Imagine losing a journalist who could tackle any story with fearless wit, piercing insights, and an unbeatable knack for making the mundane feel extraordinary—what a devastating blow to the world of writing! This isn't just about mourning a talent; it's about rediscovering the spark she brought to every page, and I promise, as we dive into her legacy, you'll uncover layers of inspiration that might just change how you view journalism forever.
Over the past few months, while Rachel Cooke has been away from our brainstorming sessions at The Observer, a familiar chorus has echoed through our team: 'Rachel would have nailed that one'; 'That sounds like the perfect Rachel Cooke story'; 'When she returns, she'll absolutely love chatting with them or diving into that investigation…' And honestly, this wasn't limited to a handful of ideas—it seemed to fit every conceivable topic. Why? Because Rachel wasn't just versatile as a reporter; she excelled in every facet, from bold, humorous critiques to ego-challenging conversations, from passionate advocacy pieces to sharp, well-researched reviews, from innovative food columns to daring international reports. What's more, she did it all with such flair and speed that no one else could match her pace or perfection.
But here's where it gets controversial: was her breadth of talent a strength, or did it scatter her genius too thin? We'll explore that tension as we go.
In the last couple of weeks, as heartbreaking updates trickled in from her devoted husband, the author Anthony Quinn, about the final, harsh stages of her cancer battle, I've found myself revisiting her extensive archive. Partly, it's to admire anew the incredible scope of her interests, and partly, it's a poignant reminder of the immense void she's left behind in our professional and personal worlds.
Take a look at any single month over the last 25 years at The Observer, and you'll spot over a dozen standout articles bearing her name. For instance, consider this selection from just a year ago, in November 2024: a scathing takedown of Nadine Dorries's autobiography (https://www.theguardian.com/books/2024/nov/25/downfall-self-destruction-of-conservative-party-by-nadine-dorries-review), which dissected the former politician's fall from grace with surgical precision; a heartfelt piece on standing up to the intimidating presence of John Prescott (https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2024/nov/23/why-it-was-such-a-joy-to-interview-john-prescott-and-discover-his-sweet-sad-soul), revealing the softer side of a tough exterior; a touching discussion with crossbench peer Lola Young (https://www.theguardian.com/books/2024/nov/17/im-not-saying-im-not-scarred-but-scars-do-fade-baroness-lola-young-on-her-childhood-in-care) about her experiences growing up in foster care, blending vulnerability with resilience; an insider's glimpse into the 30-year evolution of Matthew Bourne's iconic Swan Lake production; a reflective column lamenting the fading of regional food traditions, like the debate over calling it a 'bap' (https://www.theguardian.com/food/2024/nov/16/bap-bread-cake-delivery-apps-regional-food-names) versus a 'bread cake'; effortlessly captivating essays on literary icons like Joan Didion and historical figures like Wallis Simpson; a jubilant tribute to the victor (https://www.theguardian.com/books/2024/nov/24/lesley-imgart-witch-way-winner-observer-faber-graphic-short-story-prize-2024) of that year's graphic short story contest—a genre she championed and helped establish through her initiative—and a sophisticated diary entry about processing Donald Trump's re-election results while immersed in Brahms' music (https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2024/nov/09/brahms-for-the-soul-on-the-night-the-us-election-results-came-in) at the Royal Festival Hall.
And this is the part most people miss: how did she master such a seamless shift in styles? These examples showcase Rachel's rare gift for adapting her voice—from bubbling enthusiasm for life's simple joys to unflinching realism about society's grim realities. In her prose, chats, and everyday existence, she blended approachable warmth with principled fury, often in the same breath. As her former editor Nicola Jeal, now at the Times, reminisces: 'She approached every topic, no matter how trivial or weighty, with unmatched dedication and inquisitiveness. Whether it was a lighthearted request—like having her experiment with Botox—or a serious assignment interviewing a global leader, she always unearthed the hidden narrative with brilliance.'
Rachel's passion for journalism ignited young. Katharine Whitehorn, a trailblazer in stylish feminist writing at our paper, became her idol. 'For years,' Rachel confessed in her writing, 'I kept a secret note tucked in my diary—a reminder to pull out during tough writing moments, propped against my lamp. It simply said: "HAVE GOT JOB ON PICTURE POST WHICH I WANTED MORE THAN HEAVEN…"' These were the words from a telegram Whitehorn sent her parents in 1956 upon securing her dream reporting role. Rachel never outgrew that thrill; she aspired only to journalism from a tender age, influenced by Whitehorn, who also inspired a later book of hers, Her Brilliant Career, profiling trailblazing women of the 1950s.
Like many gifted scribes, Rachel developed her keen observation skills early on. She had an unparalleled recall for the hilarious and heartbreaking details of her 1980s school days—think lip gloss trends, Phil Oakey-inspired hairstyles, and adolescent heartbreaks. Raised primarily in Sheffield, where her father lectured in botany at the university, she spent three formative years in Israel. At age 10, she attended a Church of Scotland school in Jaffa near Tel Aviv, one of the rare spots where Arab and Jewish kids learned side by side. This cultural shift, with its mix of upheaval and adventure, likely honed her two signature talents: forming instant bonds with people and viewing stories through an outsider's lens—valuable skills for any journalist, as they allow fresh perspectives on familiar topics.
In a reflective article about revisiting that school years later, Rachel shared how she'd trade KitKats from her lunch for warm za'atar bread fetched by her friend Sammy Waked from the nearby Palestinian market, connecting her to his heritage through food. This theme of cuisine as a unifier persisted; in the intro to her recent food writing anthology, Kitchen Person, she eloquently described how family meals revealed her roots—her mother's northeastern influences and her father's Black Country traditions—even holding her sense of family intact after her parents' divorce. She cherished meals deeply, dismissing fad diets or sobriety challenges with a playful eye-roll. Her zest for eating was contagious, as her long-time Observer Food Monthly editor Allan Jenkins recalls her quipping: 'I'm not really a food expert any more than an opera critic; I'm just an eager novice, mirroring what readers bring to the table.'
Books formed another cornerstone of Rachel's world; she devoured them with the same appetite she had for fine dining. In one of her final columns for the paper last June, she reminisced warmly about the Puffin Club, eagerly awaiting magazines filled with updates on authors like Rosemary Sutcliff and Alan Garner. As a staunch supporter of public libraries—their role as gateways to self-improvement that propelled her from a local school to Oxford—she curated a beloved column called Shelf Life, spotlighting overlooked gems with vibrant enthusiasm.
Rachel stood out as an interviewer, especially in her portraits of authors such as Gore Vidal, Robert Caro, Gloria Steinem, and Barbara Kingsolver. Her style was spot-on: conversational, detail-oriented, balancing the profound with the ridiculous, and unafraid to inject her views. This honesty spilled into her life too—no gathering, be it a meeting, meal, or social event, left anyone guessing her stance on any matter.
Here's a point that might divide readers: was Rachel's versatility a gift to journalism, or should she have focused on fewer pursuits to produce even more books? She published only three, but she poured her heart into journalism's broad canvas, valuing people above all—their quirks and their grace—as the ideal medium to share weekly discoveries with audiences.
Naturally, she was every newspaper's ideal contributor. Starting at the Sunday Times, where she edited the mischievous AA Gill (who'd sneak in naughty words just to see her delete them with laughter), and penning a stellar TV column for the New Statesman, The Observer became her true base. Colleagues rave about her high standards, relentless drive, and joy for the job. Jane Ferguson, her editor for 20 years on the New Review, calls her 'the paper's spine—intellectually solid yet effortless, witty, humorous, and bursting with concepts. Despite churning out over 100,000 words yearly for ages, she still devoured books, films, and events.' Paul Webster, a former editor, praises her coronation piece on King Charles as a pinnacle: 'Magnificent, astute, clever, affectionate—the epitome of Observer excellence.' He deemed her unmatched.
Some critics might say her talents deserved deeper specialization, yielding more authored works. I suspect Rachel would disagree, rejecting that 'elite' hierarchy of writers. She loved literature, arts, music, fashion, and politics, but ultimately, humanity's foibles and fortitude mattered most. Newspapers let her weave these passions into weekly narratives for readers.
At a leisurely April gathering just before her cancer diagnosis, we brainstormed ideas for The Observer's new chapter. Her concepts overflowed my notes. Even after the shocking test results, she powered through 20,000 words on diverse topics: 'To prove I still have it in me.' At 56, her vast output endures, her personality leaping from every line, yet the sorrow lingers—she had worlds more to offer.
But let's stir the pot: do you think Rachel Cooke represents the pinnacle of journalistic versatility, or does her scattered focus highlight a missed opportunity for deeper literary impact? What controversies in her work resonate with you most, or least? Share your thoughts in the comments—do you agree she prioritized breadth over depth, or was her approach revolutionary? We'd love to hear your takes, agreements, or disagreements to keep the conversation alive!
