The Outsider: My Life in Intrigue
Frederick Forsyth
Penguin
Pp 368
Rs 399
I WAS apprehensive at the prospect of reviewing the autobiography of one of my literary heroes because, as the saying goes, “Don’t meet your heroes for they might disappoint you”. Frederick Forsyth has clearly lived a life that would make James Bond turn a bright shade of green. The Outsider: My Life In Intrigue rushes through the action as if Forsyth was in hot pursuit of a Bond villain.
The book opens with a literal bang when Forsyth describes his childhood in Kent, which, being at the edge of England, was the recipient of a lot of violent attention from Hitler’s Germany. He cleverly places his life within the overall context of the prevailing political and social landscape. Forsyth’s dreary life as a schoolboy in dull, grey England is in direct contrast with his burning desire to take to the skies as a member of the Royal Air Force. There are delicious vignettes of how he managed to get a pilot’s licence whilst still in his teens, while at the same time being obsessed with learning a plethora of languages. Forsyth’s unquenchable thirst for adventure leads him down a num
ber of interesting alleyways all over the world, but I wish he had lingered a little longer while describing all of this.
The 60-chapter book structure is a departure from regular autobiographies that tend to have lesser number of chapters and are more ponderous in nature.
Forsyth’s time as a journalist—first with Reuters in Europe and later at the BBC—takes him to the heart of conflict all over the world. He recounts his interactions with, and impressions of, world figures as diverse as David Ben Gurion, the founder of the State of Israel, and Emeka Ojukwu, the leader of the Republic of Biafra. There’s a delightful anecdote about how British-governed, crude oil-rich Nigeria had descended into chaos in the late 1960s. Ojukwu was exploiting this to his advantage by negotiating oil prices with BP-Shell, while simultaneously receiving arms from Charles de Gaulle-led France. To complicate matters further, Forsyth does finally admit after years of speculation that he was, indeed, at times, an MI6 asset on the ground, operating under the garb of an investigative reporter.
The thriller writer shines through in moments like: “A dozen years after the Biafra war, I found myself in a London bar with a long-term veteran of the SAS regiment. Out of the blue, he remarked: ‘You owe me a large one.’ If someone like that tells you he is owed a drink, do not argue. Just go to the bar and buy him a double. So I did. When he had taken a deep draught I asked him why. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘I once had your head in the cross-hairs of my scope sight, and I didn’t pull the trigger.’”
Forsyth ended up broke at the end of his adventures as a journalist, but did not realise at the time that the richness of his experiences from the world over would provide him with the much-needed grist for the writer’s mill. A recurring theme in Forsyth’s life is the role of luck. Writing came to him similarly. Increasingly disillusioned by the politics of being a political reporter in Africa, he decided to chuck it all to sit in solitude to write. His struggles to get The Day of the Jackal published are funny in hindsight. The complete manuscript was written in 35 days at a friend’s flat. This bible for thriller writers was rejected by a number of publishers because its plot centres around an assassination attempt on the life of Charles de Gaulle, who was alive and well. So publishers would turn Forsyth’s manuscript down, saying, “We know the climax already, the plan fails.” Forsyth then holds forth on the vagaries of the publishing world, movie deals, book tours and the eventual attaining of the status of a global icon.
The Outsider also has a memorable preface, where the author talks about the life of a writer, which, I think, is a compulsory read for anyone who aspires to write. Forsyth’s life should have been told over the course of many books—much like a chef, who prepares a seven-course meal in a Michelin-starred restaurant. Unfortunately, the powers that be decided differently and have served us a spicy fast food takeaway.
By Ravi Subramanian
Ravi Subramanian is a bestselling author. His latest book is The Bestseller She Wrote