him in 2020. Here is the email I sent.

28 May 2020

 

Dear Professor Lodge,

 

It was a red letter day for me, more than--can it be?--30 years ago, when at random I pulled from the library shelves in Peoria, Illinois "Souls and Bodies", as it is known in the U.S. You had me, a young, liberal Catholic, at: "Rising an hour earlier than usual, in cold bed-sitters far out in the suburbs, they travel fasting on crowded buses and trains, dry-mouth, weak with hunger, and nauseated by cigarette smoke, to be present at this unexciting ritual in a cold, gloomy church at the grey, indifferent heart of London. Why?"

 

For me, it was the start of a wonderful relationship with all of your novels, many of your essays, and your recent memoirs. Your books have given me much enjoyment, laughter, comfort, and reasons to think about important subjects. They have accompanied me through my adult life and I have come to think of them almost as friends. When I burst into laughter while reading, my 17-year-old son will say, "David Lodge again, mom?" 

 

This is an overdue letter of thanks to you for writing your books. They have been a great gift in my life, as I know they have for so many others. I am certain they will be read far into the future.

 

It is greedy for me to want more, but I would welcome a third installation of your memoirs or anything that you might care to write. If not, I am grateful to you for your life's work.

 

I hope that you and your family are well during this strange time. 

 

With much gratitude,

 

Maria Carroll

And here is his lovely reply.

30 May 2020

 

Dear Maria,

             Thank you very much for the letter you sent me via my agent, Simon Blakey, which he promptly forwarded to me. Such letters from a reader to an author, of which I have received a precious few, are rare and greatly treasured by their recipient. They are not just “fan letters” but obviously sincere and carefully written testimonials to the positive effect of the writer’s work on a particular reader.  Yours is particularly welcome to this writer. In January of this year I reached the age of 85.  Novelists tend to lose some of their creative power in old age, which is not surprising, as the brain inevitably begins to lose some of its functionality. Only a few geniuses have complete avoided that fate, and I am not in that category.  I would like to write another novel after Deaf Sentence,  and keep making notes for such a project, but so far I am not convinced that these ideas will work. So lately I have been writing my memoirs instead, and I am very pleased to hear that you have enjoyed them. I am now writing the third volume, and have got up to the beginning of the second millennium. I was very interested to learn that it was reading Souls and Bodies that first turned you on to my other novels. It’s one of my books for which I have a special fondness not only because its subject matter was something I felt I could write truthfully about, but also because of the style in which it was written, which was an experiment for me, but I think worked well. So thanks again for giving me a morale-boosting testimonial. I particularly cherish your son’s comment  “David Lodge again, mom?” when you laugh at one of my books.  

 

                                             With best wishes,

                                                             David Lodge

 

We owe a debt to people who make us laugh. The best way I can think to repay this debt is to exhort

you to check out one of David Lodge's novels if you haven't had the chance. You will sing me hosannas,

I promise.

Imitation is the highest form of flattery (and a literary device Professor Lodge employed to hilarious

effect in The British Museum is Falling and Thinks. . .). To celebrate and honor David Lodge, below is a passage that attempts to emulate him.

 

On the first day of 2025, Maeve Sprinklehope looked out the window of her seat on the Boeing 777 and shivered at the grey and damp environs of Rummidge, the England metropolis where she worked as a linguistics professor at the university. Though Maeve has mostly abandoned the superstitions of her childhood Irish-Catholic faith—the most virulent form—ground into her by her unquestioning mum and dad (and centuries’ worth of ancestors before them) and she knows the safety record of the major airline carriers, some vestiges of the old beliefs must remain in her DNA as she can’t help sending up a prayer for the wellbeing of the flight and especially the pilots who will be in charge. If in fact humans are any more directly flying the planes as she seems to remember hearing a story about pilots sleeping in the cockpit. Whatever the case, she is looking forward to returning to the sunny climes of Euphoric State, where she will spend a glorious semester as a visiting professor. Despite the efficiencies of the age, the unexpected fog has socked in the plane. Maeve sighs. Flight delays. They are the cause of that familiar academic mindset, ambivalence. Frustration and impatience on the one hand that we are behind schedule and having to waste time sitting on the boring and bleak tarmac. But gratitude and appreciation on the other that the authorities in charge realize the import of their responsibilities and are taking such care with the lift off. To head off any grumbling, the flight attendants have thoughtfully broken out the drink trolley. Though earlier in the day, Maeve had sternly told herself that she would not imbibe on the plane she feels her firm purpose of amendment weakening. She listens carefully to the other passengers’ orders for either resolve or permission, she’s not quite sure. The requests for gin and tonics, vodka gimlets, and white wine spritzers fill the air. It doesn’t seem to be a very abstemious bunch, even at the beginning of the year.  “A whiskey sour, please,” she says meekly. With drink in hand, Maeve settles in, and her thoughts wander to the inspiration for her creation. She smiles and lifts her glass. “To David Lodge.”