Culture

Spy fiction, or ‘spy-fi’, has its specialist practitioners, but big literary names have also turned to the genre for their own varied purposes. Graham Greene’s The Quiet American springs to mind, as does Norman Mailer’s Harlot’s Ghost, a fictionalised study of the CIA. But where these two literary spy thrillers struggle to shed the suspicion of political motivation, William Boyd’s Restless instead does what all his novels do. It informs us a little about what humans are like. In the sweltering English summer of 1976, Sally Gilmartin gives her daughter a manuscript describing her secret past life as Eva Delectorskaya, a Russian émigrée and British spy during the first few years of the second world war.

The Silence of the Grave, Indridason’s previous novel, won the three international crime-writing awards, including Britain’s Gold Dagger. It featured his Icelandic series detective, the lugubrious policeman Erlendur, who returns in Voices to investigate the murder of a doorman at one of Reykjavik’s smartest hotels. It’s just before Christmas, and the hotel management is less than co-operative for fear of scandal. The doorman, who was about to appear at a children’s party, was found stabbed in his Santa Claus outfit with his trousers around his ankles and a condom drooping from his penis. At first sight, then, the murder looks as if it might be the consequence of a sexual encounter that turned sour.

A personal note, but relevant: I first picked up this large book at about two o’clock in the afternoon, and began to dip into it, a preliminary reconnaissance. I had an appointment at six with an impatient man, the sort who leaves if you are ten minutes late. When I next looked at my watch, the time was five past six. That is hardly a review, but surely an involuntary recommendation. The first attraction is small poems that begin intriguingly: If we are still together, it is becauseOf the need to weed the garden. You wonder what he means and he tells you, in a further nine lines (‘Eleven-thirty’). Brownjohn is much concerned with such precise timings, is a tidy man, the sort who likes to see chairs exactly aligned against tables.

The Sixties are there in the first sentence of the first chapter of this social, political and cultural history of the decade: On the first day of October 1963, as the earliest whispers of dawn were edging across the cliff tops of the Yorkshire resort of Scarborough, the new leader of the Labour party nervously paced up and down the carpet of his hotel suite. They are there in the first sentence of the second chapter: Shortly after four o’clock on the afternoon of Friday, 16 October, a sleek black Daimler eased through the rain into the forecourt of Buckingham Palace.

‘No thanks. Too much sex.’ Thus an elderly friend dismissed my offer to lend him John Stubbs’s compendious biography of John Donne. His fears are groundless. Stubbs tells us virtually nothing about the paramours who inspired Donne’s youthful poems, partly because no new information is available and partly because the poet’s exquisite testimony on the subject renders further details superfluous. Instead he focuses on Donne’s struggle with his religious conscience, a conflict which typifies the difficulties faced by England’s religious communities in the early 17th century.

Waiting for the second volume of a good biography is a painful process. I feel very sorry for anyone who read Brian McGuinness’s excellent Young Ludwig (part one of the life of Wittgenstein) when it was published in 1988. The philosopher’s exciting story broke off in 1921 and fans have been left dangling ever since in an 18-year state of suspended expectation of a sequel. As far as I know Dr McGuinness is alive and kicking and still regarded as the world’s greatest expert on Wittgenstein, but too much time has passed and slowly we must adjust our sights to the sordid possibility that there may never be a second volume.