David Blackburn

The Leveson inquiry was convened to ‘examine the culture, practices and ethics of the media’. Most of the inquiry’s time has been devoted to newspapers, particularly tabloid newspapers. To date, no publishers have been called to give evidence, although they may yet be. I very much hope that they are, because a new book published by Faber, Aftermath by Rachel Cusk, raises questions about publishers’ ethics and privacy law. Aftermath is Cusk’s account of the end of her 10-year marriage. It is extremely frank, sparing little of her erstwhile husband’s privacy or that of her children, over whom the warring parents have been fighting.

There are two notable diamond jubilees this year: the obvious one and Jewish Book Week (JWB). The festival opened last weekend and will run at Kings Place in London until Sunday evening, when David Aaronovitch and Umberto Eco will end proceedings with a discussion about the latter’s novel, The Prague Cemetery. JBW is a celebration of literature; but, as one might expect, Jewish identity is central to most events. Yesterday afternoon saw Dennis Marks and Michael Hofmann debating the life and work of Joseph Roth — one of that band of writers (Kafka, Mann and Zweig) who described southern and eastern Europe during and after the collapse of the Hapsburg empire.

Who is Britain’s greatest ever general? The BBC and the National Army Museum put the question to the public at the end of last year. The public declared the Duke of Wellington Britain’s best, together with William Slim. Professor Saul David is not so sure. His latest book, All The King’s Men: The British soldier from the Restoration to Waterloo, sketches the beginnings of a revision of Wellington. I asked him about this rather bold move. ‘I certainly did not set out writing the rather large section [in the book] on Wellington to bash him, but the more detail I got into about his career and how he reacted to certain situations, the more convinced I thought that he has been slightly overrated by historians.

The Queen rarely intervenes in public life. It is a mark of the vehemence of the recent attacks on the Church of England that she has leapt to its defence, characterising it as the guardian of people of all faiths and none. The storm of words between secularists and establishmentarians will intensify tomorrow when the former Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Carey, publishes his defence of faith, We Don’t Do God: The Marginalisation of Public Faith. It’s a strident book , especially as Carey was more ridiculed than revered as a liberal primate.

Inspired by Tessa Hadley’s point about the importance of literary prizes, and itched by guilt at not have given some of them due attention, I did some research. It seems that all must have prizes. There are numerous literary awards in Britain. The Society of Authors offers 9. English Pen runs 4. The Authors’ Club has 3. While Commonwealth Writers limits itself to 2. Then there are the host of individual prizes: the two James Tait Black awards, the Galaxies, the Costas, the Duff Cooper, the Hawthornden etc., etc., etc. Tessa Hadley convinces of the need to recognise short stories — and that existing short fiction prizes are inadequate. But the odds are against a new prize being firmly established on such overpopulated ground.

This blog believes that Valentine’s Day should be abolished, so prepare for disappointment if you’re looking for praise of Elizabeth Barrett-Browning's sugared bleats.   If you haven’t read it yet, Tessa Hadley’s short story collection, Married Love, is beguiling. Each story presents a stereotype of love, delves into it and turns out a fresh perspective. The book begins with precious student Lottie ruining the family breakfast by announcing her engagement to her hoary tutor — the soon-to-be-septuagenarian, Edgar.

Gatsby’s back. A film adaptation of F Scott Fitzgerald’s enduring book will released later this year, starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Carey Mulligan. Why now? Asks Philip Hensher in today’s Telegraph, a question he easily answers: ‘It’s just the novel for us. Its world reflects on bubbles and gaudy display, and people whose magnificent social position conceals an obscure history. You don’t have to look far to find Gatsby-like figures in London today. Would a modern-day Gatsby be a property developer, selling glass-walled penthouses for tens of millions? Or would a modern-day Gatsby be a Russian oligarch, with origins lost in some Siberian village and sinister staff patrolling the outer rim of the vast Home Counties estate?

Of all the pieces celebrating the life and legacy of ‘the Inimitable’ Dickens, Toby Young has, for my money, written the most important. In the latest issue of the Spectator, Toby reveals that numerous state secondary schools have dropped Dickens from their GCSE curriculums on the grounds that ‘ordinary children’ cannot cope with the books. Private schools, he says, challenge their pupils. Certainly, the independent school I attended forced us to read Hard Times in addition to Jane Eyre, which was the set text. We were also encouraged to read North and South and Middlemarch to produce exam scripts that ‘glisten among the dross’, I recall my Labour-voting, Guardian-reading English teacher remarking.

The latest publishing trade figures make for alarming reading. Tuesday’s edition of the Bookseller reported that this January was the second worst on record for retail. The print business is wasting away at the rate that gangrene spreads. Hachette UK’s revenue in the 4th quarter of 2011 was down by 4.5 per cent on the previous year; at the same time, the company’s eBook sales are up 500 per cent on 2010. The new data suggests that the much threatened digital future is finally here. The Bookseller reports that digital sales now comprise 25 per cent of Gardeners’s wholesale business.

The Coach and Horses in Soho, that beery den of iniquity, hosted the Omnivore’s inaugural Hatchet Job of the Year Award earlier this evening. A large showing from literary London saw Adam Mars-Jones win the prize for this quiet demolition of Michael Cunningham’s By Nightfall. Leo Robson was runner-up for his very clever and very funny critique of Richard Bradford’s biography of Martin Amis. Prize judge Sam Leith said that it was a close battle between Mars-Jones and 26-year-old Robson, who is the 'best reviewer of his generation'.  The prize is intended to reward reviewers who put the reader first. It’s a laudable aim, said Lynn Barber, who presented the awards.

It was National Library Day on Saturday, and the Save Kensal Rise Library campaigners continued their vigil, guarding the library from closure. They have been dealt a blow this morning by the Court of Appeal, which has denied them leave to appeal to the Supreme Court following the defeat of their case last December. The Court of Appeal’s original judgment gave the campaigners one glimmer of hope that remains alight. It noted that the local council, Labour controlled Brent, could ‘bear a share’ of keeping Kensal Rise Library open without incurring costs by allowing volunteers to run the library.

Jonathan Franzen has made the news this week, by berating digital media and corporate capitalism. Those were themes of his most recent novel, Freedom. His previous book, The Corrections, played with the fashionable phrase ‘dysfunctional family’, and exposed how the term has been bastardised by misuse. He re-emphasises that final point in the clip above. The abuse of language and the prevalence of bad writing exercises most writers, especially the good ones. VS Naipaul and Martin Amis, for instance, are severe on the subject.

Video killed the radio star, sang the Buggles in 1979 — assuming the synth-pop Buggles actually sang. In the same year, Mark Amory was putting the finishing touches to a collection of Evelyn Waugh’s letters. He noted in his introduction that letters were an antique curiosity; no one writes them anymore, he wrote. That grave prognosis was a tad premature. Diana Athill’s recent epistlatory memoir, Instead of a Letter, suggests that men of letters still live up to their name. Then again, Athill is 93. The telephone gave letter-writing a nagging cold, which email has turned into pneumonia. The letter’s admirers have leapt to help.