Book Reviews

That, anyway, seems to be one of the things to come out of Terry Eagleton’s new book, Why Marx Was Right. It’s not published until May but Tyler Cowen reports that it contains these winning arguments: But the so-called socialist system had its achievements, too.  China and the Soviet Union dragged their citizens out of economic backwardness into the modern industrial world, at however horrific a human cost; and the cost was so steep partly because of the hostility of the capitalist West. […] Building up an economy from very low levels is a backbreaking, dispiriting task.  It is unlikely that men and women will freely submit to the hardships

Susan Hill once wrote that ‘a prize is a prize and when it is a lucrative and highly publicised prize, it matters a lot in the book world. Not many affect sales directly and hugely but one which now does is the Orange Prize for women writers.’ This year’s Orange Prize longlist has been released. There are some familiar faces on it. The Booker nominated Room, by Emma Donoghue, is on the list. Natalie Fast reviewed this strange and discombobulating story for the book blog in the autumn and the Bookseller reckons it stands a shot at glory. Previous Orange Prize winner, and regular contributor to the Spectator, Joanna Kavenna

Foreign fiction gets a raw deal. It’s usually quarantined away in the dustier enclaves of the bookshop, along with all the other worthy but immovable fare: short story collections, regional poetry and non A-level drama.   Perhaps buyers and sellers think that ‘non-UK stuff’ has been dealt with by that merrily inclusive idea of ‘world literature’ – the prose often still in English, but with a refreshingly exotic spice (see Salman Rushdie). But the size of the knowledge gap, mine included, is frightening. The Independent recently announced the long-list for their Independent Foreign Fiction Prize 2011. Scanning down the chosen fifteen, the alien names brought a blush to my cheek:

Strand magazine is to publish a recently discovered short story by Dashiell Hammett, ‘So I Shot Him’. ‘He gave us both Sam Spade and Nick and Nora Charles — so for a generation of readers, Dashiell Hammett more or less defined both “hard-boiled” and “suave.” Not bad, that. Now, from the long-deceased author of The Maltese Falcon and The Thin Man, comes a never-before-published short story: “So I Shot Him.” It’s suspenseful, full of secrets no one’s telling, and — according to Andrew Gulli, editor of the mystery magazine that’s publishing the story — somewhat more than what you might think of as vintage Hammett. “Vintage in that you have

Patrick Skene Catling has written the Bookend column in this week’s magazine. Here it is for readers of this blog. About 80 per cent of books sold in this country are said to be bought by women, none more eagerly than Joanna Trollope’s anatomies of English middle-class family life. Her 16th novel, Daughters-in-Law, is sociologically and psychologically as observant as ever, showing how not to be a suffocatingly possessive mother-in-law. Men, too, should benefit from this stylishly entertaining work, especially young men who are considering legitimising their love affairs. Trollope offers valuable lessons to both sexes alike on the snipping of umbilical cords. The central character, Rachel Brinkley, is a

The author Megan McAfferty once said: ‘New York is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal, its politics are used to frighten children, its traffic is madness, its competition is murderous.’ That could have been said of any city. Our literature suggests that urban life is grubby or abject in some way. Blake famously wrote of industry corrupting the earth. The grime and menace of Dickens’ London in Oliver Twist is recalled by photographs of the slums that ooze from Sao Paolo, Mumbai or some nameless Chinese metropolis. The Waste Land tells of comfortable people commanded by the ‘dead sound on the final stroke of nine’,

Pointing you cheerfully in the direction of Thomas Nashe’s Summer’s Last Will and Testament might be a bit like suggesting you hold your toddler’s birthday party in a funeral parlour, but do please bear with me on this. Yes, Nashe’s verses are basically about the fact that we’re all going to die – and that even when we’re having the most fun we’re still jigging a danse macarbe to the grim reaper’s jolly tune. But how prettily he says it! Flippancy aside, Nashe’s poem is at heart a cry of carpe diem. It’s from a play he wrote in 1593 to entertain the Archbishop of Canterbury when he was living

For John Lithgow, art is a confidence trick. ‘I’m an actor,’ he said. ‘I make people believe something is real when they know perfectly well that it isn’t.’ It’s a pithy phrase, but actors are pawns in the hands of playwrights – a troupe of Ted Baldwins jigging at Moriaty’s pleasure. This made me consider literary con artists. Fresh from the success of The King’s Speech, Geoffrey Rush is in New York, playing Poprishchin, the deluded protagonist of Nicolai Gogol’s Diary of Madman. Giles Harvey has reviewed the adaptation for the New York Review of Books and he says that Gogol is ‘literature’s great confidence man’, whose ‘best work is

It was, in case you didn’t notice, World Book Night on Saturday. BBC2’s evening of bookish programmes can be found here, together with posts by Matthew Richardson and Emily Rhodes. Besides those, here is a selection of pieces from the weekend’s literary pages. Stephen Kelman’s Pigeon English is a highly acclaimed first novel, and Kelman is being tipped for further accolades: both Erica Wagner (£) and John Mullan have expressed their admiration. Lewis Jones reviews Kelman’s idiosyncratic and shocking book for the Telegraph. ‘It is bad form to be rude about first novels, and a pleasure to praise them. Stephen Kelman’s has a powerful story, a pacy plot and engaging