More from Books

Tuesday

Susie Mesure

No one is ordinary: The Things We Never Say, by Elizabeth Strout, reviewed

It is both a comfort and a discomfort to yield to a new novel from Elizabeth Strout, who writes with such perspicacity that any time spent in her world unsettles as much as it consoles. So it proves with The Things We Never Say, her 11th book and the first since My Name is Lucy Barton (2016) to feature a new character. He is Artie Dam, a misunderstood 57-year-old history teacher from a Massachusetts coastal town. He is married, popular – ‘“Damn-dam, the greatest man,” his students would sometimes say to him’ – and likes nothing better than to take his sailing boat out in Massachusetts Bay. But it soon transpires that the joviality so treasured by his friends is a sham.

Ian Sansom

Is coffee-drinking the new secular religion?

A lot of books, obviously depending on what mood you’re in and viewed from a certain angle, slantwise or squintlike, hover on the edge of self-parody: the Bible; poetry, particularly if American; pretty much everything on a Booker shortlist; Wittgenstein’s Tractatus; Ottolenghi’s cookbooks. Like most things, the best approach to books is to view them with a mixture of open-minded curiosity and outright hostility – is this thing actually profound, useful, interesting or an irritating waste of time and money, a bit of a joke, offensive, crass or just stupid and worth avoiding at all costs?

Alex Peake-Tomkinson

They shoot horses: Boyhood, by David Keenan, reviewed

David Keenan’s seventh novel is quite the ride, but its plot is not always easy to disentangle. The author has said that its title is his favourite word, and the book’s clearest narrative thread concerns the abduction of a young boy outside a Glasgow football ground in 1979. The boy’s older brother, Aaron, is subsequently guided by an angel called the Precious Gift. Aaron meets the guardian angel during a run for charity in 1986, on the last day of his boyhood, or so he thought, because he could never imagine doing a sponsored run again after that, because he got into literature and smoking pot straight afterwards.

Roger Lewis

The exquisitely dull life of Elizabeth II, expert on cap badges

The dogs, horses, diamonds, furs, full-length evening gowns of lace and pearls; private jets and limousines; the ever-present jostling retinue; the push and shove of photographers and the clamour of crowds – Elizabeth Taylor and Elizabeth II had a lot in common, each taking themselves very seriously and needing to be seen to be believed. Whereas the Hollywood actress was majestic mainly in her vulgarity and brashness, however, the late Queen, as is evident in this pair of biographies, did her level best to be reticent, even non-existent. The best known of her few recorded utterances are ‘Oh really?’ and ‘Are you sure?’. She had a tendency to stare at a person with ‘absolutely no expression’, or at best ‘an expression of controlled irritation’.

Wednesday

Nikhil Krishnan

Were Britain’s postwar dons just having too much fun?

A history of academic life stands and falls by the number and quality of its anecdotes. On this count, Colin Kidd’s Twilight of the Dons unquestionably delivers. Did you know that the biologist Francis Crick wrote to Winston Churchill suggesting that an educational institution named after the statesman would be better off with a college brothel than the proposed chapel? Or that Eleanor Plumer, an early principal of St Anne’s College, Oxford, told the fellows of her fledgling institution that if they simply must have children, could they ‘kindly ensure’ they had them ‘in the University vacation’? At times, the book can seem to be an anthology of such anecdotes, combining, often in the same story, the world-historic and sociologically significant with the gossipy and trivial.

Justin Marozzi

How Syria’s dream of freedom ended in further repression

Anand Gopal has form when it comes to war. In Afghanistan, distrustful of President Bush’s ‘good vs evil’ and ‘you’re either with us or against us’ narrative, he did what every good reporter does: ‘I learned the language, grew a beard and hit the road like a local.’ The result was No Good Men Among the Living: America, the Taliban, and the War through Afghan Eyes, a Pulitzer and National Book Award finalist. In its refusal to stick to the script – especially American and British propaganda about all the ‘progress’ which later proved so illusory – the book recalled Michael Herr’s classic Vietnam exposé, Dispatches.

Paul Levy

The doyen of the France’s culinary scene is unmasked

For some reason it took nearly a decade for the news of a revolution in the restaurants of France to reach the British media. The Americans were much quicker off the mark. In March 1972, Raymond Sokolov reported in the New York Times that a chef near Lyon named Paul Bocuse, along with several of his colleagues, including Michel Guérard and Alain Senderens, were serving their customers ‘a radical simplification of the grand cuisine of the 19th century, the heavy, formal style of cooking codified by Escoffier’. Luke Barr, whose latest book is a compelling history of this culinary earthquake, last wrote about the crook, embezzler and fraudster who curiously remains the patron saint of professional cooks in Ritz & Escoffier (2018).

Suzi Feay

A foolproof way of predicting the future

A peek at the horoscope, puzzling the meaning of dreams, wearing lucky socks, having a method for choosing lottery numbers – many otherwise rational people retain a vestigial interest in prediction to ensure favourable outcomes. I’ll happily admit to a fascination with Tarot cards – and I do seem to be an archetypal bossy Aries. Christopher Dell’s Prophecies demonstrates just how widespread a belief in divination has always been across cultures, however peculiar or unsavoury the methods. In ordering his vast material, Dell sets out some ‘categories of convenience which allow us to impose some structure on a naturally amorphous topic’.

Sarah Moorhouse

In praise of uncertainty over hollow conviction

When I met Brian Dillon in February 2023, he seemed to have a lot on his mind. We had arranged to speak about Affinities, the newly published final instalment of Essayism, his sprawling three-part survey of literature, art and aesthetics. That morning, as he sipped decaf coffee in a quiet corner of the Barbican Kitchen café in London, he still didn’t know what his book was about. ‘At this point you don’t,’ he confessed. But even though he hadn’t made up his mind about Affinities, Dillon had already begun to think about his next project. It was to be a memoir of his education, called Ambivalence. This has now come to fruition.

Benjamin Myers

The land of missed opportunity: The Left and the Lucky, by Willy Vlautin, reviewed

Were arriving aliens to be introduced to the concept of the USA via the work of Willy Vlautin, they would find a country populated by quiet people enduring quiet struggles. Family dysfunction, the repetitiveness of minimum-wage work, crushing loneliness and the detailed grind of daily existence (rarely has a writer said so much through groceries bought and meals cooked) are dominant themes, though always backlit by the suggestion that goodness prevails. Even entertaining the idea of the American Dream is an indulgence when the reality of simple survival is far more urgent. In this sense Vlautin is the son of John Steinbeck and Raymond Carver.

Francesca Peacock

The art of printmaking in all its glorious complexity

Do you know your aquatint from your drypoint? Your intaglio from your lithograph? The appearance of any one finished print can vary so much from another – the feathery delicacy of etching replaced by the bold forms of linocut or the carved sinews of a woodblock – that it can be difficult to believe they all derive from the same initial process. What image appears when an object – be it carved, chemically altered, or engraved – is covered in ink and pressed into a piece of paper? As Holly Black explains, it is difficult to know when this technique first originated. Was it with the work of monks carving woodblocks in the mid-9th century to print the lines of the Diamond Sutra (now held in the British Library)? Or does it have its origins centuries earlier?

Jon Day

A meditation on reality: Transcription, by Ben Lerner, reviewed

Near the beginning of Ben Lerner’s new novel the unnamed narrator recalls visiting an exhibition of botanical models made by the father-and-son glass artists Leopold and Rudolf Blashka in Dresden in the 19th century. Like Zeuxis’s grapes, so lifelike that birds would come and peck at them, the models, ‘impossibly delicate things’, challenge the narrator’s sense of the real: I kept seeing the flowers as organic one instant and as artificial the next, a kind of duck/rabbit effect, not between things the object might represent but between nature and culture, the given and the constructed. Transcription, like Lerner’s previous three novels, is an autofiction about the tension between the given and the constructed. It is arranged in three acts.

Maggie Fergusson

Weeds, bugs and lichens must now thrill the imagination

In the summer of 1992, the Times sent me to Orkney to interview the poet George Mackay Brown. He was notoriously wary of media interest – perhaps the only author ever to have asked his doctor for anti-depressants when shortlisted for the Booker prize – and I could hardly get a word out of him. His council flat didn’t yield much either: a sofa, a table – a Formica surface which Brown cleared of crumbs after breakfast and then wrote on till lunchtime. But behind his rocking chair, a huge banner, embroidered in bright wools, blazed out across an otherwise monochrome room: O let them be left, wildness and wet Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

Tuesday

Peter Carty

Haunting images: The Shadow of the Object, by Chloe Aridjis, reviewed

What marks out Chloe Aridjis as a novelist is her ability to create atmospheres and ambiences. These often have hints of the uncanny, but rather than making her writing unsettling they give it an appealing intimacy. Her fourth novel begins as the narrator Flora visits her parents in Mexico City. Without warning, the family’s Alsatian leaps up and savages her hand. In hospital, she suffers from insomnia and wanders from her room to encounter ‘a mysterious figure’ at the end of a corridor. This turns out to be Wilhelmina, an elderly German patient with pneumonia, who befriends Flora. Wilhelmina collects antique toys and instruments, and Flora becomes fascinated by a magic lantern in her possession.

A.N. Wilson

A portrait of the fin de siècle in all its morbid decadence

Everyone I have met who has read Belchamber, Howard Sturgis’s novel of 1904, would endorse Edith Wharton’s judgment that this was a book which was ‘very nearly in the first rank’. I can still vividly remember the week – half a lifetime ago – when my wife and I discovered the little blue World’s Classics edition in a secondhand bookshop and were lost to the world for days. It is Henry James with the gloves off – in some ways quite unbearably vivid. Country house adultery and the sexual mores of London society during the 1890s are upsettingly, even crudely, laid bare. ‘Sainty’ the English aristocrat, an aesthete whose favourite pastime is knitting, fails to satisfy his coarse-grained wife, who provides him with a baby even though the marriage is, of course, unconsummated.

Mark Harman

The potentially catastrophic consequences of reading Kafka

Rainer Maria Rilke’s claim that fame is the ‘sum of all misunderstandings’ is certainly true of Franz Kafka, whose life, work and reception have long been plagued by myriad misunderstandings. Despite publishing comparatively little in his all-too-short lifetime (1883-1924), Kafka gained a reputation as a writer’s writer, whose work was met with keen appreciation by, among others, Rilke, Hermann Hesse and Thomas Mann. In Kafkaesque, which first appeared in French under the title Dix versions de Kafka, Maïa Hruska charts Kafka’s afterlife through the perspective of ten ‘first’ writer-translators.

Helen Barrett

The nightmare of filming A Hard Day’s Night

It would be easy to dismiss A Hard Day’s Night, the Beatles film made in 1964, as a throwaway period piece. The plot hurls the Fab Four into a meta narrative, playing themselves while a director – a seething Victor Spinetti – panics as the boys are delayed on their way to a televised variety performance by mishaps, distractions and stampeding fans. The film was thrown together to fit the group’s breakneck schedule – scripted over a few weeks in January by Alun Owen, shot by Richard Lester by May and out in cinemas in July. In her absorbing, concise book, Samira Ahmed sees the film not as a cursory promo but as a watershed in British culture – ‘a kind of cinematic big bang’.

Diana Hendry

Why it’s permissible to betray family secrets

Blake Morrison is the quintessential man of letters. More exactly, he’s a man of genres – poet, novelist, playwright, essayist, librettist and, most notably, memoirist. (Four memoirs so far, each a prize winner and/or bestseller). Although in the introduction to On Memoir he refutes the notion that he established the genre of life writing in the UK (he was professor of creative and life writing at Goldsmiths University, London for 20 years) or that he has ‘encouraged its growth’, he has somehow become its guru, the critic every literary editor turns to on the publication of yet another raw family story or celebrity revelation.

David Profumo

Alone on a vast fjord, surrounded by whales, beneath the midnight sun

As an angler in pursuit of fish across some 45 countries, I have travelled in a variety of precarious watercraft, from a Tahitian va’a to a coracle in Coorg, and remain convinced that all buoyant vessels are merely looking for somewhere to sink. In his study of the cultural history of small boats around the north Atlantic, David Gange, an academic historian and devotee of the kayak, argues that they are in fact transports of delight, and a key component in the survival of precious maritime communities.

Stephen Smith

Antony Gormley’s lonely figures transfer to paper

If there’s any consolation to be had in the prospect of AI filling the world with humanoids, it will be the look on their glassy faces when they realise that one of us has beaten them to it. The Turner Prize-winning sculptor Sir Antony Gormley, 75, has installed casts of himself from Crosby beach in Liverpool to Gateshead, from Texas to the Netherlands and western Australia. He and his simulacra might not detain our new overlords for very long, of course, but in the meantime ‘The Gormleys versus the Bots’ is the Doctor Who episode I’m here for. The man responsible for the magnificent ‘Angel of the North’ studied at Goldsmith’s, the playground of Damien Hirst, Sarah Lucas and other YBAs.