More from Books

Saturday

Simon Baker

The loneliness of the long distance salesman

If only E. M. Forster hadn’t beaten him to it by exactly a century, Jonathan Coe could have coined the enigmatic phrase ‘only connect’ in this novel. If only E. M. Forster hadn’t beaten him to it by exactly a century, Jonathan Coe could have coined the enigmatic phrase ‘only connect’ in this novel. Maxwell Sim cannot connect at all. A depressed salesman approaching 50, he is adrift from his father, who moved to Australia 20 years ago, from his wife, an aspiring writer who left him to live in the Lake District, and from his daughter, who hardly speaks to him. He has 70 Facebook ‘friends’, but they are of course not real friends.

Philip Ziegler

Golden youth or electric eel?

Patrick Shaw-Stewart was the cleverest and the most ambitious of the gilded gang of young men who swam in the wake of the not-so-young but perennially youthful Raymond Asquith. Julian Gren- fell, Duff Cooper, Charles Lister, Edward Horner: they were as one in their conviction that the British were superior to other races, that public schoolboys were superior to other Britons, that Etonians were superior to other public schoolboys, and that their own precious clique was superior to other Etonians. Apart from that, the only obligatory common factor was that one should love, or at least profess to love, Lady Diana Manners. The corrupt coterie, as they proudly styled themselves, knew that they were the future. They had no future.

Richard Shone

Painting the town together

This book recounts a terrible story of self-destruction by two painters who, in their heyday, achieved considerable renown in Britain and abroad. Robert Colquhoun (1914-62) and Robert MacBryde (1913-66), both from Scottish working-class families, met in 1932 when they were students at the Glasgow School of Art. From then onwards they were personally and professionally inseparable in their headlong rise to fame and descent downhill. Although both have been the subject of anecdotes and snapshots in many a memoir of the period — all those accounts of Soho and ‘Fitzrovia’ — this is the first full-length study devoted to them, the result of over 20 years’ research.

Byron Rogers

Mountain sheep aren’t sweeter

Anyone who can speak Welsh is going to get a lot of fun from this book. Antony Woodward buys a six-acre smallholding 1200 feet up a mountain near Crickhowell in Wales where he sets about trying to fulfill his dream of creating what may be the highest garden in Britain. The smallholding is called Tair Ffynnon, which, he informs his readers, means Four Wells. Ooops. For this is where the Welsh will start to snigger. Part of his mad project on the mountain is the creation of a pond, which involves diverting water from his four wells into this. Only he has, of course, first to locate them, which proves difficult. Very difficult. And even now an increasingly frantic Woodward may be up there in the clouds trying to locate his lost fourth well. For Tair Ffynnon does not mean Four Wells.

James Walton

On the brink

Stephen Potter’s Lifemanship contains a celebrated tip for writers who want to ensure good reviews. Stephen Potter’s Lifemanship contains a celebrated tip for writers who want to ensure good reviews. Simply make the dedication so emotionally blackmailing that no critic will dare attack you — something like, ‘To Phyllis, in the hope that God’s glorious gift of sight will be restored to her.’ It’s a ploy that springs inescapably to mind when reading the introduction to Winter on the Nile. What we’re about to read, Anthony Sattin explains, is the culmination of a dream he’s cherished for decades — a dream whose importance to him will only be truly understood by his beloved wife and children.

Saturday

Peter Hoskin

School days

There it is: Winder, one of the most imposing peaks across all the Howgill Fells. Whenever I visit my brother, a teacher at Sedbergh School, we make a habit of climbing it. Up you march, through grass kept short by wild horses and paths kept alive by other walkers, until you round back on yourself and see the entire town of Sedbergh contained within in the valley below. The school. The houses. The shops. The lives and cluttered history that make a community what it is.    Now two current Sedbergh pupils, Ben King and George Head, have done the literary equivalent of climbing up and looking down. In a collection of interviews with Old Sedbergians, they map the peaks and troughs of life at this hardy school.

Philip Hensher

The modern vanitas

Unexpected parallels between our age and another are a staple of the jobbing journalist’s trade. Unexpected parallels between our age and another are a staple of the jobbing journalist’s trade. Usually coinciding with a major exhibition at the Royal Academy, such arguments tend to claim that there are a surprising number of similarities between, say, the Byzantine Empire and the way we live now. Despite the fact that these arguments often result from a brain-storming session round the conference table, there is usually enough there to sustain a page or so. Human nature does not change so much, and some very unexpected idiosyncrasies recur at regular intervals. Ferdinand Mount has set himself a rather more ambitious task, and his argument is more intricate than usual.

Victoria Glendinning

Home and away

Rats cannot be sick, says Bill Bryson. Not many people know that. Rats can have sex 20 times a day. Further down the same page, we read that they also sleep 20 hours a day. Do the sums. Rats must fornicate five times an hour in their waking period, as well as eating rubbish and not being sick. The phenomenally successful Bill Bryson is an American with an affection for this country, as is evidenced by his most famous book, Notes from a Small Island. He is president of the Society for the Preservation of Rural England and Chancellor of Durham University. He is also the huge, affable, best-selling presence at the popular end of a cultural and social history spectrum whose academic high end is represented by authors like Theodore Zeldin and Marina Warner.

Andro Linklater

Charming, cold and unreliable

When you consider what a bloody mess the Houses of Lancaster and York made of the business, it is easy to see why, since the death of Edward the Confessor, the English have preferred to be ruled by foreigners. Normans, Angevins, Tudors, Stuarts, Hanoverians, anything to avoid having their own kind in charge. Arguably that great Welsh king, Henry VIII, was the last monarch to have personally directed the affairs of the nation, but Allan Massie has set out to show that Henry’s Scots successors, reigning over the larger realm of Britain, had a more pervasive influence. Descended from the high stewards of Scotland, the first Stewart (it was Mary Queen of Scots who Frenchified the spelling) to take the throne was Robert II, a grandson of Robert the Bruce, in 1371.

Michael Henderson

Some are born great

Are great sportsmen born with high talent, or do they win prizes through years of application? That question, as old as sport itself, forms the basis of this book, which tries to inform readers ‘how champions are made’. Are great sportsmen born with high talent, or do they win prizes through years of application? That question, as old as sport itself, forms the basis of this book, which tries to inform readers ‘how champions are made’. The author, a former Commonwealth table-tennis champion who is now a journalist, has investigated the subject thoroughly — too thoroughly, it might be said — but fails to make his case. For sport, like life, is odder than we think.

Justin Cartwright

Taking on the turmoil

Nadine Gordimer is now in her mid-eighties. For as long as I have been alive, she has been the towering figure of South African literature, a fact recognised in l991 by the Nobel committee. This is a collection of her non-fiction over 60 years, running to nearly 800 pages. There is a belief, prevalent in South Africa, that she received the Nobel more for her politics than her literature. The distinction between politics and literature is to her absurd; she quotes with approval a maxim, ‘Once I am no more than a writer I will stop writing’. No writer, she says, should be required to separate the inner life from a perception of the outer world.

Andrew Taylor

Recent crime novels | 29 May 2010

Tudor thrillers are thick on the ground nowadays but this one is rather special. The Bones of Avalon (Corvus, £16.99) is something of a departure for Phil Rickman, best known for his excellent Merrily Watkins series about a diocesan exorcist in contemporary Herefordshire. Here he writes in the first person as Dr John Dee, the astrologer, mathematician and adviser to Queen Elizabeth I. In 1560, William Cecil despatches him to Glastonbury, with his younger but more sophisticated friend Robert Dudley, to search for the bones of King Arthur. But Dee’s mission turns into far more than an attempt to strengthen the dynastic foundations of the Tudor dynasty: there’s a conspiracy against the Queen for him to contend with, and also something even darker lurking in the shadows.

Saturday

Bevis Hillier

Ready for take-off

In 1969 John Gross wrote a justly praised book, The Rise and Fall of the Man of Letters. The phrase seemed slightly archaic then, and is more so now. I was going to suggest that Gross is the last Man of Letters, but I find that Stephen Bayley describes me as that in the current issue of GQ magazine — and I’m that bit younger than Gross. As editor of the Times Literary Supplement, Gross took the brave decision to end back-biting anonymity and give his reviewers by-lines: that was revolutionary, not old-fashioned. If you said he was the best-read man in Britain, I doubt there would be many challengers. Eddie Mirzoeff, who produced the television classic Metro-land with John Betjeman, later made another film with the laureate.

Jeremy Clarke

Viewed from below

‘What’s Taki like?’ is a common response to my telling someone I’m a contributor to this magazine. ‘What’s Taki like?’ is a common response to my telling someone I’m a contributor to this magazine. People seem to think we regular contributors are jolly shipmates together, living out of hammocks in the hold. The prosaic truth is I’ve met Taki just twice, on each occasion at a Spectator party. The first time was on the steps at the old Doughty Street office while a mid-summer ‘At Home’ bash, measuring about a Force Nine on the Richter scale, was raging inside. Conscious of his career as an international black-belt karate champion, I bowed smartly and correctly, and shouted, ‘Oss, sensei!

Byron Rogers

Holy smoke | 22 May 2010

I have seen the last of the things that are gone, brooded the poet Padraic Colum. But then so have we all. We have seen them clustered outside the plate-glass doors of offices or under the flapping canvas awnings ouside pubs, these last irreconcilables inhaling in the wind and rain. And the crazy thing is that they are acquiring a tattered dignity, which presumably was the last thing the authorities and the doctors thought would result when they got their ban on smoking in enclosed public spaces. But what happens when their ranks thin, when eventually just one is left, as the last old Jacobite was left in some Paris café?

Alexander Masters

Cold comfort | 22 May 2010

A good story is made of bones. It’s the reader’s job to flesh it into intimacy. In Helen Simpson’s adventurous new collection, In Flight Entertainment, the best stories rattle like skeletons; the worst, squelch. The title piece is about a bullying businessman on a plane, up-graded to first class, pontificating: the scam of carbon-offsetting; the reason it’s pointless to stop using airplanes (‘In a word, pal — China!’); the inconvenience that the flight’s going to have to land in Iceland because some selfish guy in the seat across the aisle has just died. He’s brutally, comically awful. You long for him to die, gurglingly. Simpson, more sophisticated, lets him live, enrage you and get off at Chicago.

Tom Holland

Going down fighting

Both the Greeks and the Jews were haunted by the image of a burning city. Indeed, there is a sense in which their radically differing attempts to exorcise it served to define their respective cultures. Among the Greeks, it was believed that everything most glorious about mortal achievement, and everything most terrible about mortal suffering, was to be found in the narrative of the siege and sack of Troy. Among the Jews, nothing did more to shape their understanding of the divine purpose than their anguished attempts to fathom why it was that their god had permitted Jerusalem to fall. Even today, millennia on, the aftershocks of these twin calamities continue to reverberate. The Iliad and the Bible: what would our own civilisation have been without their influence?

Charlotte Moore

Last year is best

The Birth of Love, Joanna Kavenna’s first novel since her prize-winning Inglorious, is clever, ambitious and not wholly successful. The Birth of Love, Joanna Kavenna’s first novel since her prize-winning Inglorious, is clever, ambitious and not wholly successful. It is a tribute to her skill that she handles her four narrative strands without lapsing into confusion; the reader is deftly directed on a journey through time and place. The danger is that emotional resonance is sacrificed to an over-schematic insistence on concept. Her first story is based on historical fact. In 1865, Ignaz Semmelweis is confined to a Viennese lunatic asylum where he is barbarously treated.

Michael Burleigh

The shape of things to come

Among writers of history a variety of genres flourish: they include battles, biographies and a significant date, such as 1066, 1492 or 1940. The television documentary maker, Denys Blakeway, has opted for 1936 in the belief that it was a better vintage, so to speak, than 1935 or 1937. Many Britons lived parallel lives, some in the new Ideal Home suburbs; a residue in what were euphemistically called Special Areas in the North East, South Wales and Scotland, as desperate then as they often are nowadays, even though the deprivation is not entirely material.

Francis King

Short and sweet | 22 May 2010

This little book of limericks, some as hard and glittering as shards of mica but a few surprisingly pallid and limp, at once presents a puzzle: the real name of an author is no more likely to be Jeff Chaucer than the real name of the author of a play would be Billie Shakespeare. The first task that I therefore set myself was to attempt to discover the real identity behind the pseudonym. Accompanying the title there is also the name of Robert Conquest, writer of an introduction that, while I was reading it, seemed to be familiar, and that eventually turned out to be a revised version of a review for the TLS of a book on the limerick by William Baring-Gould.