Some people are sustained by sorrow.
I think I’m one of them.
That’s why I laugh so much.
That’s why I’m called a clown.
And that’s the deep dark reason why
I am accounted frivolous.
In his first collection of poetry after a career as a novelist spanning five decades, Paul Bailey offers in Inheritance an intimate reckoning. The poems mine memories of childhood, illness and lost loves with unflinching honesty, a generous humour born of self-knowledge, and great depth of feeling.
‘Unsentimental, funny, affectionate, deeply moving, the poems read almost off-the-cuff but work at levels of exactness, kindness and observation that throw open a whole closed century of English class-shift and time-shift, in a loving and piercing evocation of family, childhood, love, loss, sangfroid, survival, and with a celebration of all openness, especially openness to our losses and mortalities. Inheritance is quite an inheritance: a slim, calm volume whose resonance is huge.’
– Ali Smith, New Statesman 'Books of the Year'
‘Bailey has mastered the art of telling a large story through small but piquant details and knowing where the reader can be left to fill in the spaces.’
‘Bailey writes exquisitely about everything he touches on.’
– Sunday Times