State Representative David Bly, District 25B

I had a saddening surprise this last week when I went looking for a reference to my writing tutor at Oxford University and discovered his obituary. I met him in 1973 when I went to Oxford University as part of the St. Olaf foreign studies program. He became my writing tutor and mentor and generously shared with me his time and interests. Iron age pottery, fragments of a gone world, bones of a Roman soldier, the intrigue of Hong Kong - his childhood home, mysterious manuscripts, the magic one can create with your mind. He was very encouraging and heaped praise on my writing. Generous also with his colleagues, he introduced me to Ted Hughes, George MacBeth, Robert Graves and several other prominent British writers. He brought me to a seminar with Andrew Harvey and Andrew Motion, both young poets my age, and since then, Andrew Motion has become the poet laureate of England, having taken the post after Ted Hughes’ death; Andrew Harvey is a well respected author and translator of mystical poets like Rumi.

Martin was generous to young writers and told me often, “I might not be a great writer but it is my hope to find them.” He had piercing eyes, liked being dramatic, told great stories, and liked going fast in his Spitfire letting his long hair blow back. He liked giving you that feeling that life was important, that your life was important, that words were powerful and knowing how to use them made you a powerful force for good or evil. He was on the side of good but was intent on keeping a keen eye on what could be evil, not only in others, but in ourselves as well. He knew we are all capable of evil and believed that only being keenly aware of what evil is can protect you from becoming the evil you despise.

I knew him only a short while — those six months in Oxford — but he left a lasting impression on me. I communicated with him a few times, sending him poems or a letter. He always responded with exclamations. “My God!! You must write. Your poems are amazing.” But I always shelved them away, not ready to share them with others. I regret I was not able to speak to him one more time, hear his voice filled with excitement and a vital sense of what the future must hold for everyone willing to work hard. He never scolded, only urged me to do what I seemed reluctant to do. “You must publish! What are you waiting for? - To be discovered!?”

He died of a brain tumor Feb. 14th at 59, eight years my senior. He seemed much older when I knew him. The London Telegraph says, he “cast his net wide as a novelist, biographer, children’s author and social historian. . . viewed himself as an artisan rather than an artist, and appeared mildly surprised when one of his novels was nominated for the Booker Prize in 1998.” It was not until he gave up on poetry and wrote fiction that he became a successful writer and left regular teaching, though he never tired of teaching - something he was always doing. When I knew him, he was wondering why no one was writing a novel about Vietnam. Hiroshima Joe a novel about a war survivor, was his first big success.

Other novels followed, among them A Very Private Gentleman (1991), set in rural Italy, and Adrift in the Oceans of Mercy (1996), about a Russian cosmonaut marooned in outer space. The Industry of Souls (1998) tells the story of a British businessman sentenced to 20 years’ hard labour in a Russian gulag for spying. It was deemed unsellable by Booth’s then agent; so the author took it to Dewi Lewis, in Stockport, an agency which had almost no experience of handling novels and which paid him £1,000. When the book was finally published, no one gave it a review. This was the novel which went on to make the shortlist for the Booker Prize in 1998.

The book was inspired by a visit Booth made to St Petersburg in 1994. “I went to the huge war cemetery there,” he recalled. “I found it very depressing, but also uplifting. There was an old man walking around. I looked at him and had that feeling you get when you see old people: what have you seen? I often start with a character, rather than a set narrative structure, and it develops organically from there.” Islands of Silence (2003), a novel about World War 1, is prefaced by the Emily Dickinson quote, “This is my letter to the World that never wrote to Me-”

Booth wrote a number of books for children, including War Dog (1997); Music on the Bamboo Radio (1998); Panther (1999); POW (2000); and Dr Illuminatus (2003).

Among his works of non-fiction are Rhino Road (1992); The Dragon and the Pearl: a Hong Kong notebook (1994); Opium: a history (1996); The Doctor, The Detective and Arthur Conan Doyle (1997); The Dragon Syndicates: the global phenomenon of the Triads (1999); and Cannabis: a history (2003).

He also wrote literary criticism - his British Poetry, 1964-1984, published in 1985, has become a standard text at schools and universities - film scripts and articles for newspapers and magazines, and he contributed to wildlife documentaries.

From 1968 to 1981 Booth ran the Sceptre Press, an imprint under which he published more than 400 poetry titles, including work by Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath, Brian Patten, and Seamus Heaney.

He was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 1980, a Fellow Commoner of St Peter’s College, Oxford, in 1972, and a Fellow Commoner of Corpus Christi, Cambridge, in 1980.

Sixteen months ago Martin Booth was diagnosed with a brain tumour; despite this, he continued to write, completing two further children’s books and an autobiography about his childhood in Hong Kong.

He married, in 1968, Helen Barber, who helped with the research for all his books; she survives him with their son and daughter. (London Telegraph, 2004)

Poet, Alan Brownjohn wrote the obituary in the Guardian,
Novelist and poet with a sharp eye for authenticity

Here is a recent poem I wrote remembering him:

Angle of Variation

Many assume what brought my mother and father together
Was their size, she was 4′11″ he was 5′3″. But I am quite certain
That was not the deciding factor.

In a crumbling world they were both survivors, and the fragile
Nature of their mutual existence made what each had to offer
The other, a matter of necessity.

Survival for me is a mystery, fortunate for me it has never been a question.
My father’s survival was always a physical threat and for my mother
Always psychological, she kept him alive and this nurtured her.

Ancient sailors calculated their course by understanding the variation
Of magnetic north from true north. This was the role he played for her
And when he passed away her compass swung around as though

The magnetic field had suddenly reversed itself. Causing all of our
Souls to cast about like ships unable to find safe harbor.
The emptiness in the eyes of everyone I meet astounds me.

The woman today who told me her sad story of survival which changed
Only when she found the blend of Sicilian and Irish anger in her blood
That pushed her to change everything and stand up to prove everyone wrong

Or my friend who taught me to believe in my writing again and urged me
To do as he had done, write with mad discipline that would keep the train
On the rails just ahead of the exploding ambushes.

It made me stop and shiver in my shoes accidentally discovering his obituary:
He survived against dire predictions a cancer in the brain,
Enduring pain and disappointment to finish his last books

until in the middle of the night, the angle closed and death took him.