Book Reviews

This is a compelling and somewhat disturbing novel, conducted with Susan Hill’s customary fluency. This is a compelling and somewhat disturbing novel, conducted with Susan Hill’s customary fluency. It features Simon Serailler, the author’s usual protagonist, investigating a cold case of a missing teenager who was last seen waiting at a bus stop some 16 years previously, and whose skeleton was found when heavy rain washed down sludge and rubble from a neighbouring hillside. But it also has a secondary theme — rather more serious than its ostensible subject — that of assisted suicide. Hypochondriacs are warned. What is examined, in admirable detail, somewhat overshadows the police procedural which is

Sophia Waugh has written the Bookends column in this week’s issue of the magazine. Here it is for readers of this blog. There is an old joke which says that if you are lost in the desert, start making a salad dressing as someone will pop out of a sand dune and tell you that you are making it the wrong way. This, in essence, is what Felicity Cloake does in her recipe book Perfect. And the idea is a good one. Cloake has done all the hard work — read all the top cookery writers, tried out their versions, and then picked the best, or ‘Perfect’ one. So you

1) The official announcement of Tomas Transtömer’s victory  2) The one person in Britain we can be absolutely certain has read Transtömer: his translator.  3) An excellent summary of the preceding hoaxes and Dylanology. 4) John Dugdale on the Nobel committee’s chequered history in literary matters.  5) No announcement yet on the Nobel laureate in Ted Gioia’s alternate universe.

How many times must a man be considered “overlooked” or recalled as a “forgotten genius” before it must become apparent to even the meanest inteligence that he can no longer sensibly be considered “forgotten” or “overlooked”? This is something worth observing in the case of Brian O’Nolan, better known to you perhaps as Flann O’Brien and, to the true cognoscenti, as Myles na Gopaleen too. What with an official stamp available as of this very day, the centenary of his emergence in bonny Strabane, a lengthy piece by Fintan O’Toole to say nothing of puffery in the New Yorker and the Guardian and lord knows where else, you cannot credibly

Inspired by Boris’s recent oration, I was going to compose an epigram in praise of his prose, a dirty limerick in honour of his hobbies and a white paper for the promise of his politics. That was until I came across the unthinkable: Boris Johnson split the infinitive. He’ll probably try and defend himself: the Mayor of London can’t proof read every Greater London Press Release – and Greater London isn’t even really London – and so it’s unfair to hold him directly responsible. But, it happened on his watch. Last week’s press release “Mayor tightens grip on disruptive roadworks in London” contained not one but two horribly dismembered infinitives, namely:

This review of Thomas Penn’s biography of Henry VII, by Leanda de Lisle, is taken from the latest issue of the magazine. It is reproduced here for readers of this blog. There is something of Gordon Brown in the older Henry VII: an impression of darkness, of paranoia and barely suppressed rage, not to mention the terrifying tax grabs and tormenting of enemies. But Gordon was never quite as entertaining, or frightening, as Thomas Penn’s Winter King in this brilliant mash-up of gothic horror and political biography. David Starkey once declared Henry VII ‘boring’. But in writing his magnus opus on the supposedly more interesting Henry VIII he got so

Jonathan Sumption admires the sweep and bravura  of Max Hastings’s account without agreeing with every word The second world war is still generally regarded as the ‘good war’. In the moral balance, the cause of the Axis powers was so unspeakably bad that their adversaries have rarely had to justify themselves. But there is, perhaps, more to it than the moral balance. The second war has gained in public esteem by being everything that the first war was not. It was fought for recognisable and, on the whole admirable, objectives. It did not begin, as the first had, among the conspiratorial fumblings of European chanceries. It did not become an