A dose of dullness will restore Salman's sparkle

He even attended fashion shows – something that no self-respecting writer should do

She claims that he is boring. He has complained that she is "not intellectually challenging enough". All over the country, literary-minded families will be discussing the great falling out that, according to press reports, has occurred in the relationship between Salman Rushdie and his lovely young girlfriend Padma Lakshmi. It is an intimate and private thing, the end of a love affair, but there are wider questions involved here – talent and dullness, beauty and intellect, art and life. As in other great debates of the moment, indifference is not an option. Each of us, in our own way, must decide whether essentially we are in the Salman camp or with Padma.

There will be a few sour, resentful types who will be chuckling contentedly at the idea of the distinguished winner of the Booker prize being so publicly dumped by the stunning model he had been dating. A mature man of, shall we say, unexceptional looks who is seen out on the town with a beauty some 20 years younger than him will tend to inspire jealousy; and the fact that Rushdie is a serious writer, always an object of suspicion to some people, has heightened the tone of undisguised glee with which the news has been reported in some quarters.

Others will sympathise with Ms Lakshmi. It seems that, like many others, she was seduced by the relatively new idea that writers are interesting, attractive, extrovert types who belong to the smarter, more intellectual zone of the showbiz world. During the 1990s, Rushdie played the part to perfection. His past was exotic and tragic but, when he emerged from the shadow of the fatwa, he appeared to embrace the celebrity lifestyle with enthusiasm. He appeared on stage with U2's Bono at a Wembley concert. He was snapped boogying with Nigella Lawson at a charity dance.

Complaining, with some justification, of the bitchiness of the London literary scene, he took to living in Manhattan, where soon he was walking out with Padma. He became a regular at the smartest parties and even – something that no self-respecting writer should do – attended fashion shows.

It is probably impertinent and intrusive to speculate as to why a relationship has failed, but the quotes about boredom and lack of intellectual challenge suggest that, between them, the couple had discovered that when writing is combined with a flashy social life, something has to give.

Whereas a streak of exhibitionism is to be expected from the popular, crowd-pleasing authors – for example Gyles Brandreth treading the boards in the West End, or the politics-and-perjury adventures of Jeffrey Archer – those who want to write anything of lasting value eventually must embrace dreariness as a positive virtue. And there is a simple reason why few, if any, real writers can lead a life of social and sexual excess without the risk of a deadening effect on their work.

"To actually write," John Updike once said, "you need a certain routine and stability and dullness in your life. If your life isn't dull enough, you wouldn't need to venture into the realm of invented lives. But you must have some experience of the wilds or you won't have anything to write about."

Philip Roth, Updike's great contemporary, took self-denial even further, that is if the fictional version of him in a novel written by his former lover, Janet Hobhouse, is to be believed. He embraced "the purposeful deprivation that allows you to work, the cultivation of dullness so that writing can be an escape from it, the only pleasure in an unpleasured world".

As it happens, there are models for this kind of writerly life currently on show in the cinema and at the theatre. Charlie Kaufman's screenplay for Adaptation, Spike Jonze's new film, features a writer called Charlie Kaufman who is unable to write, is eaten up with despair and self-hatred, is hopeless with women and is a compulsive masturbator.

Then, in the West End, Tom Courtenay is portraying that most determinedly private of writers, Philip Larkin. If the contemporary equivalent of Padma Lakshmi had come on to Larkin – admittedly, a somewhat unlikely premise – he would probably have barricaded himself inside Hull library rather than become involved. A strong believer in the antipathy between art and life, Larkin wrote gloomily that "once I 'give in' to another person... there is a slackening and dulling of the artistic fibres."

Perhaps it is asking too much of Salman Rushdie that he should avoid "giving in" altogether. Even Larkin, towards the end of his days, seemed to recognise that a life of pure dullness, uncontaminated by love, lust, parties or adventure, might be a deprivation too far. His words, in a letter to Andrew Motion, provide a warning to all writers tempted to make writing their only pleasure in an unpleasured world: "I used to believe that I should perfect the work and life could go fuck itself. Now I'm not doing anything, all I've got is a fucked-up life."

Somewhere between the catwalks of Manhattan and the sadness of a fucked-up life, there may reside a sensible, writerly compromise.

terblacker@aol.com