Rummidge, a large industrial town in central England, is “very grey, very dirty, mostly very ugly.” For all his readers, it is here, in this imaginary town in “the space where Birmingham is to be found on maps of the so-called real world,” amid equally imaginary and equally authentic academics, at the heart of the universe that he so mischievously described in his books, that David Lodge will be laid to rest for eternity. The British writer, master of the sarcastic academic novel, died “peacefully,” “with close family at his side,” on Wednesday, January 1, his publisher, Vintage (Penguin Random House), announced on Friday. He was 89 years old.

So ends a double life as an academic and best-selling author. Particularly in France, where Lodge’s books have sold several million copies and where he was made a Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres in 1997. With his short black hair, thick bushy eyebrows, lively eyes, thin mouth, and tweed jacket, his silhouette had become the very image of the British novelist. Beneath his classic exterior lay an expert in comedy and self-mockery, capable of weaving an engrossing plot and making readers laugh around such weighty themes as university life, the Catholic religion, or the decline of industry. The perfect embodiment of the famous English sense of humor.

You have 86.18% of this article left to read. The rest is for subscribers only.