Culture

Mark Mason has written the Bookend column in this week's issue of the Spectator. Here it is for readers of this blog. In the summer of 2003, in a bar in Malta, George Best was approached by a man holding a paper napkin and a pen. ‘It’s been my childhood dream,’ said the man, ‘to have George Best ask me for my autograph.’ Best obliged. As so often, his fame was so great that it turned normality upside down. The star’s own phrase was that fame ‘turns the dial up’.

It was a strange scene. An audience of whiskery Classics enthusiasts listening to a lecture about the influence of Homer and Virgil on Bob Dylan, which is considerable – Sir Christopher Ricks has written a 500 page book on the subject. At the end of the lecture, this delightful and odd society moved to invite Dylan to its ranks, so impressed was it by his learning and art. A procession of old boys then shuffled out of Guildhall humming the tune to ‘Lonesome Day Blues’ (Dylan’s most Virgilian song), realising that they could have misspent their youth after all. It was a colourfully comic sight, dimmed by pathos. That was some years ago; now the movement to canonise Dylan as poet has strengthened.

Turning it over with my bare toes, it had the look and feel of finely ground coffee, typical of the island’s volcanic black beaches. I could not help but smile to myself: even the white coral sand was a myth. As a youngster, I fell in love with a 1930s book series called The Bounty Trilogy, by Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall.  They introduced me to the greatest true story ever told.  The narrative is swift and vibrant, the characterisation sublime.  The book inspired the 1935 Oscar-winning film starring Charles Laughton and Clark Gable, and the 1962 remake, with Trevor Howard and Marlon Brando. But Nordhoff & Hall, by their own admission, were not bound by historical truth. Like countless plays and books before them, they made most of it up.

American travel writer and novelist Paul Theroux’s latest book, The Tao of Travel, is a compilation of excerpts from his own travel writings as well as those of authors such as Nabokov, Greene, Hemingway, Samuel Johnson, Chatwin and Waugh. Currently in London on a promotional tour, we chat to him during a gap in his busy schedule. What brought about The Tao of Travel, which is a bit like a logbook with entries by many different travellers? All my life, people ask me what’s my favourite book, what’s my favourite work of journalism, my favourite movies, my favourites songs. It’s very difficult to narrow things down to a Top Ten, or even a Top 100. I thought I would like to compile all the works that were personal to me. Most anthologies are just a list.

The only time in the last decade I’ve bought something other than wrapping paper from Waterstone’s was when last winter’s snow prevented my Amazon order showing up in time for Christmas. Two hardbacks cost me a whopping £22 more than I had paid online. Short of forking out £50,000 for a super-injunction I can’t imagine a less satisfying transaction. Last Friday’s news that the chain has been bought by one of Russia’s poorer oligarchs was greeted rapturously by the book industry; its new managing director James Daunt (founder of the upmarket book chain) hailed as a messiah with excellent taste in bookshelves.

  Robin Ferrers has written a wonderful and entertaining book about his life. In many ways his is a life of love; of his family, his country and of life itself. If ever there is an example of someone who personifies the essence of being an English gentleman, in terms of decency, courtesy and a mischievous sense of humour, it is Robin. There was no surprise that, when the last Labour government foolishly decided to cull all but 92 of the hereditary peers, he topped the ballot to stay in the lifeboat. He was born to life of privilege: a stately home and a title that went back to William the Conqueror, but would say that the greatest privilege of all was having a close knit family who, unlike to many of his time, loved and appreciated him.

In existence for over 250 millions years, lobsters come in two distinct varieties, ‘clawed and clawless’. Human predators tend to the flawed and clueless as they overfish and — since lobsters must be cooked live — kill them heartlessly. In existence for over 250 millions years, lobsters come in two distinct varieties, ‘clawed and clawless’. Human predators tend to the flawed and clueless as they overfish and — since lobsters must be cooked live — kill them heartlessly. Part of ‘the Edible Series’, dedicated to the global history of one type of ingredient, Lobster by Elisabeth Townsend (Reaktion Books, £9.

Fay Maschler has written the Bookend column in this week's magazine. Here it is for readers of this blog: In existence for over 250 millions years, lobsters come in two distinct varieties, ‘clawed and clawless’. Human predators tend to the flawed and clueless as they overfish and — since lobsters must be cooked live — kill them heartlessly. Part of ‘the Edible Series’, dedicated to the global history of one type of ingredient, Lobster by Elisabeth Townsend considers the creature that inspired mosaic artists in ancient Pompeii, reclined like a cardinal in still life paintings, gave Salvador Dali a telephone handle, fed the indigent poor and later the spoiled rich and became a partial success in shellfish farming.

Reviewers this week flexed their intellectual muscles as they got to grips with clever clogs Edward St Aubyn’s latest novel.  His roman-a-clef At Last was a double boon: the perfect opportunity not only to indulge in a spot of sordid literary gossip but also to parade their mastery of the Literae Humaniores. And in numbers as mighty as the Achaeans swarming on Trojan plains, they did both. Caroline Moore in the Telegraph tried to trump the account of childhood rape – which  almost became banal when trotted out in every single review – with this biographical anecdote: "He turned up to sit his Oxford finals armed with the shaft of an empty Biro for snorting heroin, but without a conventionally filled pen.

A few intrepid writers from the Right braved the lion’s den of the left-wing Orwell Prize last night, dominated as it was by hordes of hacks from the Guardian, the Observer, and the New Statesman. One of these brave souls even won an award. ConservativeHome’s Graeme Archer, whose quietly angry and deeply considered blog-posts took the prestigious Orwell Blog Prize. Archer’s original subject matter, written in prose as robust as granite, rebuffed strong opposition from the growing cacophony from the left-wing blogosphere. Indeed, his victory defies the popular belief that the day of independent right-wing blogging has passed. Jenni Russell won the journalist of the year award for her work on the Sunday Times and the Guardian.