Clive James, sex and revolution

One year ago, on November 24, 2019, the great man of letters, comedian, and raconteur, Clive James, died.  

I won’t even pretend to be impartial. Ever since I was fourteen, every sentence I’ve ever written has been an attempt to write like Clive James. His command of the language, his ability to balance a sentence, his promiscuous and prodigious consumption of both popular and high culture—all of it I found exhilarating. I was sad to see him go. 

The status of “needing no introduction” is one James held for a good three decades, at least in Australia and Britain. I suspect an introduction is now owed, at least to younger readers.  

James was a member of that remarkable generation of Australian…