More from Books

Thursday

Anthony Daniels

Seeds of wisdom and dissent

George Orwell was deeply hostile to vegetarianism. Vegetarians were of ‘that dreary tribe of high-minded women and sandal-wearers and bearded fruit-juice drinkers who come flocking to the smell of “progress” like bluebottles to a dead cat’. And before the days of South Indian restaurants in London, one had only to go to a vegetarian eating establishment to see that he had a point. It wasn’t only the beards that wilted (to quote Orwell again): it seemed that nut rissoles had an existentially wilting effect on those who subsisted on them. Of course, one might have mistaken cause for effect. Tristram Stuart’s very, indeed excessively, long and somewhat shapeless history of vegetarian thought in Europe does not entirely dispel this impression.

Max Egremont

A nation given a bad name

Thirteen years ago, I was driving with a German friend through the Russian city of Kaliningrad (until 1945 the east Prussian city of Königsberg) when my friend said, ‘There’s the old German army barracks.’ As we stared glumly at the bleak building, darkness settled on me, brought on by three words, each — on its own — innocuous: German, army, barracks. The old clichés rose again: discipline, efficiency, inhumanity, conquest — images, I realised, not of Germany but of Prussia. There is, however, another view: that the austere but enlightened Prussian ethos — that of an impartial civil service, a liberal penal code, an excellent education system — was, under the Nazis, corrupted by uncouth Bavarians and Austrian sentimentalists.

Robert Macfarlane

A long hike from China

‘To follow the Silk Road is to follow a ghost,’ writes Colin Thubron at the start of this magnificent book, ‘it flows through the heart of Asia, but it has officially vanished, leaving behind it the pattern of its restlessness: counterfeit borders, unmapped peoples.’ This pattern is the ‘shadow’ of his title — the marks left on the present by an ancient trade route whose infrastructure has been all but abolished by centuries of war, weather and modernisation. The Silk Road, which ran 7,000 miles from Antioch in Turkey to Xian in China, was the first information superhighway. Along it moved not only people and goods, but also ideas, rumours, inventions, dreams, and songs.

Theo Richmond

When peace is a hawk not a dove

Researching the history of a destroyed Polish shtetl, I met some of its survivors, among them Julius, an assimilated Jew, a fearless horse-rider, who had served in the army. He went home to Konin in 1945, alone and hungry, his sole possession a torn blanket. A council official told him, ‘The Jews wanted the war and deserved to be punished.’ A former neighbour, more sympathetic, presented Julius with a pistol, advising him to leave town. He heeded the warning, as did other returning survivors. Three Jews in a nearby village had just been murdered. Julius’s story could come from the pages of Jan Gross’s Fear, a chilling, deeply researched study of the fate awaiting Holocaust survivors in Poland in the immediate post-war years.

Wednesday

Geoffrey Riley

‘To My Friends Pictured Within’

Dedication of Elgar’s Enigma Variations    The faded, grainy photographs reveal   A late-Victorian decent openness.   These were his friends: with them he could express   His candid self, indulge his whims and feel   That there was nothing that he need conceal.   Their loyalty assuaged delayed success,   Keeping at bay the hurt of bitterness   No future accolades would ever heal.    ‘Enigma’ made his name and changed his life.   Honours and fame made him a traveller;   He roamed the world, was fêted, made new friends.   His amour propre guarded by his wife,   He kept his wounds, sensitive to a slur.

Caroline Moore

Through a glass, darkly

In The Master, a fictional portrait of Henry James, Colm Tóibín constructed a convincing and ultimately moving account of a man who craved — albeit ambiguously — emotional distance. His life is shown as balancing between a yearning for and shrinking from personal intimacy; involving what can be seen as a ‘betrayal’ of the world, ostensibly at least for the sake of his art. In Mothers and Sons, Tóibín returns to the theme of the deep need for, and painful cost of, emotional withdrawal, this time concentrating upon the maternal bond. All of the short stories in this collection are about separation, which is felt as both necessary and a form of betrayal.

Andro Linklater

Angry young man

With apologies to Antic Hay, if you can have biography and biology, why not biosophy? Or biolatry, biotomy, bionomy and biogamy? The need for these neologisms is prompted by this extraordinary childhood memoir which combines adolescent intensity with a search for salvation, a hot glorification of life with its cold dissection, and the trade and eventual marriage of two separate existences. Apart from its beautiful writing, what stamps Seminary Boy as a classic story of growing up is the kaleidoscope of perspectives it offers on the mystery of being. The narrative concerns the first 17 years of John Cornwell’s life during the 1940s and 1950s when he was sent to boarding-school, technically a minor seminary, to be prepared for life as a Roman Catholic priest.

Gary Dexter

Alternative reading

The Trailor Murder Mystery (1846) by Abraham Lincoln In 1841 the young Abraham Lincoln was working as an attorney in Illinois. He became the defence counsel for three brothers named Trailor, who were accused of murdering an odd-job man for his money. No corpse had been found: the odd-job man had simply disappeared, and the brothers seemed suddenly wealthy, which was enough for the good folk of Springfield, IL. Then the odd-job man turned up alive and the case collapsed. Lincoln, unpaid for his services, tried to recoup something by writing an account of the affair for the newspaper The Quincy Whig, which splashed it as ‘A Remarkable Case of Arrest for Murder’ on 15 April 1846.

Thursday

Bevis Hillier

Making the case for Victoriana

When people use the word ‘journalese’, they always do so pejoratively. They are not thinking of James Cameron, Bernard Levin or Walter Winchell. They mean a style that traffics in clichés. The poet B. I. Isherville has derided that kind of writing: Where every heresy is rankAnd every rank is serried;Where every crook is hatchet-faced,And every hatchet buried. There are cliché headlines, too, and for some reason articles on food seem specially to attract them. Any novice sub-editor thinks he or she is being wildly or Wildely witty in heading a piece on puddings ‘Just desserts’. And was there ever a curry recipe that was not headed ‘Some like it hot’?

Grey Gowrie

The higher slopes of Parnassus

The Gallery Press, Loughcrew, Oldcastle, Co. Meath, Ireland, www.gallerypress.com ‘August for the people and their favourite islands,’ wrote W. H. Auden in a poem from his early Marxist phase. This holiday season brings from our adjoining island a parcel of poetry better suited to Christmas or some elate private festival, a salvation of riches. Literary beachwear is usually marketed as undemanding: thrill- ers, Aga sagas, bonkbusters and the like.  The secret is to stick to good poems. Reading them requires fierce brief sensual attention akin to lovemaking itself. Afterwards you can doze again in the sun or over a novel.  Seamus Heaney’s previous collection, Electric Light, disappointed some of his large readership (though not this member).

David Crane

Endearing, fleeting charm

It has often been said that the popularity of J. M. Barrie stands as a warning to those who think they understand the Edwardians and much the same is true of Tom Moore and the Age of Romanticism. With the exceptions of Byron and Scott, Moore was by far the most successful literary figure of his day, and if his success clearly had more to do with personality and charm than anything he actually wrote, just how much charm does a man have to have to get away with verse like this? ‘Alla illa Alla!’ — the glad shout renew —‘Alla Akbar!’ — the Caliph’s in Merou.Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets,And light your shrines and chaunt your ziraleets.

Wednesday

Nicholas Coleridge

Vanity Fair in W.11

Veiled roman-à-clef novels of this kind are routinely hyped by their publishers as being certain to cause uproar and mayhem. Often they do nothing of the kind and pass almost unnoticed. Rachel Johnson’s acerbic and well-observed bitch-up of life on a Notting Hill communal garden justifies the copious pre-publicity, and I can report that early copies are already playing very badly in the yoga and pilates classes of W. 11, and in the numerous organic food shops and boutiques where the real-life counterparts of her characters assemble. By the time the schools go back in September, and the full Notting Hill brigade has remarshalled in the hood after the summer, the lynch mobs will be gathering and it might be prudent of Johnson to skip town for a while.

Jonathan Sumption

The Christian Drang nach Osten

We are still living with the images and legends of the crusades. Were they, as the 18th-century Scottish philosopher David Hume wrote, ‘the most signal and durable monument of human folly that has yet appeared in any age or nation’? Were they, as muscular Christians and imperialists suggested in the 19th century, a matchless epic of human heroism, in which the defeat of the ‘right’ side had been happily reversed in their own age? Were they an immoral act of unprovoked aggression for which western Christians should apologise to the Muslim world, as the last Pope has rather absurdly purported to do on their behalf? Moral judgments, it is said, are not the historian’s province, but in this field they are hard to avoid.

Byron Rogers

A sort of decade

The Sixties are there in the first sentence of the first chapter of this social, political and cultural history of the decade: On the first day of October 1963, as the earliest whispers of dawn were edging across the cliff tops of the Yorkshire resort of Scarborough, the new leader of the Labour party nervously paced up and down the carpet of his hotel suite. They are there in the first sentence of the second chapter: Shortly after four o’clock on the afternoon of Friday, 16 October, a sleek black Daimler eased through the rain into the forecourt of Buckingham Palace.

Lloyd Evans

The primrose path to holiness

‘No thanks. Too much sex.’ Thus an elderly friend dismissed my offer to lend him John Stubbs’s compendious biography of John Donne. His fears are groundless. Stubbs tells us virtually nothing about the paramours who inspired Donne’s youthful poems, partly because no new information is available and partly because the poet’s exquisite testimony on the subject renders further details superfluous. Instead he focuses on Donne’s struggle with his religious conscience, a conflict which typifies the difficulties faced by England’s religious communities in the early 17th century.

Alexander Waugh

An exception to most rules

Waiting for the second volume of a good biography is a painful process. I feel very sorry for anyone who read Brian McGuinness’s excellent Young Ludwig (part one of the life of Wittgenstein) when it was published in 1988. The philosopher’s exciting story broke off in 1921 and fans have been left dangling ever since in an 18-year state of suspended expectation of a sequel. As far as I know Dr McGuinness is alive and kicking and still regarded as the world’s greatest expert on Wittgenstein, but too much time has passed and slowly we must adjust our sights to the sordid possibility that there may never be a second volume.

Allan Massie

The wisdom of Sandy Arbuthnott

‘There’s a dry wind blowing through the East and the parched grasses wait and spark.’ This is not the sort of language we associate with a high-ranking official in the Foreign Office, but things were different in 1916. Not altogether different, however. ‘Islam is a fighting creed, and the mullah still stands in the pulpit with the Koran in one hand and a drawn sword in the other. Supposing there is some Ark of the Covenant which will madden the remotest Moslem peasant with dreams of Paradise? What then?’ ‘Then there will be hell let loose in these parts pretty soon.

Wednesday

Sam Leith

A not so cuddly teddy bear

Only if you have spent the last few months living in a remote corner of Chad will you not have noticed that this year marks the centenary of Sir John Betjeman’s birth. We have already seen telly programmes, church restoration appeals, commemorative CDs of his readings, Cornish cliff walks and special outings on West Country railways in honour of a man whose genius consisted, as the late Sir Peter Parker put it, in ‘an infinite capacity for taking trains’. Now come two new lives: A. N. Wilson’s snappy and stylish short biography, and a still hefty one-volume boiling-down of Bevis Hillier’s socking three-volume authorised life.

Matthew Dennison

Double rescue from the cold

‘I am entirely against the promotion of a sense of humour as a philosophy of life,’ wrote Kate O’Brien, with just that chilling aloofness that marks out her two heroines in The Land of Spices. Mère Marie-Hélène, Reverend Mother of the convent school of La Compagnie de la Sainte Famille in Mellick (a fictionalised Limerick), and Anna Murphy, her youngest pupil, each form a single deep emotional attachment — Reverend Mother to her father, Anna to her brother Charlie.

Digby Durrant

A small stir of Scots

I wonder how much my enthusiasm for Alexander McCall Smith’s stories about Precious Ramotswe, the founder of The Ladies No. 1 Detective Agency, came from reading them while in a French hospital recovering from an emergency operation?  Grateful to be transported from my hospital bed to Botswana and find myself in her company I wouldn’t have heard a word against her. And when his first Edinburgh book came out called 44 Scotland Street, where years ago I once had digs, did I allow a nostalgic bias to creep in? But here’s Love Over Scotland, and I have no excuse for any bias, nostalgic or otherwise. Many of the original cast reappear.