Colm Tóibín – Favourite Things

Colm Tóibín is an Irish novelist, poet and critic. His work has been nominated multiple times for the Booker Prize and won the Costa Novel and Impac Awards, amongst others. Tóibín has worked as a journalist, published nine novels, two collections of stories, multiple plays and numerous works of non-fiction and criticism. He has also held teaching positions at Princeton, the University of Manchester and Columbia University and had his work translated into thirty languages. Tóibín’s latest novel, The Magician, is out in paperback now.

Tennis

In the last decade, I have begun to play tennis again. I wish I could say that my game was slower now that I am older, or even more elegant, or that my shots were more precise. My game is exactly the same as when I was seventeen. If I think too hard, I fail to place the ball and hit it out instead. I get my first serve in only sporadically. I have no style. But I will run after anything. I will try and hit any ball back. I probably lob the ball more than I used to. At my age — I will be sixty-seven soon — I should probably play doubles rather than singles. My only bow to advancing age is that I try not to play for much more than an hour. But as the game comes to an end, I always feel sorry.

Chamber Music

I don’t listen to symphonic music much anymore, except the music of Sibelius. There was a time when I loved Mahler’s symphonies; now I can only listen to his songs. With Beethoven, I love the chamber music and the opera Fidelio. With Schubert, I love the chamber music and songs. I make an exception for cello concertos, however, and I still love Dvorak’s and Elgar’s, and also Boccherini’s and the cello concertos of Hadyn. (Oh, I forgot to say that I love almost all of Bach.) New York is good for chamber music. The audience at the Sunday five o’clock concerts at the Alice Tully Hall in Lincoln Center goes super-quiet when the music starts and stays like that while the music plays.

Swimming

I didn’t like swimming when I was small. This is because it was done in the Irish Sea, and it is cold. On a grimly overcast summer’s day, you would allow the water to get up to your ankles and then your knees. But it was impossible to imagine — because the water was so cold — that you would soon have to dive in, immerse yourself in the water. And other children threatened to splash you if you didn’t get in. The Mediterranean came as such a surprise after the Irish Sea, the water silky and inviting, the waves seldom too high. And then I began to like the idea of jumping into cold water, of being brave. And later again, I learned how to deal with the Pacific Ocean. You treat it with immense respect. It really would like to get you. So, you stand near the shore and let each wave knock you over. I don’t know why that gives me such pleasure. It may be the company and the high, clear sky, the lovely Californian sun. But, whatever it is, I have come to like getting wet after all these years.

Seafood

One day in 1972, a day-boy at our boarding school came with a present of food for the boy at the desk in front of me, who was his cousin. It was a big bag of cooked scallops. I had never tasted anything like them. Even though we lived near the sea, we never ate seafood. There was even a myth that it was dangerous. I didn’t eat a plate of prawns and garlic until I went to live in Spain. Although I can’t cook, I can cook prawns. If I could shuck oysters, I would eat them all the time. Back in Ireland, I discovered the humble lobster. I wouldn’t dare try to cook one, but in New York, there is a restaurant called The Pearl in Cornelia Street that serves the best-grilled lobster in town. 

Bridge

Soon, I am going to find a way of playing bridge again. Too many years have gone by while making this promise and doing nothing about it. I began to play when I was a teenager, and I think the game has had an influence on how I think, and even how I write. I like how bridge does not depend on luck. There is a right way to play a hand. If you take a risk, and if you know enough, you can base what you are doing on mathematical probabilities. If you are the declarer, you soon see your partner’s entire hand facing upwards on the table. It is agreed that you can now take a minute to work out a strategy. You plan everything now, as a novelist might plan a novel. You might need to change your plan as the cards are played, but what you do must be deliberate and based on evidence. This is very good training for the mind.

Enjoyed Colm Tóibín’s favourites? Explore last week’s Favourite Things here.