Culture

William Lord Rees-Mogg is an institution. The former editor of the Times is renowned, revered and, I’m afraid, ridiculed in equal measure. His weekly column in the Times has always been outspoken, sometimes to its detriment. In the aftermath of the Tory collapse in 1997, he argued that the party need a dextrous and popular leader to counter Tony Blair’s affable charisma. It was an astute observation, especially given what the Tories contrived thereafter. But his recommendation that Alan Clark be appointed met with derision. Thereafter, famous Clubland wits, among whom Ress-Mogg walked, dubbed him 'Mystic Mogg'. Even, if not especially, Mogg’s proprietor Rupert Murdoch was not above puncturing his editor’s ego.

How do you top a Booker winner? With difficulty, one imagines. But, in Last Man in Tower, has Aravind Adiga done his best with an impossible brief?   In the Guardian, Alex Clark argues that, while the novel ‘can tend slightly towards the schematic’, it has a ‘broader and more forgiving feel than The White Tiger’, though Adiga’s ‘anger at the India he describes…remains undimmed.’ The novel has ‘a gentler comic tone that finds affection as well as despair in poking fun at its characters’ pretensions and frailties.’ Overall, he presents ‘a picture that is as compelling as it is complex to decipher.

Lewis Jones has written this week's Bookends column in the latest issue of the Spectator. Here it is for readers of this blog: Like all politicians, Bob Marshall-Andrews is fond of quoting himself, and Off Message includes a generous selection of his speeches and articles on such topics as Tony Blair’s messianic warmongering and David Blunkett’s plans for a police state. Less typically, perhaps, he is almost as generous in his quotation of others, such as Simon Hoggart, who has called him ‘a cross between Dennis the Menace and his dog, Gnasher’.

As far back as Lucky Jim, if not further, historians and writers of historical fiction have been at each others' throats. The Historical Writers Association (HWA) was formed in October 2010 with the unique selling point that it is the only historical organisation open to both historians and historical novelists. Other organisations such as the Royal Historical Society and the Historical Association are strictly for writers and teachers of non-fiction. It is obvious that many writers have something to gain here. For many years, historical fiction has been viewed as intellectually unsatisfactory, dependent on the archetypes of sex, fantasy, war or crime mystery to attract readers.

It is Mervyn Peake’s centenary this week and there have been parties thrown in his honour across the country. Gormenghast lours over this revelry, as if a still breathing creation has outgrown its dead creator. This seems only natural: Anthony Burgess once described the Gormenghast trilogy as one of the ‘most important works of the imagination to come out of this age’. It is the archetypal cult classic that has obtained a permanent eminence. Yet it was not always so. The books were noticed when first printed, but without ceremony. Indeed, the Spectator did not review a single one of the trilogy when they were released.

As I came to the end of my English degree I applied to several universities for further study on Joseph Conrad, along with UEA for their creative writing programme. Owing to a misunderstanding with my tutor her reference arrived at East Anglia late and I was told my application would be deferred to the following year. Like many graduands I’d enjoyed university, enjoyed my English degree and believed that further study would be every bit as intellectually and socially stimulating. However, over the summer I began to have my doubts. I was going to do a Masters by Research and increasingly realized that being in a strange city, without the benefit of course mates, reading and re-reading the complete works of Conrad, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche might be rather depressing.

At the end of last month, the British Library signed a deal with Google to digitise 40 million pages from its collection. Today, Tristram Hunt has written a piece in the Guardian welcoming the change, but saying that, when it comes to history, it’s best to dirty your hands in an archive. He has set Twitter-tongues wagging, with critics branding him an intellectual snob and worse. It’s quite a storm; but, Hunt and his detractors seem to be talking at crossed purposes. Hunt is right: I took a History degree and throughout my studies nothing matched pulling on some protective gloves, donning a face mask and digging around in a musty archive. Trouble is that it takes an eon to get there.

Sticky at Christmas, packed in serried rows around a plastic twig in an oval-ended paper-wrapped box with a picture of a camel train; dates in childhood were exotic. The mystery words Deglet Noor were as sweet to roll around the mouth as the fibrous fruit. But we learn from Dates – A Global History by Nawal Nasrallah (Reaktion Books, £9.99) that they are a staple food, comparable to wheat, potatoes and rice. The Edible Series focuses on one foodstuff per book. The result can be like an answer in a Chinese exam where everything known is written down, here in a prose style reminiscent of Wikipedia.