From hippies to death metal and MPs, one book seems to rule them all but, oh, how I wish it didn’t
This is a true story that sounds made up. When Ian McEwan’s latest novel, Lessons, was published, I interviewed him at a live event in London, during which the conversation ranged from the fall of the Berlin Wall to Brexit. Afterwards, I went for dinner with a friend and, because many of the capital’s roads were closed in preparation for the Queen’s funeral, we ran a little late. Apologising profusely, my pal explained what I had been doing to the cheerful and accommodating young woman bringing us our drinks. The effect was galvanic. “No!” she exclaimed. “Not really! That’s just amazing!” It was indeed, I agreed; I’d had a terrific night. “I mean,” she continued, “Gandalf!”
I have since relayed these events to McEwan, who was both amused and delightfully sanguine about being confused with Ian McKellen. As we know, even the most famous and distinguished writer cannot compete with the celebrity conferred by Hollywood.
