I never really got on with John le Carré’s novels. I couldn’t work out who anyone was, or what they were doing, or why. But I always thought I’d come back to him in old age, when I would have more time to fret over his impenetrable plots or at the very least be able to blame my confusion on dementia. Alas, I will never be able to read him now. Not since lurid details of his private life have emerged in a grisly sex memoir by a woman named Suleika Dawson.
I have only read reviews so far but already know that she and the old goat had “sex for the cameras; sex for the Olympics; sex for the gods”, that he was “amazed by the amount of seminal fluid he produced with me”, that they wore clothes only on their “top halves”, “to keep the lower parts ready for action”, and that, when le Carré was squatting at the fridge one day, looking for salad dressing (oh, rare and precious detail), she came up behind him and “put an ice cube on his scrotum”.
