When I asked my students in one of my classes last week, not a single one had heard of, let alone read, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.
This somewhat disillusioning classroom experience is made all the more poignant by Sillitoe's death. In turn, it also renders the statement by Sillitoe's son that "he hoped his father would be remembered for his contribution to literature" almost ironic. Maybe now I have a sacred duty to keep up the memory, who knows.
The film version of the novel (see update below) might be the best piece of memorabilia, especially as it adds an equally memorable Albert to the unforgettable Alan.
UPDATE: The silly Grauniad copyeditor calls Sillitoe an "author of kitchen sink dramas." So that's what they teach you at Oxbridge! Or are you all just too busy making up your mind whether to support Clegg or Cameron to mind such negligible details?
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