More from Books

Saturday

Justin Marozzi

Another good man in Africa

INSIDE SAHARAby Basil PaoWeidenfeld, £25, pp. 200, ISBN 0297843044 Michael Palin is a decent chap, I thought, after bumping into him for a nanosecond at the Hatchards Authors of the Year party a few months ago. It was just long enough for the briefest exchange of desert tales before he was mobbed by growing numbers of the Palin Fan Club, at which point he faded from view and I was left wishing I had cornered him for longer. That was back in May, and this being October, it is time for the latest Palin tome to land in bookstores the length and breadth of Britain, for what could be a nicer Christmas present than this sleek volume from the man who brought us Around the World in Eighty Days, Pole to Pole, Full Circle and Hemingway Adventure?

Claudia FitzHerbert

Selling sex up the river

Anne Enright is an Irish writer with a startling gift for domesticating the outlandish. In her last novel, about twins separated at birth, she explored the sadness at the heart of tales of freakish sameness. In her latest, based on the true story of a 19th-century Irish concubine, deranged appetites are passed off as endearing peccadilloes. The novel opens like an arty French film, with some rhythmic coupling in a Paris flat. Eliza Lynch, an 18-year-old beauty with a chronic clothes habit and a pragmatically carnal relationship with her dressmaker, is intent on pleasuring Francisco Solano Lopez, a visiting South American with absurd manners and extravagant tastes. He is the heir-apparent to the dictatorship of Paraguay, she is a black-eyed hussy on the run from a prudent marriage.

Harriet Waugh

The end of something good

Two running stories are brought to a close in Death's Jest-Book. The first was introduced in the novel in which we first met Ellie, Peter Pascoe's future wife. An Advancement of Learning, published in 1971, has that great team - politically correct Sergeant Peter Pascoe and fat, slobbish, thuggish Superintendent Andy Dalziel - investigating a series of murders in the academic institution where Ellie teaches. A pattern emerges when they come across the charismatic, psychopathic, clever young student, Franny Roote. It is not entirely clear at the end how guilty Roote is of murder. He does, however, go to a secure mental hospital before trans- ferring to prison. Those who go to prison usually come out, and Roote knows how to use the system.

Victoria Glendinning

The incomparable and inexplicable

THE ILLUSTRATED ZULEIKA DOBSONby Max Beerbohm, with an introduction by N. John HallYale, £9.99, pp. 432, ISBN 0300097328 Max Beerbohm wrote a tale called The Happy Hypocrite, a reversal of his friend Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray. It's about a rake who puts on a saintly mask in order to win the love of a pure girl. When his mask is torn off, his former, dissolute face has become saintly underneath. The man has become his mask. One is reminded of this story while reading N. John Hall's Max Beerbohm: A Kind of a Life because readers of N. John Hall's previous work will find him revealed here in a completely new aspect. Which is the real N. John Hall? Happily and unhypocritically, the answer has to be: both. Professor N.

Sarah Bradford

The everlasting power and glory of the shared table

From Apicius to the Ivy: Roy Strong, the possessor of 800 cookbooks, has written a fascinating and scholarly study of social eating from Greece to the 21st century, a single-volume synthesis of the most significant work published in various countries and various languages over the last two decades, polished with style, bibliographical knowledge and an ability to spin a subject. His first book of this genre, which I remember reviewing for The Spectator, was Art and Power, a study of Renaissance festivals. This should perhaps be subtitled 'Power Dining' since its main theme is eating, food and etiquette as a demonstration of political and social power, the principal objective through the centuries being social exclusion not communal enjoyment.

Theodore Dalrymple

Through whiggish spectacles

The distillation of a vast quantity of historical material into a tolerably readable concentrate is a considerable skill, the historian's equivalent of good popular science, and the late Professor Porter manifestly had that skill. To produce a history of medicine, little more than 150 pages long, that is not a completely arid list of names is a considerable feat, though not one that calls for deep originality of thought, which was never the strong point of Porter's large, indeed manically enormous, oeuvre. A short history like this must have an organising principle, and the one that Porter chose was the Whig interpretation of history.

Francis King

Harmony triumphantly achieved

Like most human beings, most novelists are neither outstandingly good nor outstandingly bad. This poses a problem for reviewers. A good novelist can write interestingly about mediocre characters; but even a superlative reviewer may find it difficult to write interestingly about mediocre novels. In consequence, reviewers all too often rush to the extremes of proclaiming a novel either a stinker or a masterpiece. In my own time, reviewers have called Anthony Powell the English Proust and C. P. Snow the English Balzac, and compared Olivia Manning's two wartime trilogies to War and Peace. When, some 50 years ago, I published a novel entitled The Widow, my publisher rang up in a state of rare excitement to tell me that a now forgotten reviewer had referred to me as 'Gibbon's successor'.

Gerard Noel

A failure of papal nerve

This is one of the most devastating but, at the same time, restrained and balanced indictments, among the many that have appeared, of the conduct of the Roman Catholic Church in the face of the Holocaust. It is restrained in that it avoids extreme positions, let alone emotive language, even disagreeing with the expression 'Hitler's Pope' as an apt description of Pius XII; but it is devastating in the unremitting detail, including some new revelations, with which it makes its clinically incisive approach to this painful subject. The book breaks important new ground in two directions.

Saturday

Digby Anderson

An intolerant sort of liberal

In 1845 Newman was received into the Roman Catholic Church. More than a century and a half later, the fires of controversy ignited by the Oxford Movement which he led, as an Anglican priest, until his reception, seem to have died down. Newman himself is widely regarded as a great Christian apologist and a sympathetic and good man. Above all, the story of Newman is a popular and moving tale. English Roman Catholics are proud of his fame. Many Anglicans are happy to accept his sacramental legacy, if not the disciplines that go with it. Conservatives admire his stand against liberalism and liberals enjoy using and abusing his doctrine of development.

Hugh Massingberd

The unvarnished picture

'What-ho,' says an Excess sub-editor appreciatively as Simon Balcairn files his sensational account of Margot Metroland's party for the American revivalist Mrs Melrose Ape in Vile Bodies by Sir Cecil Beaton's pin-sticking prep-school contemporary, Evelyn Waugh (variously described in these diaries as 'my old arch enemy' and 'that swine'). Another 'sub' remarks that Lord Balcairn's copy is coming through 'hot and strong, as nice as mother makes it'. Beaton may have been the 'self-created' Harrovian grandson of a blacksmith rather than an 8th earl, like Balcairn, but these diaries from the 1970s, the last decade of Sir Cecil's life, are certainly 'hot and strong' enough to cause a stir even in a publishing season dominated by diaries of one sort or another.

John Bayley

Having things both ways

It all comes out of War and Peace? Well, Tolstoy makes a good starting-point anyway for such an adroit historian of place and people as Dr Figes. In an early chapter Natasha, the young Countess Rostov, is visiting 'Uncle', an old family friend and retired army officer who has gone native and lives in a wooden izba beside the forest with his peasant mistress. Some visiting locals start to dance, and without thinking or knowing the complicated rustic measure Natasha joins in and executes the steps correctly, to general applause. Well, well. However unaware of it she may be Natasha lives in two worlds, and finds herself as much at home dancing among the peasants as she has come to be in a Moscow ballroom. At least so Tolstoy says, and the idea clearly gives him great satisfaction.

Elisa Segrave

Angels and ministers of grace

Despite its provocative title, this is not a salacious book. Any reader hoping for disclosures about Woolf's lesbian love affairs will be disappointed. But do we really need another book on Virginia Woolf when there are already two excellent biographies, by Quentin Bell and Hermione Lee, and numerous essays - such as Helen Dunmore's perceptive Virginia Woolf and her Relationships with Women in Issue 23 of the Charleston Magazine? Wouldn't we do better to reread Woolf's own extraordinary prose in, say, The Waves, which I am now doing, encouraged, I admit, by reviewing the above? Vanessa Curtis is co-founder of the Virginia Woolf Society of Great Britain and editor of the Virginia Woolf Bulletin.

Patrick Skene-Catling

Putting the ha back in Ithaca

'Yes,' writes the eponymous narrator of this exceptionally clever, vivacious account of sibling rivalry, 'there are many wax dolls on the shelves of my memory and I make sure I still twist the pins now and again, in passing.' The dolls most vindictively pierced are those representing her twin sister and her mother. There are intimations of grandfatherly child abuse and a hint of Electra complex. The family's exotic and rancorous family history is recorded, not altogether veritably, on her laptop by Cassandra at the age of 39, a cosmopolitan, embittered Englishwoman dying of cancer in a mental asylum on Ithaca. Sounds a bit grim? Strangely, it isn't.

Byron Rogers

Falling among fans

I remember the day, the time, the place. Discussing the world's news with the village butcher, I brought up the perjury trial, and he said, 'Who?' Silent among the sausages in Greens Norton, I looked at him with a wild surmise. Remember this: in July 2001, it was still possible to meet an Englishman who had not heard of Jeffrey Archer. Never glad confident morning again. It is Michael Crick I feel most sorry for. When you appoint yourself a man's personal nemesis you do not expect to find that in the process you are obliged to be a biographer to all of central casting.

Lucy Hugheshallett

Voices in the next room

After his father died Blake Morrison wrote an emotive and bravely candid book about him, from which Morrison pŒre emerges as an ebulliently attractive man, but also as a domineering father and an unfaithful husband. Morrison showed the manuscript to his mother. She made no objections, and only one request - that he omit the fact that she had grown up a Roman Catholic. There were people who didn't know, she said, who might be 'shocked'. Morrison made the change, privately wondering why she thought it necessary. It was only when she, in turn, died and he read the letters his parents wrote each other during their wartime courtship that he realised how nearly his mother's Catholicism had cost her her heart's desire.

Graham Stewart

Faithful after his fashion

There is doubtless some passing pleasure to be had in making it into the Royal Enclosure or, failing that, the 'Sunday Times Rich List'. But for those in political and media circles the last opportunity has passed for gaining immortality in the pages of the Pepys of our times now that the final volume of the Alan Clark diaries has been published. Part of the pleasure was the risk that inclusion entailed. A mention in the Alan Clark diaries is like playing Russian roulette with posterity. One need only think of the late Peter Morrison who, thanks to Clark's account, is now remembered as the man who slept when he was supposed to be running Margaret Thatcher's leadership campaign. Ken Clarke is, it seems, destined to share a sentence with 'pudgy puff-ball'.

Saturday

Alan Watkins

Coming from the wars of words

It was 1971, at the Dudley Hotel, Hove, late at night during a Tory conference, and Sir (as he then wasn't) Max Hastings and I were discussing editorship. He was then working for the BBC. Specifically, we were talking about the editorship of the New Statesman. There was discontent there about the tenure of R. H. S. Crossman. It was felt he could not last much longer (he was to depart next year). Max thought Anthony Howard would be an excellent successor, as, indeed, he turned out to be. For himself, he was uninterested in such baubles. 'What I really like doing,' he said - I remember his words exactly - 'is sleeping under an Israeli tank, looking up at the stars.' This did not seem to me to be the ideal way to spend the night but I refrained from saying so, as it must have been obvious.

Raymond Carr

History from below

Professor Linda Colley is a distinguished historian. In her Britons, published in 1992, she proved that good, imaginative professional history could attract a wide public. Captives is a more complex book that demands close reading, as she unravels the ambiguities that challenge customary certainties of imperial history. The empire celebrated at Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee was 'reimagined as inexorable and inevitable'. No one could have imagined this in the period she examines from 1600 to 1850. Time and time again, it was an empire challenged by its 'smallness', the incapacity of a small island to provide the manpower to run an empire. It was, as a perceptive analyst wrote in the early 1800s, an empire planted in a flowerpot.

Alan Judd

Nasty questions that need asking

Prominent in any contemporary dictionary of received opinion should be the assumption that all terrorism has 'root causes' that render violence 'understandable' because the aggrieved have 'no alternative'. It comes with all the shock and invigoration of a cold bath to find someone arguing against this contemporary shibboleth.

Michael Wharton

Light from eastern windows

If the popular idea of the men who founded the British Raj as a lot of brutish pig-stickers and greedy nabobs who despised the Indians they exploited and thought their civilisation of no account still persists, this fascinating, well-researched book should be enough to dispel it. At the end of the 18th century, when the East India Company was consolidating its power and extending its possessions, a number of its officials, civil and military, struck by the splendours and mysteries about them, impressive even in their day, began to seek for knowledge of India's past.