INTERVIEW:On tour for his novel set during the Roman empire, former political journalist and best-selling author Robert Harris talks frankly about Tony Blair, almost draws a complete blank on Brian Cowen and defends his old friend Roman Polanski, writes ROSITA BOLAND
THE AUTHOR Robert Harris is not sure how many millions of books he has sold. "I have rather lost track," he says, not quite convincingly, as if the question of sales is slightly distasteful. He does know how many languages his books have been translated into, though: 37. "I'm prowling around to try and get to 40," he says. "I'd be very pleased with that." His sales passed the 10 million mark three years ago. His first great success was Fatherland, in 1992, a novel depicting a world in which Germany had won the second World War. Next came Enigma, made into a movie starring Kate Winslet; then Archangel and Pompeii; and Imperium, the first of the Cicero trilogy set in ancient Rome. After that was The Ghost, the film of which Roman Polanski shot earlier this year (about whom more later). All were best-sellers, as Lustrum– the second book in the trilogy, and the reason why he's briefly visiting Ireland – will surely be.
The armchair in the hotel lobby is low, and for most of the interview Harris sits close to the edge of it. He looks older than 52, with an obedient thatch of greying hair. His dark-blue suit is so simple it’s almost invisible, the kind you would never notice in a crowd. It has that classic, subtle look that gives the illusion of being made for the wearer. When he’s thinking about an answer to a question, he stares off into the distance, a stare that initially brings a waiter over, thinking we are in need of service.
Politics and history are the subjects that have defined Harris's career. He read history at Cambridge, and then worked as a reporter for the BBC on Panorama and Newsnightin the 1980s. At the remarkably young age of 30 he became political editor of the Observer, later writing columns for both the Sunday Timesand the Telegraph. Although both Fatherland and Enigma had been published by 1997 and Harris no longer needed to work a day job, he covered Tony Blair on the campaign trail, one of very few journalists given close access to him. He continues to contribute to journalism by writing a weekly book review for the Sunday Times.
Harris may be writing about ancient Rome in his recent fiction, but politics is as much a modern, evergreen theme for writers as love and death. In his new book, which is dedicated to Peter Mandelson, he draws some sly parallels with contemporary British politics.
"The new book is called Lustrumbecause every five years the Roman censors used to clear out the senate, and I think that's about right. Every five years, people want something different, and Labour have been in power 13 years now. People want something new as much as anything else. There is a profound weariness with Labour."
Given that he has never wholly dropped his first career of journalism, he is clearly disgusted – “I think he’s utterly self-absorbed” – that Blair opted out of politics once he stepped down. “I was shocked, but not necessarily surprised that he left the House [of Commons] and then immediately left British politics forever,” he says sternly, looking simultaneously furious and pained. “Alan Bennett had a wonderful phrase for it. He said it was as if being prime minister for Blair ‘was simply a stage on a spiritual journey’.”
Does he follow Irish politics? “No, I’m afraid the complexities of British politics are enough for me,” Harris laughs.
Does he know the current Taoiseach’s name? He rattles off the names of several previous taoisigh, then screws up his eyes and thinks. “I can visualise him,” he offers after a while. What does he see? “Em, he’s sort of shortish,” Harris says hesitantly. “And unprepossessing,” he adds, with more confidence. “I’m trying to remember his name. Oh, what is his name?” I tell him. “He did not impinge on my consciousness, I regret to say.”
Fatherlandwas not the only big British book published in 1992. It was also the year of Fever Pitch, the first of Nick Hornby's many best-sellers. The two authors are brothers-in-law: Harris is married to Hornby's sister, Gill, and they have four children. "We have quite similar views."
What would they be? “I think a certain anti-elitism?” Harris says. “A dislike of the – inverted commas – ‘literary novel’.” How would he define “literary novel”? Harris thinks. “I’m not sure that it’s easy to categorise, but you know it when you see it,” he laughs.
So, do you know it when you see it, or know it when you read it? “Well, both really,” is the answer, after a long pause. “There are novels that come along and you know they just have to win literary prizes, because in literary terms they’re flawless, and yet in a certain way they do not survive. They are like orchids. They bloom, they’re beautiful, and in a strange way they aren’t alive.”
He has a lot more to say about literary fiction, including this bizarre line. “There can be a tendency for the novel in English that if it sells a few copies, then that is a badge of honour. It’s not always the case, but it can be. Do you know what I mean?”
My reply is that I have never yet met a writer who doesn’t want to sell more copies of their books. Despite selling millions of books, it seems Harris still has some hang-up about writing genre fiction versus what he would himself term literary novels. It seems ungenerous, given his own vast success.
A few years ago, himself and Gill viewed Toddington Manor, an 1820 Gothic mansion in Gloucestershire with 300 rooms. It was eventually bought by artist Damian Hirst, who has reportedly since spent £10 million renovating it.
“I looked at it, but my wife wouldn’t have taken it for a minute,” he says wistfully. “I have insane rushes of blood to the head, and my wife is very clever about letting me pursue these fantasies until they run their course and expire. They often concern houses. She doesn’t see the point of fast cars, or two-seater cars when you have a family. She doesn’t drink, so she doesn’t see why you should spend money on wine. She’s sensible really, is what I’m saying.” Gill drives the family car. Harris drives an Aston Martin.
So what does he spend money on, apart from the odd sports car? He collects art and sculpture. “I’ve just bought an Epstein bust of Somerset Maugham. It’s a beady-eyed, slightly sinister piece of work. He was not a very nice man at all, Somerset Maugham. But he was a professional writer. And he casts a baleful eye upon me every day. And he always worked every morning, which is something I try to do.”
He also has a 1943 Jack Yeats painting. “It’s quite small – a view of a bay. We used to go and stay at lot at Ballymaloe, in Cork, and Myrtle had a lot of Jack Yeats on the walls – in fact, I think she knew him – and that was when I first noticed him. I think they’ve got fantastic atmosphere.”
Now comes the part of the interview where Harris sits right back in the armchair, stops smiling, and looks defensive. The topic is Roman Polanski, whom Harris has been a controversially outspoken supporter of since his arrest in Zurich in September for an outstanding warrant for unlawful sexual conduct with a 13-year-old girl in 1977.
In an opinion piece for the New York Times, Harris wrote that when he heard the news of Polanski's arrest, he felt "almost physically sick . . . I make no apology for feeling desperately sorry for him. The almost pornographic relish with which his critics are retelling the lurid details of the assault (strange behaviour, one might think, for those who profess concern for the victim) makes it hard to consider the case rationally."
First, he says he doesn’t want to discuss Polanski’s situation, and then he starts talking and keeps going. “I spent a lot of time with him, and I got to know him very well, and I got to know his children. He knows mine. Remembers them all by name.”
Later, I play the recording back to be certain I’ve got this line correct. Why make a point of stressing that someone who knows your children also remembers their names? If Harris wasn’t a celebrity in his own right, I’d describe it as a comment of the star-struck.
“I believe, therefore, that I came to know him,” Harris continues, in suddenly very formal language. “Therefore, whatever happened in the past, I know him not to be some terrible monster. I feel great human sympathy, therefore, for seeing a friend thrown into jail in this way. I’ve seen the devastating effects it has had on his family. I find it very upsetting what’s happened to him.
“I have no hesitation in standing up for him in my words, and I will continue to do so. There’s a lynch-mob mentality abroad about him. There are far worse things that people might direct their attention to. Not least the crimes officially committed by people. You know the United States was only recently encouraging torture, as we saw at Abu Ghraib and the things that were happening there.”
There is, in all this, the sense that these are lines he has repeated often in the past few weeks, of a rehearsed statement being made. Harris also wrote in the New York Timesthat "what happened cannot be excused, either legally or ethically". He listens as I read his words back.
“Things can’t necessarily be excused, but they can be understood, or they could be put in context,” he argues.
“In theory, it could be possible that you can be friends with someone who has done something terrible in the past. That’s not impossible, is it? And one has to see a life of 76 years in all its context, of all the things that have occurred to him.” Then there is a long incantation of Polanski’s life story.
“Of course I don’t excuse sex with a 13-year-old,” he says eventually, and then there is a long pause. “I don’t think it’s the right thing to do. But you know, 32 years have passed and now the question becomes: what is the fit and proper punishment by society to this? Is it to jail him for for the rest of his life? I say no. You may say differently.”
Lustrum, by Robert Harris, is published by Hutchinson, £12.99
