We spent election results night in the company of Arundhati Roy, on the last stop of her UK book tour at Manchester’s Royal Northern College of Music.
She walked out to rapturous applause, put a hand over her heart, and leant to the microphone. “Congratulations on the momentum,” she said in her soft, musical voice. Raucous cheering and whooping. “Keep it going.”
In the violet light I took notes of the gems that fell from her mouth.
“The essays I wrote after God of Small Things began to deepen my way of seeing. Whether fiction or non-fiction, I wanted to do what I could do best: tell the story. Blow open the spaces that were closing down.”
“Fiction is not an argument. Fiction is a universe.”
“My characters are full of porous borders. You can’t tell the truth…except in fiction.”
“We need literature, art, music; they are acts of shamanism. We need those acts now, as much as analysis.”
“I think it’s important we remain dangerous. When I’m writing, I don’t think about the best seller list, or the number of copies sold. The test is to be dangerous.”
We walked out of the concert hall into the watercolour night. Stood gazing at the clear twilight sky. Crossed the road and wandered into the cosy warmth of The Salutation aka ‘The Sally’, a favourite local pub. In 1846 a girl accompanied her father to Manchester and stayed there. While her father had cataract surgery, she stayed in their lodgings and began writing a novel. A little tale called, Jane Eyre.
When we got home I wasn’t surprised to find stars in my eyes. Went to bed, hungry for sleep after a few sleepless nights. Drifted off deeply grateful for the safety in my home, the food in my belly, and the life I live.
Here’s to hope, and resilience, wildflowers.