The Naipaul circus

Apart from the finale of the Cricket World Cup, there hasn't been much to laugh at these last couple of weeks. So the presence of VS Naipaul the Writer (obligatory capital) has provided some welcome light relief.

Naipaul and his minder Lady Nadira seem to have been everywhere: the university campus, schools, readings, panel discussions, press conferences, lunches, cocktails. The University of the West Indies has declared 2007 The Year of Naipaul, though a week would probably have been more than enough.

Why did he fall for it, I wonder, given his well-known disdain for his once-native land? Does he secretly crave reconciliation, a prophet finally honoured in his own country? He can't need the money, surely. Or the dubious glory and attention. It can only be that he enjoys performing.

Trinidad seems to have been quite taken aback by the man's rudeness. Questioners and questions were airily dismissed ("that is not a question, do you have another one?") or abused, schoolchildren insulted, academics put down, autograph-hunters sent packing. One of the few people taken seriously by this little bearded figure, dressed in the fashion of half a century ago and armed with an accent the Queen would be proud of, was the ubiquitous media personality Dr Morgan Job. Though if Naipaul had caught sight of Job's latest book, the one he has been personally flogging to departing passengers at Piarco airport, he would certainly have despatched the man to another planet.

So a lot of feathers have been ruffled, and today's "Sunday Express" is even moved to editorialise about Naipaul's conduct. But anyone who knows anything about Naipaul — which should surely include Trinidad's literati, academics and literature teachers — should have known what role the great man most likes to play. Oscar the Grouch has nothing on the old Naipaul. Once he was asked by an interviewer what the little coloured dot means on a Hindu woman's forehead, and he replied that it means her head is empty. Any time a new book is about to be birthed, he gets ten times as bad, because he knows precisely how to attract publicity.

So I can't blame Naipaul for putting on his familiar performance: if anyone, I blame the teachers and academics who led their students into the trap like sheep to the slaughter, vulnerable and unprepared. Can you imagine what it must be like for a writer, after 50 years of work and nearly 30 books, to be asked the same questions for the ten millionth time?

I refused to go to any of these events, because I had a good idea what would happen. And anyway, I hate this idea of the writer as a sort of circus, being trundled around the place by publishers or wellwishers as if he was some sort or oracle dispensing instant wisdom. Naipaul is absolutely right when he says that everything you need to know is in the books, the work speaks for itself, don't ask me damn-fool questions, just go and read the books. Exactly. The writer's job is to stay home and write.

But that, of course, would rob the great man of the chance to give his celebrated performance as the spitting soothsayer.