John le Carré, for my money, is one of the finest – if not the finest – writers of the past 45 years. Growing up in Spain in the 70s, I remember that even the self-appointed literati were in awe of his books, but because his novels were often mass-marketed as spy thrillers, and because he was so commercially successful, they had to keep their reluctant admiration in the closet. I mean, there were even popular TV series based on his novels!
Furthermore, Le Carré never seemed interested in playing a part in the media games that often ruin gifted writers. He was, and is, the real deal. He writes, and instead of kissing arse, he kicks it – big time. Any decent novelist should gladly give an arm or two to have written any of the novels he wrote from the 70s on, or just a few of his paragraphs.
He is still producing work of a quality that puts the rest of us to shame. He has style, wit and worlds to tell. This week he was shortlisted for the International Man Booker prize. With characteristic elegance, he asked to be removed from the list since he doesn't compete for literary prizes as if he were a racehorse. It seems to me that no award could do Le Carré justice anyway. He has already won the race many times over, and I can only hope that he never retires and keeps showing us what great literature means.
