THE LAST DAYS OF ROGER FEDERER

The prolific, award-winning writer reflects on endings, loose and otherwise.

In his latest unique work, Dyer, pondering Federer’s imminent retirement, delves into “things coming to an end, artists’ last works, time running out”—and whatever else strikes his fancy. Now 63, the author’s understated, witty prose, written amid the “interminable Covid moment,” carries him along on a jaunty, wide-ranging, personal stream-of-consciousness rumination as the clock ticks down. Obsessed with the concept of a “magnificent life whatever ruin comes in its wake,” Dyer opines on literature, film, art, philosophy, music, and, of course, tennis in numerous interconnected, journal-like entries. He opens with some riffs on the Doors’ sprawling epic “The End” before moving on to tennis star Andy Murray’s retirement announcement and how it affected him. The author discusses his admiration for Bob Dylan and his voice: “How could it not be shot to hell given what he’s put it through, the unbelievable demands he makes on it”? Then he jumps to Jack Kerouac, Boris Becker, and D.H. Lawrence’s ongoing refusal to confront death; the “dissolution of the physical world” in J.M.W. Turner’s late paintings; and Nietzsche’s life and work. Thinking about how “we love the idea of the last,” Dyer considers how Albert Bierstadt’s painting The Last of the Buffalo led to the end of his career, and a disquisition on attending Burning Man confronts the “indescribable wonders” he experienced. The author worries about going to his grave without ever having read this or that book or seen that film. Then it’s on to writers who wrote one book, found success too soon, or, like athletes, made a late comeback, and John Coltrane’s final phase. Concluding, Dyer turns for help to Louise Glück: “I think here I will leave you. It has come to seem / there is no perfect ending.” Quite true, as the author sometimes loses his way in this maze of wistful meanderings.

A rangy, rambling assemblage that will appeal most to Dyer’s fans.