English author Geoff Painter, born in Gloucestershire in 1958, once declared his life a total failure for not living in California. That verdict softened when his wife, Rebeca Wilson, an art curator, accepted a post at Saatchi Art in Los Angeles and adapted smoothly while teaching at the University of Southern California. Now, at the peak of that professional triumph, Painter laments missing the ease of public transport and the proximity of major European cities to their London home. He fondly recalls the days when they could hop off to Madrid or Zurich. Brexit has only widened that mental distance.
Dyer fits into this portrait as a tough, bright, charismatic intellectual who appears in England from time to time, usually while living far from home. An avid traveler, practitioner, and tennis enthusiast, he savors all kinds of knowledge, from jazz — his book But Beautiful is essential reading — to painting and especially literature. Yet he remains allergic to pedantry, a notable merit that lets him write about success while choosing to explore endings, assembling one of his unmistakable books.
Cataloging his output has long challenged booksellers. What label should they place on his shelves? Perhaps a title like Roger Federer’s Last Days and Other Endings (Random House) is one of the rare examples. The book surveys the closing chapters of creators, including painters like Turner and composers like Beethoven, as they navigate final moments, alienation, and the twilight of their careers. The author moves abruptly from one subject to another, with no obvious order, inviting readers to ask a single, consuming question: what is this really about? He responds that he appreciates a book you cannot easily pin down and that you must read to answer that question. Dyer’s originality rests not in a single theme but in a distinctive personal style—combining wisdom with a playful curiosity. He often notes that this is a very British trait, resisting being pigeonholed as merely a humorist while enjoying the freedom to explore many tonal keys.
signs of time
What remains clear is that the book is not about tennis. The title can mislead; Turner’s image on the cover already hints otherwise. Tennis remains one of Dyer’s strongest passions, though he admits that a bout of severe back pain the day before left him physically sidelined. At sixty-four, the author presents a wry self-critique about aging, a candid snapshot of finitude that resonates with many readers. A series of minor ailments leave their mark in what reads like a memoir written during the pandemic: a sense that the world has paused, not necessarily in a war-wracked moment, but as a quiet, lingering end.
From Dyer’s perspective, endings come in many forms. The final phase of Turner’s impressionism stretches back decades, yet coincidence still intervenes. If certain forms now feel abstract, it is because they are unfinished, he notes. He also points to the rare, last glimmer of Beethoven’s deafness, to Jean Rhys’s late creative resurgence after years of silence, and to writers who stop producing after achieving great success. He even nods to Enrique Vila-Matas and his Bartleby. “I have written more books than I ever imagined,” he observes. “Sometimes I thought it was over, but I pushed past doubt by starting a new project.”
What will Federer think?
Dyer considers Federer’s style as a metaphor for grace in sport and in prose. The tennis champion’s elegance is described as a model of purity on the court, contrasting with much of today’s athletic approach. Dyer adds that comparing himself to Federer would be futile; his own writing remains more raw, less polished by elite athletic finesse.
There is also curiosity about whether Federer has read Dyer’s work. A photo of Federer signing the cover online suggests a connection, though Dyer suspects Federer might have wished for a more Federer-centric narrative. Still, there’s a hint of shared humor and the possibility of a future meeting that could hinge on mutual respect rather than expectation.