The good, the bad and the ugly in books, exhibitions, cinema, TV, dance, music, podcasts and theatre.
Wicked Company is the collective biography of a group of men with little in common, apart from a generalised dissatisfaction with the state of the world around them. Perhaps that is true of most intellectual coteries. The kings of the Parisian Enlightenment of the 18th century were the mathematician Jean d’Alembert and the playwright and journalist Denis Diderot, joint editors of the great Encyclopédie.
This is a lovely book. Judy Golding writes of her father —indeed of both her parents — with candour, humour and great insight and perception This is a lovely book. Judy Golding writes of her father —indeed of both her parents — with candour, humour and great insight and perception. More than that, here is an exemplary memoir of childhood, not remorselessly chronological, but drawing on the jumbled past to give an account of what it was like to be a child in an unusual family. She describes an intense marriage, which was devoted and intermittently stormy. She sees herself and her brother David as always taking second place, especially as far as their mother was concerned.
The Forgotten Waltz is one of those densely recapitulative novels that seek to interpret emotional crack-up from the angle of its ground-down aftermath. At the same time, it is not really a book about hindsight. Sometimes extending information to the reader and sometimes deliberately covering its tracks, sometimes inviting sympathy for its characters and sometimes implying that sympathy only gets in the way of knowledge, it offers the enticing spectacle of a heroine determined to decode the human acrostics that strew her path while darkly conscious that most of her judgments are either horribly provisional or downright inchoate.
Jason Stearns is a brave man. He once worked for the UN’s disarmament programme in eastern Congo, a job which required him to probe the forests around the town of Bukavu, seeking out members of the local Mai Mai militia. Jason Stearns is a brave man. He once worked for the UN’s disarmament programme in eastern Congo, a job which required him to probe the forests around the town of Bukavu, seeking out members of the local Mai Mai militia. When the UN peacekeepers made contact — and there was always a risk they would run into Rwandan rebels with very different priorities — his job was to persuade twitchy, traumatised child fighters to down their weapons. Arguably, what he attempts to do in this book is even braver.
It’s impossible not to warm to the author of this book, a perky Turkish-American woman with a fascination with Russian literature and an irresistible comic touch. It’s impossible not to warm to the author of this book, a perky Turkish-American woman with a fascination with Russian literature and an irresistible comic touch. I began it on the train; barely had I started before my involuntary yelps of hilarity were causing alarm amongst my fellow passengers. An elderly man moved to another seat after I came upon Batuman’s description of the time she found herself judging an adolescent boys’ leg contest in Hungary. Fortunately, perhaps, I arrived at my station before Batuman embarked on an account of an excruciatingly funny literary seminar to rival Lucky Jim.
This is a strange exercise. It is a commonplace book of quotations from great authors, assembled by the philosopher A. C. Grayling. The extracts from the great books, how- ever, are provided without attribution. Furthermore, they are arranged in numbered ‘verses’, like the divisions of the ‘texts’ in the Bible. The Bible was thus divided for ease of reference when the Rabbis and the Christian Church — in separate exercises, obviously — decided which books should appear in the canon of Scripture. Why Grayling has numbered his collection of quotations is anyone’s guess. The title is slightly cringeworthy.
The sum of hard biographical facts about Captain Cook never increases, nor is it expected to. It is the same with Shakespeare. J. C. Beaglehole’s Life of Captain James Cook (1974), which Frank McLynn quotes often, contains most of what is known about Cook’s family life and origins. As the son of a Yorkshire farm labourer, he belonged to a class that was unlikely to leave any record of his childhood. He was clever, and went to live with a Quaker family in Whitby where he worked in the shop. He went to sea in the collier trade at the advanced age of 17, and transferred to the Royal Navy when he was 30. He married seven years later, in 1762, after the Admiralty’s attention was drawn by his successful charting of the Newfoundland coast.
Marcus Berkmann has written the Bookend column in this week's issue of the magazine. Here it is for readers of this blog. Sporting literature is a strange old business, often underrated by those who don’t like sport and overrated by those who do. In particular, a warm glow hovers over the reputation of golf writing, which has attained an eminence the unsung litterateurs of snooker and darts can only envy. Golf Stories, edited by the American journalist Charles McGrath, arrives as a small and beautifully appointed hardback, as certain of itself as any book can be.
Historical fiction has been a staple of the reading public for more than a century. Fashions change and there are eras when these novels are more fictitious than historical. The current fashion sees history trump fiction, particularly in the realm of real crime. Colquhoun’s new novel, Mr Briggs’ Hat, is the story of the first murder on Britain’s railways, a whodunit that sent Victorian Britain into paroxysms of fear. You can read her introduction to the book, its themes and its place in the canon of British crime writing here. It is a deft exposition of sensationalism, charting Victorian Britain’s furtive delight in transgression and its concerns about the price of modernity and the loss of innocence.
During the summer of 1864 the British newspaper-reading public was gripped by reports of the first ever murder on their railways. First came descriptions of the discovery of a bloody railway carriage and the battered body of an elderly, respected City man. Police posters on street corners across the land screamed bloody murder. A crushed hat, found in the compartment but not belonging to the victim, was the only clue. Shock was quickly followed by widespread anxiety. Fear began to radiate along the length of every train and, as the reaction of the public grew more febrile, some considered arming themselves and others wondered if they should make out their wills before embarking on a train journey.
“It sometimes makes me wretch, just the thought of writing,” said an author whose book launch I attended last night. This was not said in jest as part of a routine of good natured badinage, or as a novel sales pitch. He meant it. “There’s a moment of deep anxiety. A quandary. A kind of self-loathing brought about by sudden self awareness: the realisation that what I’m writing is absurd and that I can’t improve on it. It’s the fear of failure. At that point I get the nausea.” It’s a common complaint: some writers just hate putting pen to paper. And because so few authors have immutable deadlines, many choose to procrastinate rather than scribble.
Essentially, Alan Bennett's new book is about its title: Smut. Here the National Treasure reads extracts from this duet of sly and unseemly stories.
How would the newspapers have reacted if Osama bin Laden had been killed on the same day as the Royal Wedding? No doubt tragedy would have ensued as 1,000 despairing picture editors hurled themselves into the sea. I’m glad the two events didn’t coincide, not least because the death of the military historian Professor Richard Holmes would have passed unnoticed. Many will remember Holmes’ clipped speech and solemn manner on television as he strode around the slopes of Waterloo or the Somme, relating past events with a singularly engaging zeal. But Holmes was more than just a TV historian, a phrase imbued with pejorative overtones. He was a revered academic who lectured on military history at Sandhurst for many years.
How would you behave if you were at the Royal wedding? I concede that at this stage the contingency is remote, but humour me anyway. It’s a grand sight, the sort of pageant that Britain does best. The royal family, bishops, assembled dignitaries, guardsmen lining the route: all that’s missing is a Spitfire, Vera Lynn and some fleeing Bosche. But Huw Edwards and some bearskins does not a state occasion make. The wedding will look splendid and solemn, but, once the religious ceremony ends, it’s like any other familial knees-up. So was it ever thus. The Gentleman’s Magazine, a staple of polite Georgian England, considered this question of deportment in an edition published around the marriage of the Prince Regent to Princess Caroline in 1795.
It is an old cliché that films of books must be inferior to the books themselves. It is not always true. For instance, read Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park and see whether you disagree (the writing is pedestrian and the plotting is incoherent, which is why the movie has a different storyline). Then of course there is David Nicholls’ first novel, Starter For Ten, which was fun but nothing like as good as the film adaptation (in no small part thanks to James McAvoy). The adaptation of David Nicholls' One Day, a coming-of-age novel about love and fulfilment, hits our cinema screens this autumn. But clichés are not clichés for nothing. Unlike Starter For Ten, which began life as a screenplay, One Day does not feel as cinematic.
As Roy Greenslade notes, the Orwell Prize aims to reward those who have come closest to achieving Orwell’s ambition of ‘making political writing an art’. The Orwell Prize’s shortlist has been released today. Shortlist is something of a misnomer, as a glance at the exhaustive categories will reveal. Perhaps, in time, there will be a Twitter prize. The major category is the book prize. The shortlist is impressive: Helen Dunmore’s The Betrayal, an exploration of Stalin’s Russia after the Second World War. The late Lord Bingham’s The Rule of Law, a masterful examination of the balance of law in Britain and strangely humane and uplifting for such a theoretically considered book; Jonathan Sumption reviewed it for the Spectator.
The Wedding Wallah, like my previous books, is based around a marriage bureau in South India. The bureau is run by Mr Ali, a retired Muslim civil servant, in the verandah of his house. He is a pragmatic man, who can quote the Qur’an and philosophy, while not being above the odd subterfuge to arrange matches among the sons and daughters of his clients. For unlike a dating agency in the Western world, the people who come to Mr Ali are not the young people themselves, but their parents and families. Meanwhile, his wife keeps a watchful eye on him from behind the scenes and makes sure that everything is running ship-shape. Since my first book, The Marriage Bureau For Rich People, was published, many have asked me whether the bureau is fact or a figment of my imagination.
In recent years the question of why the literary mainstream continues to marginalize and ignore writers of Science Fiction and Fantasy has become a live issue, perhaps most eloquently demonstrated by the furious reaction to the BBC’s shabby and offhand treatment of the genres in its World Book Night program, The Books We Really Read. As someone who reads widely in both fields it’s an irritation I have some sympathy with. Where forty years ago any reader worth their salt would have at least a passing knowledge of SF authors such as J.G. Ballard, Brian Aldiss and Ursula Le Guin, many now wear their ignorance of the form proudly, dismissing it with the same shudder they reserve for Twilight.
Gonzalo Rojas, the arch enemy of General Pinochet, has died aged 93. The former exile was regarded as the equal of Pablo Neruda among South American poets. His death has been described a “great loss for Chilean literature”. Charles Nicholl charts the renaissance of Thomas Wyatt, epitomised by Nicola Shulman’s new biography. Thomas Wyatt was the finest poet at the court of Henry VIII, but this has not always earned him much respect. The early 16th century is generally accounted one of the lowlands of English literature, a period of mediocrity between the pinnacles of Chaucer and Shakespeare. CS Lewis dubbed it the "Drab Age" and said of Wyatt: "When he is bad he is flat or even null, and when he is good he is hardly one of the irresistible poets.
No description of Eric Gill is ever without the words ‘devout Catholic’, and Eric Gill: Lust for Letter & Line (British Museum Press, £9.99), while short, provides evidence to both confirm and confound that assessment. One can follow the three-year journey of Gill’s celebrated Stations of the Cross for Westminster Cathedral from preparatory drawing to finished sculpture. Or one can study ‘Girl in bath’, a wood engraving of the artist’s daughter Petra, impossible to contemplate without bearing in mind his sexual abuse of his children.
Nicola Shulman begins her rehabilitation of Thomas Wyatt by remarking that there is ‘an almost universal consensus that he can’t write’ — a consensus established within a generation of his death in 1542. Nicola Shulman begins her rehabilitation of Thomas Wyatt by remarking that there is ‘an almost universal consensus that he can’t write’ — a consensus established within a generation of his death in 1542. Even the Earl of Surrey, his friend and eulogist, acknowledged his verse to be ‘unparfited’, and by Shakespeare’s day he was a joke: Malvolio keeps a poem of Wyatt’s about him, proclaiming himself a nincompoop.
A chronicle of three young actors desperate to forge careers in the acting profession sounds like a dangerously familiar proposition. We are all now habituated to the weekly Saturday evening drama of wide- eyed dreamers drilled, mauled, culled and reculled in search of a Nancy, Dorothy or Maria. In Lucky Break, however, Esther Freud redraws the path that leads from Television Centre direct to London’s glittering West End. These young hopefuls are plunged into the maelstrom of a three-year drama school programme that stretches and befuddles them in equal measure. There is a squirm- inducing accuracy to the students’ earnest endorsement of their training, hilariously realised in the principal and the quasi-mystical movement teacher.
British writers who set their first novels in America are apt to come horribly unstuck. One of the pleasures of Sam Leith’s debut novel is its sureness of tone. All the elements here are properly balanced. Nothing feels clumsy or over-egged. So what? you might think. Isn’t this what any halfway decent novelist does? Yes, but few attempt anything as ambitious, as exuberant, as downright weird as this. At the heart of Leith’s novel is an examination of the role of chance and the nature of coincidence. This, though, is only the half of it.
Towards Mohammed Reza Pahlavi (1919–1980), the last or most recent Shah of Iran, there are two principal attitudes. Towards Mohammed Reza Pahlavi (1919–1980), the last or most recent Shah of Iran, there are two principal attitudes. To the Islamic Republic and many in Europe and the US, Mohammed Reza was a tyrant, womaniser and poltroon, who was put on the throne by Britain and Russia in 1941 and maintained there by the US, till a popular uprising sent him scurrying abroad in 1979 where he died, unlamented, in Egypt 18 months later. The second attitude, which is gaining ground even in Iran, is that Mohammed Reza was a man of intelligence and industry.
Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia offers two contrasting views on a ‘Capability’ Brown landscape at the imagined Sidley Park. Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia offers two contrasting views on a ‘Capability’ Brown landscape at the imagined Sidley Park. Lady Croom, the 19th-century owner, praises its harmonious natural style, even down to ‘the right amount of sheep tastefully arranged’. Two hundred years later, a garden historian laments the destruction of the ‘sublime geometry’ of 17th-century formal gardens: ‘paradise in the age of reason’, before being ‘ploughed under by Capability Brown’.
Anyone who thinks that a stable and loving family background is the key to a happy life had better read this book; for its protagonist, now 80 years old, was rejected as a baby by his unmarried mother, looked after by a doting and doted-on grandmother until he was four, and then, inexplicably (given that he had various relations who could have cared for him), consigned to an orphanage of Dickensian grimness from which he was finally discharged at the age of 14 with nothing but a Bible, a new suit, and a ten-shilling note. Yet Peter Paterson’s fascinating memoir shows him to have led a life of almost unnatural contentment. He has spent nearly 60 years of it in journalism, having drifted into it by accident and considered himself ever since the luckiest man alive.
‘What am I? A completely ordinary person from the so-called higher reaches of society. ‘What am I? A completely ordinary person from the so-called higher reaches of society. And what can I do? I can train a horse, carve a capon, and play games of chance.’ So reflects Botho von Rienäcke, the central character of Theodor Fontane’s novel of 1888, Irrungen, Wirrungen (newly translated as On Tangled Paths). His bitter self-examination is a consequence of his predicament. Like many a fellow officer, he has taken up with a working-class girl. He met her on a boating trip when he came to her rescue from an accident in the water.
‘There never was a Churchill, from John of Marlborough down,’ wrote Gladstone, ‘that had either principles or morals.’ With the shining exception of Winston and his brother Jack, Churchill men have tended to be bad hats, but this makes them all the more interesting to read about. ‘There never was a Churchill, from John of Marlborough down,’ wrote Gladstone, ‘that had either principles or morals.’ With the shining exception of Winston and his brother Jack, Churchill men have tended to be bad hats, but this makes them all the more interesting to read about. Mary Lovell’s new book tells the story of the Churchills as a family over four generations, and it never ceases to amaze and entertain.
Now that we can read on Kindle and some people fear that paper-and-ink books will become extinct, one’s first impulse might be to say hurrah for this mighty production. Now that we can read on Kindle and some people fear that paper-and-ink books will become extinct, one’s first impulse might be to say hurrah for this mighty production. But then doubts creep in: isn’t it a bit OTT? It is by far the largest book I have ever reviewed, or indeed handled. A monster of a book, a juggernaut, a Leviathan. And it has a whopping price to match: 400 smackers. I had the sneaking thought: do the publishers, Reel Art Press, really (or reely) expect to sell the limited edition of 1,500 for a total of £600,000?