Books

Andrew J. Bacevich I have reached the age when it seems important to give attention to the books I ought to have read long ago but skipped past. As an American born in the middle of the 20th century, I’m drawn to the literature of that era. Lately, I have been reading for the first time John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath (Penguin, $18), published during the Great Depression. Of course, I have seen John Ford’s gripping interpretation of the novel, starring Henry Fonda as Tom Joad. It’s a great movie. In my estimation, the novel itself is also a masterpiece. Of course, it is necessarily a product of its time, saturated with a sentimental depiction of those dispossessed by massive economic upheaval.

Russell Kirk’s novel Old House of Fear became a surprise bestseller when it was first published in 1961. First issued in hardcover by a small publishing house called Fleet, Old House quickly went through multiple paperback reprintings by Avon Books. Mary MacAskival, the red-haired love interest, has an increasingly tantalizing appearance on Avon’s succession of cheesecake covers. ‘Rich in atmosphere and intimations of impending doom… from the first muffled cry to the final midnight scream,’ declared the New Yorker of an edition on whose cover Mary sneaks around a Gothic portal in pink pajamas. ‘Wild excitement, sadistic violence.

‘The cultural critics,’ the late Harold Bloom wrote in 2000:‘...will, soon enough, introduce Harry Potter into their college curriculum, and The New York Times will go on celebrating another confirmation of the dumbing-down it leads and exemplifies.’How right he was. Not only are J.K. Rowling’s books widely studied by college students but ‘Young Adult’ literature is exhaustively and exhaustingly consumed by, well — adults. One 2012 study found that more than half the readers of ‘YA’ spec fiction are older than 18. As with the dominance of superhero movies at the box office, this represents a craving for the naive grandiosity of youth.Well, if it was a private indulgence it would be churlish to shake your fists about it.

As a fan of early jazz, I’ve read a great deal about Kansas City as it was in the 1930s. A most attractive place it seems in retrospect, of 24-hour drinking and gambling, to the accompaniment of wonderful music provided by young, prodigiously talented and mostly black instrumentalists and singers; a wide-open city ruled over by a corrupt mayor, Boss Pendergast, whose main duty seems to have been to keep the good times rolling. It is at this time and in this place that the novel Mrs Bridge (1959) by Evan S. Connell is set, but Mrs Bridge’s life elapses without a mention of any of these goings-on.

This article is in The Spectator’s October 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. Georges Simenon, creator of the somber, pipe-smoking Paris detective Jules Maigret, pursued sex, fame and money relentlessly. By the time he died in September 1989, Simenon had written nearly 200 novels, more than 150 novellas, several memoirs and countless short stories. He matched this demonic productivity with sexual athleticism. ‘The goal of my endless quest,’ Simenon explained,‘was not a woman, but the woman.’ He demanded sex at least once daily from his wives, secretary, and housemaid-mistresses. How he found the time to write so many books is a mystery that Maigret might struggle to crack. Simenon described himself, without irony, as ‘a psychopath’.

You should never camp in a ravine. Look for higher ground, and a windbreak — a fallen tree is fine, but rocks are the best. Gather balsam wood for bedding, and use your tomahawk to cut firewood from a dead tree. Make two fires. Set the bigger one against the rocks for warmth, and spread the ashes of the smaller one over the ground you wish to sleep on — they will stop it being so cold and damp. Catch fish from the river, but keep an eye out for Indians moving silently through the forest on moccasined feet. This much I have learnt from Ronald Welch’s Mohawk Valley. I just wish I had read it as a boy, for it would have furnished my bivouacking trips in the woods with a far greater level of detail.

When Donald Trump proffered advice to then-UK prime minister Theresa May in her Brexit negotiations, he told her to sue the EU. It might have seemed a laughable throwaway line; but suing is second nature to Trump. More than that, it’s a whole way of life. Just to what extent the litigation is the man is comprehensively detailed in Plaintiff in Chief: a Portrait of Donald Trump in 3,500 Lawsuits. James D. Zirin, respected lawyer, legal commentator and broadcaster as well as a  litigator himself in federal and US courts, delivers a fascinating insight into Trump’s legal history — exposing his motives and methods, psychology and morals.

When Sen. Rand Paul described Venezuelan leader Nicolás Maduro as a 'socialist' during an appearance on ABC’s The View Friday, co-host Ana Navarro refused to believe it. 'Maduro is not a socialist,' Navarro insisted. 'He’s a corrupt, murderous thug who is starving his people.' She made these two statements as if they were mutually exclusive. When Paul tried to explain why Maduro was indeed a socialist and why that was bad, Navarro wouldn’t hear it. She told him to stop 'mansplaining' to her. Yes, the exchange was as dumb as it sounds: A man was invited on a television show to explain something, and then told him to stop explaining because he is a man.This is today’s left.

Peter Handke’s Nobel win is the latest in a series of unfortunate incidents surrounding the Nobel prize in literature, from the weird decision to give it to Bob Dylan in 2016 to last year’s sexual assault scandal. When Handke called for the prize to be abolished in 2014 he said it was a 'false canonization' of literature. The fact that he has now won it proves he was right. This is what Sweden is today – if the Nobel committee had any courage they would give the peace prize to Julian Assange (one of the true heroes of our time), yet instead they would rather honor an apologist for genocide.

This article is in The Spectator’s October 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. ‘I have observed,’ Joseph Addison wrote in 1711 in the first article in the first issue of the first version of The Spectator, ‘that a Reader seldom peruses a Book with Pleasure, ’till he knows whether the Writer of it be a black or a fair Man, of a mild or cholerick Disposition, Married or a Batchelor, with other Particulars of the like nature, that conduce very much to the right understanding of an Author.’ Thomas Chatterton Williams has earned a reputation as a tough, thoughtful and genuinely interesting commentator on race.

A couple of years ago, I took a shuttle train at London’s Heathrow airport, heading to the medium- and long-haul gates. I was standing at the end of the carriage, and as the ends of the carriages were mostly made of smoked glass, I could see into the carriage behind. A group of Orthodox Jewish men stood on the other side of the glass in full sectarian fig — beards and sidelocks, long coats and vaguely Habsburg Homburgs, the Bronze Age waistcoat of the tallit katan and its knotted fringes. Through the glass, I could see the other passengers staring with curiosity; fair enough, given that almost everyone else in the carriage seemed to be wearing Lycra and sweat-wicking leisurewear.

When college and university students arrive on campus this month, they will choose their courses with an eye on future summer internship and postgraduate career opportunities. Enrollment in the humanities is in free-fall, while the rapid growth of American technology companies suggests that STEM is the only path to a prosperous career. But as the novelist Sigrid Undset writes, 'there is nothing in the experience of man which shows that the raw material of human nature has ever changed.' My advice to students interested in a career in investing or technology: read more novels. Business school courses offer practical case studies to learn from others’ strategy success in key functions and industries.

Books Do Furnish a Room was the title of one volume in Anthony Powell's sequence of novels A Dance to the Music of Time. How true that is. When you enter a room, where do your eyes turn? To the wallpaper? The ceiling? The furniture? No, the books! What do you have in common with the person you are visiting? What can you talk about? What can you slip into your pockets while they are out of the room? 'Books do furnish a room' is the thesis Thatcher Wine has built his career around (yes, that is his name, not the special vintage of some kind of hideous Young Tory club.) Wine is Gwyneth Paltrow's 'book curator', as an interview in Town & Country Magazine describes. 'After everyone tired of reading on their Kindles,' the interview begins (everyone, everyone): '...

Sinjar, Iraq, December 2015. Major Adel Sleman poured more sweet tea into a small glass. It was cold outside the half-built shed we were sitting in, and we inched closer to the jet-black stove. Kurdish men stood next to small mattresses they had arranged on top of cinder blocks around the stove. Each man seemed to have a different style of camouflage. The pot-bellied major with his loose-fitting fatigues looked dressed ready to blend into a jungle. His colleague Major Hussein Yusuf wore forest green. Even though it was cold, the two men didn’t put on coats.  ‘I’ve spent 19 years working in demining,’ said Sleman. Born in 1963 in northern Iraq’s Kurdish region, he had been a Peshmerga, or Kurdish soldier, since the 1990s.

'Democracy,' wrote H.L. Mencken, 'is the art and science of running the circus from the monkey cage.' Kevin D. Williamson is a man cut very much from Mencken's cloth. He has the same caustic humor. He has the same contempt for the mob. He has the same respect for the transcendent individual. In his new book The Smallest Minority, Williamson is at his most Menckenesque. This is not to say that Williamson is a mere imitator of the sage of Baltimore. For one thing, it is hard to imagine Mencken opening a book by advising the reader that 'you can’t fuck with a monkey in Delhi.' Sound advice. Williamson is not just offering a tip to tourists, though, but comparing India's shit-flinging monkeys to the denizens of social media.