Books of the Month

'Somewhere Towards the End' by Diana Athill

Getting old is no laughing matter. Or at least, not all the time. Diana Athill's frank autobiographical book looks ageing, and approaching death, squarely in the eye. Written when she was in her eighties (by the time she won the Costa Biography of the Year Award for the book earlier this year, she was ninety-one) it's exactly the kind of unflinching, humane and bittersweet study we've come to expect from the accomplished memoirist and former editor. In Somewhere Towards the End she examines her realisation that there are certain things she just won't be around to see (like the palm she's just bought growing to maturity in her garden), how age inevitably deprives her of some things (the precious freedom of driving, for instance), and how it changes the nature of relationships with those around you (when you suddenly have to care for them, or they for you). 

If you thought this might be a collection of soft focus musings more in keeping with The Lady magazine though, think again. Athill, as ever, is blunt about sex and relationships - this time about how she first lost her sexual drive, then recovered it for a while, then lost it again. Men shift from lovers to friends, to carers or people needing care. Most honest, perhaps, is her admission of her own longing for the freedom of time on her own, doing her own 'selfish' things, instead of caring for loved ones. She also acknowledges that, lacking the funds for a plush nursing home, if her final decline is a gradual rather than a suden one, then she'll be heading for the local geriatric ward.

One thing which has kept Athill going (and, it seems, the generally long-living family she comes from) is what she calls a 'built-in resilience'. Good luck doesn't just come from what's around us, she argues, but what's inside us too. She's grateful for having been born with the positive temperament that's now helping her handle getting old better than some of her contemporaries. I for one will certainly count myself extremely lucky if I ever reach ninety in such good shape: clear-sighted, unburdened by regrets, and sharp as a pin.

Susan Tranter

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