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Saturday

Matthew Dennison

Boy of the streets

Hotel de Dream by Edmund White Seven years before his untimely death from consumption at the age of 28, Stephen Crane published Maggie: A Girl of the Streets. It was 1893 and the time was out of joint for a grimly realistic fictionalisation of the life of a prostitute. Nineteenth-century sensibilities recoiled. Crane enjoyed a succès de scandale, and established himself at the forefront of American literary modernism. Fellow American author Edmund White — himself no stranger to the succès de scandale — has chosen Stephen Crane as the subject of his new novel. Crane is a cultish writer, largely unknown to British readers.

Simon Baker

Two can be as bad as one

Secrets of the Sea by Nicholas Shakespeare Nicholas Shakespeare’s new novel is set in Wellington Point, an inauspicious fictional Tasmanian town. It is a place offering few prospects: the only jobs are menial, and the only person with any vim is the odious Ray Grogan, an estate agent who seduces local women by comparing them to the Taj Mahal by moonlight. People who move to Wellington Point do so, more often than not, for a quiet life. One such person is Alex Dove. Alex’s English parents arrived, full of hope, in Wellington Point before Alex was born, but his father became inward and alcoholic, interested only in building ships in bottles. He and his wife were killed in a car crash when Alex was 11, and Alex was sent to England.

Roy Kerridge

Taking the life out of the Lane

On Brick Lane by Rachel Lichtenstein Brick Lane, a long and ancient street in London’s East End, casts a spell of fascination on all who go there. To walk down Brick Lane is to take a voyage through the past, where Huguenot weavers of the 18th century meet fellow ghosts of Jewish anarchists, and their history is everywhere you look. My own family history touches lightly on the Lane, for my grandfather owned a workshop there in the 1920s, and my stepfather discovered an anarchist printing press hidden in a ruined house there in the 1950s. Whitechapel Library, next door to the Art Gallery, is not strictly speaking in the Lane, but Rachel Lichtenstein includes it in this book of tape-recorded interviews. It is, or rather was, just round the corner to the Whitechapel end.

Jeremy Treglown

Sticking close to his desk . . .

The Several Lives of Joseph Conrad by John Stape Why did he do it? In his late thirties, Joseph Conrad abandoned the modestly successful career as a seaman which he had steadily built up. Though the job involved tiresome exams and increasing responsibilities, it had been his ‘great passion’, he wrote a dozen years later. ‘I call it great because it was great to me. Others may call it a foolish infatuation. Those words have been applied to every love story. But whatever it may be the fact remains that it was something too great for words.’ Yet he gave it up, opting instead for writing, marriage and a family, all of which made him miserable. Writing, in particular, was agony to him.

Ian Garrick-Mason

Two pairs of unsafe hands

Nixon and Kissinger: Partners in Power by Robert Dallek For a man who once promised the press, way back in 1962, that ‘you won’t have Nixon to kick around any more’, Richard Nixon has turned out to have a remarkably long political afterlife. After a five-and-a- half year presidency, he spent the two decades after his resignation in 1974 patiently building, through books and foreign visits, his reputation as a wise elder statesman.

Saturday

Allan Massie

From Shetland with truth

A novelist is rarely well-advised to write his masterpiece in his fifties, unless his position at the top of the tree is secure. His themes and style are no longer likely to be in fashion. A younger generation of writers is occupying the attention of reviewers and speaking with greater immediacy to the public. This was Eric Linklater’s experience. He had achieved popularity and critical respect in the Thirties with Juan in America and his best prewar novel Magnus Merriman, and maintained his position after the war with Private Angelo and Laxdale Hall. But by the mid-1950s, when he wrote The Dark of Summer, he was, if not in the wilderness, at least on its fringes. Yet this is a great novel, beautifully crafted, its themes sombre and important.

Patrick Skene-Catling

Homage to arms

Coward on the Beach by James Delingpole If you are not the right age to have enjoyed the thrills of serving in uniform in a really dangerous military campaign, the next best thing is to imagine one and write about it. That is what James Delingpole has done, very well indeed. His assiduous research, in the field, in the Imperial War Museum and elsewhere, his uncanny empathy with the officers and men of the 47th Royal Marine Commando, and his prose style, vigorous, witty and elegant, have produced a novel about the D-Day invasion of Normandy that’s a welcome corrective to the Spielberg–Hanks version and promises a lot more excitement to come. This novel is only Volume One of a projected ten-volume saga, which may well deserve the title A Dance to the Music of War.

Robert Stewart

Peanuts and popcorn and crackerjack

Baseball Haiku: The Best Haiku Ever Written About The Game edited by Cor van den Heuvel and Nanae Tamura Every American schoolboy and schoolgirl knows the mock epic, ‘Casey at the Bat’ (which William Schuman made into an opera), and Franklin Adams’s ‘saddest of possible words,/Tinker-to-Evers-to-Chance’ (of the Chicago Cubs’ double-play past masters). The historian, J.H. Hexter, analysed a baseball game to help him fathom the depths of causation in history; Stephen Jay Gould made extensive use of batting statistics in support of a theory of evolution. Baseball reaches parts of Americans that other games still cannot reach. It continues to lie warm and deep in the national spirit, renewing it every spring and hibernating there when the snows close in.

Christian House

Short but neat

No One Belongs Here More Than You by Miranda July Short-story compilations are a tricky beast. For writers, publishers and readers alike they all too frequently prove unsatisfying. Those who’ve mastered the form draw their stories together in a tapestry of narrative voice, social milieu and location to create a cohesive whole from stand-alone parts. Such writers, from William Trevor and Susan Hill to Russell Banks and Raymond Carver, have built successful careers from recognising this truth. With her début collection, No One Belongs Here More Than You, Miranda July follows firmly in their footsteps, especially Carver’s. This is blue-collar America brought to life in a pointillist fashion, achieved through the accumulated impact of small moments gathered together.

Andrew Taylor

A choice of crime novels | 18 August 2007

Since the 1990s, a tartan tide has flooded the coasts of crime fiction, and it still shows no sign of ebbing in terms of either quality or quantity. Broken Skin (HarperCollins, £12.99) is Stuart MacBride’s third investigation set on the wilder shores of Aberdeen and featuring Detective Sergeant Logan McRae. The novel opens as Logan’s volatile girlfriend, PC Jackie ‘Ball Breaker’ Watson, acts as bait (and lives up to her nickname) in a successful police operation that captures the Granite City Rapist. The only problem is that the rapist turns out to be the boy wonder of Aberdeen Football Club, and therefore the darling of the media and equipped with the best defence lawyer money can buy.

Michael Howard

In tune but out of time

George Kennan: A Study in Character by John Lukacs George Kennan died on 17 March 2005, aged 100 plus one year, one month and one day. The last half of his life he had spent in semi-retirement at the Princeton Institute for Advanced Studies, but for a few years, between 1946 and 1952, he had been one of the most influential people in the world, and, most unusually, an influence for good. But for him the world today might be in an even worse state than it actually is. As John Lukacs shows in this affectionate eulogy, Kennan was both typically and highly atypically American. He was typical as a poor boy from the Midwest who made good; hard-working, frugal, high-minded, rather solemn. Whereas others of his stamp amassed money, he amassed learning and, more unusually, wisdom.

Rupert Christiansen

What Winnie did with Hitler

Winnie and Wolf: A Novel by A.N. Wilson In her infamous five-hour ‘confession’ filmed by Hans-Jurgen Syberberg in 1975, Wagner’s English-born daughter-in-law Winifred talked openly and unashamedly about her close friendship with Hitler and his support for the Bayreuth Festival, which she personally managed throughout the Third Reich. When Syberberg confronts her with the rumours that she and the Führer had a sexual relationship, she pooh-poohs the idea, and her candour is persuasive. Brigitte Hamann’s authoritative 2002 biography confirms her denial (though the letters the two exchanged remain locked away). A.N. Wilson’s deeply clever and gripping new historical novel thinks otherwise, however.

Michael Hall

At home with the English

The English House by Hermann Muthesius In 1896 Hermann Muthesius, a Prussian architect and civil servant in his mid-thirties, arrived in London to work as a cultural and technical attaché at the German embassy. His mission, apparently instigated by the Kaiser, was to study the domestic architecture of the United Kingdom, a subject that was attracting international interest. The result was Das englische Haus, first published in Berlin in three volumes in 1904–5. This remarkable book surveys not only the architecture but also the decoration, gardens and way of life associated with houses in England. Muthesius deeply admired the achievements of English architects and designers, and argued that Germany had much to learn from their example.

Raymond Carr

Warding off the barbarians

Counterpoints: 25 Years of 'The New Criterion' on Culture and the Arts edited by Roger Kimball and Hilton Kramer The 40 or so reviews and essays in this book celebrate the 25th anniversary of the publication of the New Criterion. It saw itself as the heir of T. S. Eliot’s Criterion. In 1922 Eliot wrote that his contributors sought to foster ‘a common concern for the highest standards of both thought and expression’. This was to echo Matthew Arnold’s definition of criticism as the disinterested endeavour to learn and propagate the best that is known and thought in the world and to protect it from the onslaught of philistine barbarians. For the writers of the New Criterion modern criticism fails to live up to this task. Take the case of Sir Elton John.

Saturday

James Joll

He killed off Georgian style

God’s Architect: Pugin and the Building of Romantic Britainby Rosemary Hill Pugin is not unknown in the way he was 50 years ago. Two major exhibitions in the 1990s, in New York and London, the formation of a flourishing Pugin Society and 3,000 people who one weekend last summer crowded in to see his highly original home in Ramsgate, lovingly restored by the Landmark Trust, attest to his growing popularity. However, he has hitherto lacked a considered full-length biography, despite the rumour of 1,000 pages going into Phoebe Stanton’s publisher’s office, from which they have yet to emerge.

Oliver Rackham

Child of the New Forest

Roger Deakin was a swimmer, old-fashioned socialist, carpenter, broadcaster, tree-planter, chair-bodger, ‘quasi-hippie’, art critic, naturalist, Cambridge graduate, traveller, north-east Suffolk man, champion of local individuality, anti-globaliser and explorer of the links between nature and culture. (Guess how many of these attributes he shared with this reviewer.) He founded Common Ground, the organisation that gave the only sensible advice — do nothing — about what to do after the Great Storm 20 years ago. He died last year leaving this, his last work. It is not a book about wildwood, in the proper sense of woodland in the dim and distant past before the coming of settled humanity. Much of it is not even a book about trees.

D.J. Taylor

Trusty steeds and saucy varlets

Supposedly narrated by the scholar and Aristotelian Michael Scott to his pupil the future Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II, sometime in the early 13th century, Charlemagne and Roland completes the trilogy begun by The Evening of the World and Arthur the King. Although framed as a picturesquely tongue-in-cheek accompaniment to a great deal of Carolingian history, it also doubles up — and far more amusingly — as a highly sophisticated commentary on the whole idea of how one sets about writing an historical novel. The battlefield on which most purists of the genre take their stand lies on the plain of idiom.

Alberto Manguel

A gallery of pen portraits

Trying to explain the limits of his Parallel Lives, Plutarch compared the work of historians to that of cartographers who must crowd into the edges of their maps parts of the world which they do not know about, adding notes in the margin to the effect that beyond this lies nothing but the sandy deserts full of wild beasts, unapproachable bogs, Scythian ice or a frozen sea. History, for Plutarch, is the text we all can read, surrounded by an illegible flow of events too far in the past or too distant in the future. Clive James has reversed Plutarch’s layout.

Toby Young

Mamet blows his own trumpet

It would be easy to be mean about this book — so here goes. It purports to be David Mamet’s practical guide to movie-making and one of the points he makes repeatedly is that films shouldn’t have any fat on them. The film may, perhaps, be likened to a boxer. He is going to have to deal with all the bulk his opponent brings into the ring. Common sense should indicate he had better not bring one extra ounce of flab on him — that all the weight he brings into the ring had better be muscle. No one would argue with that — but doesn’t the same principle apply to books? Why, then, are the last 45 pages of Bambi vs Godzilla taken up with listing the films ‘referenced’ in the preceding 205 pages?

Hugh Cecil

Not forgetting the horses’ indigestion

The appearance of this volume is an important publishing event. It is the first book in ten years from one of the outstanding historians of our age. Its brevity and unflamboyant presentation are deceptive. Those who have admired Norman Stone’s work in the past will not be disappointed — it is full of surprises and provocative statements. Coming from an expert on Great War Russia who has now settled in Turkey, the balance of the book is tipped refreshingly away from the conventionally favoured Western Front, and much more towards the Russian, Balkan, Asia Minor and Italian Fronts, though the Middle East (unexpectedly), Africa, and more far-flung parts do not get much attention.