Lead book review

In The Garden Jonathan Bate leads us through 4,000 years of ‘green thought’, observing the interplay between literature, art and horticulture. Bate has long refused to be fenced in. His academic and biographical work ranges from Shakespeare to Wordsworth, John Clare, John Keats, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ted Hughes. He is also an editor, poet, playwright and novelist. The Garden is the book he has waited a lifetime to write. It is both scholarly and relaxed, ambitious and kindly, bringing complicated ideas and feelings down to earth and grounding us in the humble human joy of real and imagined gardens.  The mapping of language on to gardens is a major theme from the start.

When I moved from Germany to Britain more than 15 years ago, I soon realised how large the two world wars still loomed in the public imagination. My new friends, neighbours and colleagues quipped ‘Don’t mention the war’ and gave me boxes of tissues on VE Day. It was all done in good spirit, but sprang from a cultural backdrop I struggled to understand – until I’d caught up with enough episodes of Fawlty Towers, Blackadder and Dad’s Army to get a sense of what the British-German journalist Matt Frei once called ‘the British obsession with the Krauts’. While often concerned with the second world war, that preoccupation is actually much older; and it is mutual.

I don’t know if it is still the case, but there was a time in London when the ring of a doorbell on Saturday morning could only mean the Jehovah’s Witnesses and another copy of Watchtower. They all made for some pretty dotty reading in those days, but there was one article that has stuck in the memory – a piece that asked, and predictably answered, the question: ‘How Great was Charlemagne?’ The article concluded: ‘Though then known as Charles the Great, he was great neither in God’s eyes nor in the eyes of those whose standards are set by God’s Word.’ If it is not an attractive judgment, it is one that needs thinking about, because if anyone is equipped to enter into the mind of 8th- and 9th-century Man it is very possibly the Jehovah’s Witness.

In the early years of the English civil war John Milton turned his mind from the poetic arts and committed himself to writing some of the most searing pamphlet polemic of the 1640s. With the nation convulsed by violence, he set about finding causal explanations for the revolutionary ferment, and saw its roots in the 1530s and the unfinished nature of the Protestant Reformation. Only by completing the work of Reformation, Milton thought, would the English come closer to God and lasting peace. Such arguments had domestic as well as national urgency for Milton, much in need of peace himself, as he tried to extricate himself from his stupendously misguided marriage to Mary Powell, half his age and from a royalist family.

This glorious historical monument slows, expands and luxuriously stretches to encompass one of the defining moments of change in our history. When David Kynaston began, in 2007, to publish his Tales of a New Jerusalem, of which this is the sixth volume, each book covered a much longer stretch. His chronicle of the postwar Attlee settlement started with six years; the last two volumes have slowed to less than a year, then three years, and now less than 18 months. They are marvellous volumes, but if the excellent Professor Kynaston, who is 75, is to reach his terminal point of 1979, I recommend that he take his iron pills in the morning and altogether get a little bit less Zeno-and-the-tortoise about the project.

Matthew Sweet’s jaw-dropping life of Barbara Cartland opens with the grande dame reclining on her chaise longue in the library of Camfield Place, her home for 50 years. Here she could be found daily between 1.15 p.m. and 4 p.m., a ghoulish masquerade of femininity in a hot-pink taffeta cocktail gown with a snappy Pekinese nestling by her side. Her face, beneath the halo of Elnett-stiffened yellow hair, is an inch of white powder. There are two clownish circles of rouge on her cheeks and sticking plasters on her temples to tighten the skin. Gazing into the middle distance through tarantula-sized false eyelashes lathered in black boot polish, she is ‘talking, talking, talking’. (Boot polish applied with a toothbrush is preferable to mascara because it stays put when you cry.

Anita Brookner, at 80, knew that, were any biographer to delve too deeply into her private affairs, her literature would be ruined. The work was one thing, matters of the heart quite another. In both of her distinguished careers, first as an art historian, then as a so-called ‘lady novelist’, she had found it advisable to keep her authentic self at one remove from her storied accomplishments, and she saw no reason for this division – the personal set apart from the sombrely professional – not to endure beyond her death. She determined, therefore, to thwart any attempt at biography by, wherever possible, erasing all evidence of her existence beyond the collections held in university archives and the fading recollections of contemporaries, family and friends.

‘We can never go back again,’ wrote Daphne du Maurier in her bestselling novel Rebecca (1938). ‘The past is still too close to us.’ Yet back she went, in book after book, to the past of her remarkable family. In 1934, six months after the death of her father, the matinée idol Gerald du Maurier, Daphne wrote his biography, portraying him as a spoilt man-baby with a ‘stable’ of mistresses. Gerald’s own father, George du Maurier, was the celebrated book illustrator and Punch cartoonist whose creation of characters such as Mrs Ponsonby de Tomkyns and Lady Gatheremall skewered the Victorian nouveaux riches.

The jacket design of this splendid book shows Lewis Carroll’s Alice pulling back a curtain to reveal the door into Wonderland. In the original story, it leads to ‘a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole’, at the end of which Alice notices ‘the loveliest garden you ever saw’. She is too large to squeeze through this doorway, but questions whether she might be able to defy the laws of physics and get into the garden anyway; after all, she tells herself, so many curious things have happened to her already that it seems ‘very few things indeed were really impossible’. It’s hard to imagine a better metaphor for reading a work of fiction.

Oh Harold. So near and yet so far. So close and yet no cigar. In January 1066 the world (well, England) was at his feet. Two hundred and eighty-two days later he was battle meat. On day one he became the richest ruler Anglo-Saxon England had ever known. In late September he defeated the hardest bastard in Europe (Harald Hardrada). In mid-October England was changed forever, but not by him. He had, of course, no right whatsoever to be king. Sure, he was Edward the Confessor’s brother-in-law; but under the sacred rules of hereditary power that gets you zip. He claimed that Edward had promised him the throne (he hadn’t); but, again, that ain’t how the royal circus rolls.

Is there really anything new to say about the conquest of Constantinople? In the absence of fresh archaeological discoveries, a previously unknown text or neglected eyewitness account, can we reasonably expect, almost 600 years later, to break new ground? Anthony Kaldellis, a Greek-American classics professor at the University of Chicago, thinks so. His 1453 claims to offer a new perspective, namely that, contrary to almost all modern accounts, the Ottoman Sultan Mehmed II’s ultimate victory was ‘far less assured than is often thought’. It was a close run thing. Constantine XI, the last Byzantine emperor, almost won. For many readers familiar with this story, that won’t sound especially new at all.

In October 2010, when Gabriel García Márquez, by then suffering from dementia, was told that his former friend and rival had won the Nobel Prize for Literature, he enquired: ‘Who is Mario Vargas Llosa?’ This tottering, always compulsive biography of the writer who died last year and which has taken 15 years to write (‘I completely miscalculated its complications’) is Gerald Martin’s valiant answer. ‘Is there a life quite like this one anywhere in the western world in the second half of the 20th century?’ In Martin’s breathless judgment ‘this literary adventurer, politician, diplomat and warrior all rolled into one’ was a single-minded workhorse whose sheer intensity, quality and variety of life was ‘almost literally incredible’.

The Fifth Crusade, which was fought between 1217 and 1221, marked a new direction for the crusading movement of the Middle Ages. Instead of invading Palestine, as the first three crusades had done, and the Fourth Crusade might have done, the crusaders decided to attack Egypt. That was not the original idea. The formidable Pope Innocent III, who launched the Fifth Crusade, had envisaged a repeat of the old strategy of marching on Jerusalem from the sea. The invasion of Egypt was decided by the initial wave of forces after they had reached the Levant. There was a sort of logic behind the decision. The crusading kingdom of Jerusalem had been destroyed in 1187, when its army had suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of Saladin at the Horns of Hattin above the Sea of Galilee.

Cuba’s revolutionary spirit is giving out. Donald Trump has called on Cubans to ‘make a deal before it’s too late’ and has threatened military action. More than six decades on from the revolución of 1959, all talk is of the Yanqui dollar and how to acquire it. The scramble for greenbacks has fed into Cuba’s sex industry. In the dollar-happy resort of Varadero, the locals suffer police surveillance and the indignity of rationed food while prostitutes as young as 15 hover outside the motels. Yet for all the hardship and belt-tightening, Cuba commands sympathy from the international left as a last bastion of communism.

The making of films is a process often on an industrial scale, and among the thousands of professionals contributing there are dozens whose practice might constitute a solid history of the artform. The great stars and directors are the usual routes into the history of film; but the roles of studio executives, producers, costume designers (Edith Head! Givenchy!), composers of scores, cinematographers and editors would make compelling narratives, too. A history of cinema audiences could also be interesting – ranging from those who are supposed to have fled in terror as a filmed express train came hurtling towards them in the 1890s; to the yobs who slashed the seats in cinemas showing 1950s rock’n’roll movies (but why?

Some time in the late 1950s, Jacques Derrida and other intellectual luminaries at the École Normale Supérieure in Paris were surprised to be told that the excruciatingly introverted German-language instructor they had been avoiding in the corridors for several years was ‘the greatest living poet in the German language’. Paul Celan was reputed to be as ‘difficult’ as his poetry – rebarbative, then intriguing and finally unforgettable. His best known poem is ‘Todesfuge’ (‘Death Fugue’), which may refer to Jewish musicians in a Nazi death camp: ‘Black milk of dawn, we drink you at night...’ He can be heard online reciting the poem in a rising tone of suppressed hysteria.

The extraordinary correspondence between Albert Camus and the love of his life Maria Casarès must rank among the most passionate ever written. Rarely can two lovers have expressed with such fervour a comparable range of emotions, from ecstasy to darkest despair. At times one shies away from the letters’ raw, searing intimacy, feeling like an intruder; but the sheer force of the feelings expressed and the finesse with which they are articulated propel one through. These letters were first published in France in 2017 by Camus’s daughter Catherine, who was given them for safe-keeping by Casarès shortly before her death in 1996.

On a day in the early spring of 1998 I found myself sitting in a hotel room in Hollywood waiting to hear whether or not I would be interviewing Carlos Castaneda. He was the author of The Teachings of Don Juan, published in 1968, a book which recounted his apprenticeship in the deserts of Mexico at the feet of an elderly Indian shaman and his induction through mind-altering substances into ‘the Yaqui way of knowledge’. In revealing the deeper reality behind the illusion of existence, providing a blueprint for the life of ‘a warrior’ free from the fear of death, Don Juan’s teachings were perfectly attuned to the zeitgeist of the age.

To begin at the beginning: the title. ‘Unbeatable, Unbearable’ is supposedly Winston Churchill’s opinion of Bernard Montgomery – that in defeat he was the first, and in victory the second. Gary Mead acknowledges that it is merely ‘attributed’ to Churchill. According to the late Richard Langworth, the unrivalled curator of Churchillian wit and wisdom, it and the rather more grandiloquent ‘In defeat, indomitable; in victory, insufferable’ are widely bruited about but are not in the Churchill canon. Does it matter? We can be confident that the other major Allied figures of the second world war who dealt with Monty – Alanbrooke, Eisenhower and Ismay – would not have disagreed too much.