Noel Coward would have drawn the crowds at Hay. Photograph: Getty
Reading Sheridan Morley's recent biography of Noel Coward, what came through most clearly wasn't Coward's talent as a playwright, songwriter, actor or even novelist, but his almost uncanny ability to impress people with well-chosen snippets of wit, albeit often with a self-conscious gaze at posterity. Everyone knows his famous remarks about the queen of Tonga and some of the choicer snippets from his plays ("Certain women should be struck regularly, like gongs"). For all the outdated social attitudes they conceal, they are at least memorable and quotable.
When Coward was in his pomp, there were other literary figures who were, if not exactly rivals, certainly well known raconteurs and men of wit. Peter Ustinov is the example most cited. Like Coward, he was a polymath, which perhaps contributed to the way he could apparently effortlessly promote his latest book with charm and charisma as much as on literary merit. It's telling that while he's still thought of very highly as an Oscar-winning actor, his books are now little read and mainly out of print.
Most successful contemporary writers, alas, are less compelling public figures. It's unlikely that we'll ever have another Wilde, but the recent death of Ned Sherrin opens a vacancy in the market for witty, opinionated writers who are unafraid to use a public persona to market their work. Instead, we either have the publicity-shy JK Rowling, occasionally popping up to denounce her fans, or the increasingly controversial Martin Amis whose intelligence and charisma are often dwarfed by rows over his pronouncements on Islam. Younger writers such as Zadie Smith have made attention-grabbing statements, but they hardly seem to epitomise the effortless wit and charm of a previous generation.
To some extent, this is the fault of the publicity machine which decided a while back that people who make words their profession aren't as "sexy" as pop stars or footballers. Novelists and writers are no longer celebrities as they were half a century ago. Few writers would be recognised in the street, still less given the sort of public platform that allowed Ustinov and Coward to become masters of the well-timed one liner. It's unlikely that we'll read about the latest hot young novelist stumbling out of Bouji's at 4am. But neither will the hot young novelist be able to take part in the kind of TV chat show that would showcase their wit and charm. Instead, if they're lucky, they'll be invited onto misconceived and unpopular panel shows - and not allowed to be funny even there.
The only chance for writers to shine is at major literary festivals. Not only are they received by an adoring public like the stars that they should be, but they are also given an opportunity, however brief, to connect to a wider audience by being controversial, witty or just plain compelling.
The Hay festival has the likes of Christopher Hitchens and Martin Amis to guarantee a few headlines. It is, however, a shame that Alan Bennett had to pull out through ill health. His plays and diaries may have established him as a "national treasure", but his past appearances have showed there's intelligence and anger beneath his jocular exterior. He is a contemporary raconteur who can move beyond the superficial and get his message across beyond the confines of books in an accessible, thought-provoking and entertaining way.
