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At the tender age of 68, in good form and good health, Bill Bryson is hanging up his keyboard. An American Midwesterner by birth, Bryson is an ardent Anglophile who made his name as a witty
observer of British foibles before latterly leveraging his success to produce several highly readable volumes of popular science. While his oeuvre will continue to be enjoyed, the news that
he has typed his final full stop is to be lamented. Bryson says he has been busy “enjoying not doing anything at all” beyond playing with his grandchildren. It is hard to argue with that. A
few writers, such as JD Salinger, retire too early. Others, such as John le Carré, keep going with no discernible drop in standards. Indeed some, among them Hilary Mantel and Philip Roth,
improve with age. Others, of whom Charles Dickens is perhaps the best example, die in the saddle, leaving unfinished texts behind. Some, such as Agatha Christie, gradually reduce the
prodigious yield of their heyday. And sadly some, as with EM Forster, who lived for 46 years after his last novel was published in 1924, are forced into premature retirement having decided
prevailing prejudices form an insuperable obstacle to further artistic expression. Others, of course, naming no names, either through habit, ego, financial necessity or contractual
obligation, continue to publish long after their creative powers have waned. Bryson thus actually joins a select and rather admirable club of authors (they include Roth again, Anne Tyler and
recently Lee Child) who decide simply that having had their time and their say it is better to vacate the stage and allow others a chance to shine. Any time he feels like making a comeback
performance here at the newspaper where he honed his prose skills many decades ago, Bryson will be more than welcome.