James Fenton (left) and Darryl Pinckney
James Fenton, Poet and Journalist: It was quite clear from the word “go” that we’d hit it off, and so we made that the basis of our lives together. I don’t remember kissing him on the neck, but it sounds like a very appropriate thing to do—I’m glad I did! We met up in Paris shortly after, and that was it, really. Somebody once said to me that if you’re not sure whether you are in love or not, then you’re not, and I would go along with that. Love feels like a kind of certainty.
Pinckney: James is very English. Some of his snacks make me think of 1950s austerity Britain, and my heart breaks: Marmite on crackers that you can’t imagine wanting to taste. And sometimes, when I’ve been away and come back, he’s had things that he can’t have around me, like game and oxtail and offal—English things. And you think of these sad heaters that you have to put these heavy coins in that you see in black-and-white films—that gray dampness. And then the stoicism is just maddening.
Fenton: I don’t eat a lot of Marmite! Darryl thinks it’s weird to eat cheese. He has a very special take on truth. The only thing that recommends cheese to him is if it’s completely processed, as in cheeseburger cheese. But if it’s a cheese of merit, he hates it, and soft cheese is particularly horrible to him.
Pinckney: You don’t get psychodrama from James, which is also very English, but he has a very faithful and reassuring presence. He takes in knowledge all the time and doesn’t forget anything he’s read. Now that we’re both beginning to lose our hearing, there’s a lot of “What did you say?” But we never argue. I have displays of bad character, but we don’t argue, because he’s always right. That’s very annoying. Also, I’ve not used a dictionary in 26 years—I just ask him. This is life in James-land. We’re the luckiest people alive.
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