Book Reviews

Our reviews of the latest in literature

Thursday

Emily Rhodes

What was the best book you read last year?

In the musty old bookworld, prizes are terribly exciting. Yes, book awards will never reach the world-televised-designer-frock-paraded-on-red-carpet level of the Oscars, but any keen bookish person was waiting with baited breath for the announcement of the Costa Book of the Year last Tuesday night. The Costa Prize was the acme of literary excitement of the year so far. (Granted, we’re only a month in.) It has been the hub of excited discussions both in bookshops and across the literary press. So I thought it only fitting to join the fray. I’ll come right out and say it. I am sick to death of reading the endless whines about the silliness

Wednesday

Fleur Macdonald

Shelf Life: Mark Mason

Mark Mason, author of Walk the Lines, is in the hot seat this week. He tells us that no woman is truly attractive unless you can imagine going to the pub with her, and admits to a fear that he may be one of Holden Caulfield’s ‘phonies’. 1) What are you reading at the moment?  Bob Woodward’s biography of John Belushi. Yes, that Bob Woodward. Strange choice of subject for the man who brought down Nixon (as Woodward himself admits) – but it’s a great read. 2) As a child, what did you read under the covers? Agatha Christie. Once boasted to my mother that I’d been awake until 4am

David Blackburn

Saturation point

What a lot of new books there are about the queen. I count 24 biographies, photograph collections and retrospectives all produced to mark the Diamond Jubilee. There is only so much to say about Her Majesty before writers begin to repeat each other. Either that or a biographer is left to record the inane and the absurd. One such example landed on my desk a few days back. Sally Bedell Smith’s The Queen: The Woman Behind the Throne contains **NEW INFORMATION**, according to the press release, on the well-trodden ground of the Paul Burrell trial, the aftermath of Princess Diana’s death and the Queen’s relationship with Tony Blair. But my

Nigel Jones

Missing the point | 1 February 2012

The reviewer of Alain de Botton’s books runs a grave risk. For behold what happened to the New York Times critic Caleb Crain in 2009 when he suggested that AdB’s 2009 book The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work ‘succeeds as entertainment, if not as analysis’. The philosopher replied: ‘I will hate you till the day I die and wish you nothing but ill in every career move you make’. Not exactly Marcus Aurelius, is it? So it was with trepidation that I closed AdB’s new book, Religion for Atheists, and began to write. Religion for Atheists is AdB’s attempt to prove that not all non-believers have to be like Richard

Tuesday

David Blackburn

Prophet or Luddite?

Much ado about Jonathan Franzen’s appearance at the Hay Festival in Cartegna, where he sounded-off against eBooks, technology and corporate capitalism. The Guardian reports that Franzen said: ‘Maybe nobody will care about printed books 50 years from now, but I do. When I read a book, I’m handling a specific object in a specific time and place. The fact that when I take the book off the shelf it still says the same thing – that’s reassuring. ‘Someone worked really hard to make the language just right, just the way they wanted it. They were so sure of it that they printed it in ink, on paper. A screen always

Matthew Richardson

Biting to the core of Apple’s success

How did Apple gain such a hold on everyday life? Whether it’s checking overnight emails on the iPhone, reading a morning paper on the iPad, walking to the tune of the iPod or beavering away on a MacBook, Apple gadgetry is a companion from dawn till dusk. Inside Apple by Adam Lashinsky attempts to explain the phenomenon by nosing further into the workings of the company itself. The ghost of Steve Jobs, unsurprisingly, haunts the book. But Jobs is grounded in a roomier narrative that describes the company as a whole. Lashinsky draws an honest, if unflattering sketch of what it is like to work at Apple HQ. Take something

Monday

David Blackburn

Death on the mind

I hadn’t given my coffin much thought until last Saturday, when I attended the South Bank Centre’s ‘Festival for the Living’. The main exhibit was a selection of coffins from Ghana. They were bizarre: a skip, a mini Mercedes and a giant cream cake. It was an absurd sight. I found myself playing Loyd Grossman in a macabre version of David Frost’s Through the Keyhole: ‘Who’s buried in a coffin like this? David, it’s over to you.’ The coffins were a wonderful distraction, but the show wasn’t about death — not as such. The ‘Festival for the Living’ concerned those who are left to grieve; and there were two literary events that

David Blackburn

Across the literary pages: Eurabian edition

A cold wind is blowing from the Middle East. It may have been caused by the re-emergence of Gaddafi loyalists in Libya, or the continued bloodshed in Syria, or the Rushdie mania at the Jaipur Literary Festival. But whatever the source, many Westerners are having second thoughts about the Arab Spring, and their scepticism is partly inspired by an age-old unease about political Islam. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the world of books. Jonathan Benthall wrote in last week’s TLS: ‘It is not irrational for those who accept Enlightenment values to be phobic about the laws against apostasy and blasphemy current in some major Islamic states.’ He wrote

Sunday

Lynn Shepherd

Following Dickens

2012 is a year of Dickens anniversaries — a major one for him, and what’s turned out to be quite a significant one for me. It’s his bicentenary, of course, but it will also be 30 years since I first read Bleak House. I know that because I wrote an essay on it in my first term at Oxford. Looking at that again, when I came upon it a few weeks ago, I experienced one of those odd time-slip moments when you meet your younger self coming back. I wrote, then, about ‘angles of perception’ in the novel, which was a fancy way of saying I looked at the double

Saturday

Nick Cohen Nick Cohen

An Advertisement for Myself

My You Can’t Read This Book: Censorship in an Age of Freedom is out this week. As the title says, it’s about freedom of speech, a subject that has come to mean more and more to me as I have watched religious zealots intimidate liberals into silence, and the libel laws and omerta of City hierarchies stop investigations into a catastrophic financial system when they might have made a difference. Writing in this week’s magazine, Alain de Botton talks about how authors can loathe critics, a feeling prompted in his case by a savage attack from Terry Eagleton. He ought to be less concerned. Given the professor’s ability to combine

Philip Mansel

Gunboat diplomacy

Britain’s links with the Continent were once  deeper and more extensive than those of any other European country. Paris, Rome and German universities played as vital a role in British culture as many native cities. Mediterranean connections were especially strong. Most cities on its shores contain an English church and cemetery. From Minorca to Cyprus, there are few Mediterranean islands that have not been occupied by British troops: the oldest company in Beirut is Heald and Co., the shipping agents (est.1837). Blue-Water Empire aims to tell the story of ‘the British in the Mediterranean since 1800’: 1800 is the year that Malta, soon to be the headquarters of the British

John De-Falbe

Chaos and the old order

If Gregor von Rezzori is known to English language readers, it is likely to be through his tense, disturbing novel Memoirs of an Anti-Semite (partly written in English), and/or his ravishing memoir Snows of Yesteryear. Rezzori was born in 1914 in Czernowitz in Bukovina, when it belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. After the first world war he became a citizen of Romania, from where, as a so-called ethnic German, he was ‘repatriated’ to Germany during the second world war. From the 1960s he lived in Italy, at Santa Maddalena, the home that he shared with his second wife near Florence, which she has since set up as a writers’ retreat.

Susan Hill Susan Hill

The phantom lover

Driving past several long abandoned second- world-war airfields in East Anglia last year I was struck by how spooky they seemed, just like the decommissioned army base that used to exist near me. Places where people have not only lived and worked but which form the background of wartime drama, and from which men went to their deaths, are bound to be haunted, and in Helen Dunmore’s short novel, it is an airfield that once saw Lancaster Bombers fly out into the night that forms a ghostly scene. Isabel is newly married to a doctor, Philip, and the two have moved to Yorkshire where he is now a GP. It

Minoo Dinshaw

A feast of vanities

The name of Savonarola slides off the tongue as if concocted for an orator’s climax. But when it came to names, whether by melody or reputation, the Florence he knew offered aggressive competition. Pico della Mirandola, Lorenzo ‘il Magnifico’ de’ Medici, Botticelli, Michelangelo and Machiavelli all shared his era. In an unexpected and sympathetic conclusion to the radical friar’s latest biography, Donald Weinstein defends one of George Eliot’s least loved novels, Romola: Eliot’s success in bridging the 400-year historical and cultural divide between herself and Savonarolan Florence was remarkable, and her judgment of the Frate himself nuanced and independent. But ‘Savonarolan Florence’, Weinstein contends, has always been a work of

Ian Thomson

Godfather of rap

At a funeral in New Orleans in 1901, Joe ‘King’ Oliver played a blues-drenched dirge on the trumpet. This was the new music they would soon call jazz. A century on, from the hothouse stomps of Duke Ellington to the angular doodlings of Thelonious Monk, jazz survives in the vocal inflections of rap. To its detractors, rap presents black (increasingly, white) people to the world in terms the Ku Klux Klan might use: illiterate, gold-chain-wearing, sullen, combative buffoons. (‘Life ain’t nothing but bitches and money’, harangued the Los Angeles combo N.W.A. in a reversal of Martin Luther King’s ‘black improvement’.) Yet Bob Dylan had offered an early version of rap

Hugo Rifkind Hugo Rifkind

The frontiers of freedom

The problem with Nick Cohen’s very readable You Can’t Read This Book is the way that you can, glaringly, read this book. This isn’t quite as glib an observation as it sounds. Cohen’s central point is that the censors’ pens did not fall down with the Berlin Wall. And yet here he is, very obviously free to tell us about them. Cohen is a rambunctious pessimist. His  style involves mustering a degree of anger for a page or two, often through an outrage only loosely connected to the matter at hand (Islam’s treatment of women, segregation in the Deep South, the crimes of Roman Polanski, for example) and then, once

Jonathan Mirsky

Fall from grace

Barack Obama is not up to the job. That is Ron Suskind’s oft-repeated contention. The President, he states, compromised with, rather than curbed, failing American financial institutions, and has surrounded himself with warring staffers who are either no more competent than he is or, if expert, disregard his wishes. Following a picture caption that reads ‘Obama showed real weakness in managing his own White House,’ Suskind, a Pulitzer Prize winner, justifies his title: The confidence of the nation rests on trust.Confidence is the immaterial residue of material actions: justly enforced laws, sound investments, solidly built structures . . . . Gaining the trust without earning it is the age-old work

Cressida Connolly

Finding Mr Wright

The film When Harry Met Sally may be infamous for the scene in which the heroine mimics orgasm in a crowded café, but the real point of the story is a question: can a man and a woman ever be true friends, or must sex always get in the way? Jack Holmes and His Friend poses the equivalent question about a straight man and a gay one. If it’s made into a movie, the working title will surely be When Harry Met Gary. Homosexual writers seem to be much better than straight ones at combining high literary style with vastly enjoyable descriptions of really filthy sex. Edmund White is a

Allan Massie

Life & Letters: The Creative Writing controversy

It came as a bit of a shock to learn from Philip Hensher’s review of Body of Work: 40 Years of Creative Writing at UEA (31 December) that there are now nearly 100 institutions of higher education in Britain offering a degree in Creative Writing. I suppose for many it’s a merry-go-round. You get the degree and then you get a job teaching Creative Writing to other aspirants who get a degree and then a job teaching … and so it goes. This, after all, has been the way with art colleges for a long time. I sometimes think I must be one of the few surviving novelists who has

Friday

Emily Rhodes

Inside Books: Is Oxfam the Amazon of the High Street?

When I read an article in the Telegraph recently, which pointed out that Oxfam is the third biggest retailer of books in the UK, I got a shock similar to when I learnt, last year, that The Bookseller had named Sainsbury’s chain bookseller of the year. It feels peculiar to think of brands like Oxfam and Sainsbury’s as lead players in the book world. If I think of bricks-and-mortar bookshops, I think of the big chains like Waterstones, Blackwell’s and WH Smith. And I think of the independents, like Daunt’s, Foyles, and other small local shops. Supermarkets and charity shops are completely different operations. So the news that they are