Stan Grant

1 week ago | thesaturdaypaper.com.au | Stan Grant

In 1979, I was entering my last years of school and The Clash released their landmark album London Calling. It became the soundtrack of my emerging political awareness. Its startling array of jazz, blues, rockabilly, ska, reggae, funk and disco, with a punk attitude and energy, was a cry of anguish from a generation who had lived with the Cold War fear of nuclear war. The Ice Age is coming, The Clash told us. We need to brace for meltdown.

3 weeks ago | thesaturdaypaper.com.au | Stan Grant

In his novel Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie’s protagonist, Saleem Sinai, is “mysteriously handcuffed to history”. His destiny is indissolubly chained to his country, India. Rushdie has said he wanted to pose the question: do we make history or does history make or unmake us? Sinai, Rushdie writes, believes everything that happens, happens because of him. According to Rushdie, Sinai believes “history is his fault”. Rushdie considers it an absurd notion.

1 month ago | thesaturdaypaper.com.au | Stan Grant

I have just returned from a writers’ festival in Auckland and I am still processing the experience. I was humbled to be among several writers to deliver the opening night address. Each of us was tasked with riffing on the theme “The moment I knew”. There were some lovely reflections, some funny or heartening. Others were terribly sad. Each writer approached it with honesty and generosity. I had something in mind that I thought was interesting – amusing, if on the safe side – but this required more.

1 month ago | thesaturdaypaper.com.au | Stan Grant

The late Sir Roger Scruton was always among the most admirable and dignified defenders of the tradition of conservatism. He was a British scholar of dignity, humility, intellect and grace. He embodied a timeless gentility and manners. He was a civil cup of tea in a world of political hemlock. Scruton was always worth reading and listening to, whether or not one agreed with his perspective. He is especially worth revisiting now.

2 months ago | thesaturdaypaper.com.au | Stan Grant

He sang “Danny Boy”, my pa. He would stand straight, shoulders back with his chest puffed out and his lips all mushy and sticking out, and from his body would come the sweetest tenor. But when ye come and all the flowers are dying, If I am dead, as dead I well may be, You’ll come and find the place where I am lying, And kneel and say an Ave there for me. I barely knew my grandfather; he died when I was young. Everyone said he loved to sing.