Not Entitled: A Memoir, by Frank Kermode (Farrar, 263 pp., $23)
READING Mr. Kermode’s retrospective on his eventful life, we are to believe that most of that life has been a pose, that his rich oeuvre of critical studies belie his having procured his advantages by pretense, by somehow convincing the deciding authorities at every major turn in his career that he was smarter than he really was. This humility is a curious stance for someone who has been one of the guiding lights for those earnest for literary vocations. Born in 1919 on the Isle of Man, Kermode rose from a laboring-class background, taking odd jobs like clerk and ship’s purser, playing his part in World War II. While he treats his family with reverent affection, he reveals many disruptions, noting that “few are now disposed to underestimate the potential horrors of family life, but I . . . wish that my family had been more skillful at the game of hiding them from others.” He landed eventually at Cambridge, “where a cauldron of unholy hates hissed all around me,” with “learned authors who shuffle, cough ink, and read Calvin.” Missing are discussions of his own weighty contributions to the literary profession; there is nary a word about his own books. But he does discuss his controversial days as literary editor of Encounter as well as his struggles over the English-literature curriculum at Cambridge. This beautifully written—even lovingly written—book is chock-full of colorful anecdotes and poignant reminiscences of family, friends, and colleagues that make a shortish memoir read like a picaresque novel. —Tracy Lee Simmons
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