Books

Now we’ve got time on our freshly cleaned hands, The Spectator’s literary luminaries are lubricating the wheels on time’s wingèd chariot and seizing the chance to boost their morale and brain function, reflect on the meaning of life and catch up on a good book or six. Each day, the Lockdown List carries our bibliophilic recommendations. Day 74: Indian summerRoss Clark The success of Black Lives Matter has deflected attention from a group which has no less a cause for grievance over its treatment throughout US history: native Americans. Indeed, to this day Native Americans, thousand for thousand, have an even greater chance of being killed by police officers as do African Americans.

Books Do Furnish a Room was the title of one volume in Anthony Powell's sequence of novels A Dance to the Music of Time. How true that is. When you enter a room, where do your eyes turn? To the wallpaper? The ceiling? The furniture? No, the books! What do you have in common with the person you are visiting? What can you talk about? What can you slip into your pockets while they are out of the room? 'Books do furnish a room' is the thesis Thatcher Wine has built his career around (yes, that is his name, not the special vintage of some kind of hideous Young Tory club.) Wine is Gwyneth Paltrow's 'book curator', as an interview in Town & Country Magazine describes. 'After everyone tired of reading on their Kindles,' the interview begins (everyone, everyone): '...

I’ve Served My Time in Hell By John F. Kelly This memoir by Trump’s resigned White House chief of staff takes its title from the Vietnam-era GI mantra: ‘When I die, I’m going straight to heaven because I’ve served my time in hell.’ The former Marine Corps general likens his tenure at the White House to ‘simultaneous waterboarding and colonoscopy.’ At one point he was so depressed that he tried to hang himself from a chandelier in the East Room, but was interrupted by a tour group. He chafes at criticism that he failed to moderate Trump’s wilder impulses.

A silence descended on the Spectator USA library as our writers composed their Books of Year. It was the silence of deep thought, broken only by the clink of ice in tumblers, the gentle whoosh of the Juul pipe, and snoring from the armchair by the fire. At dawn, the editors unlocked the library doors. Our writers stumbled out, blinking in the bright sunshine. We gathered their shoddily written copy, and watched through the library windows as they gamboled in the snow. They looked like children, only with hip flasks and cigars.   Daniel Akst Any gift can be a burden, and no gift is more potentially burdensome than a book. That’s why any books you give ought to be brief, unexpected and absorbing – the opposite, in other words, of homework.

In this giant, prodigiously sourced and insightful biography, John A. Farrell shows how Richard Milhous Nixon was the nightmare of the age for many Americans, even as he won years of near-adulation from many others. One can only think of Donald Trump. Nixon appealed to lower- and  lower-middle-class whites from the heartland, whose hatred of the press and the east-coast elite, and feelings of having been short-changed and despised by snobs, held steady until their hero and champion unmistakably broke the law and had to resign his second-term presidency. Nixon won a smashing re-election in 1972, even as it was apparent that the White House was awash with skulduggery.