Book Reviews

Our reviews of the latest in literature

Wednesday

John McEwen

Flower power

Mrs Delaney (1700-88) is an inspiring example for old age; also a reproach to those who think ‘upper class’ a term of abuse and that women have only recently had a life. Mrs Delaney (1700-88) is an inspiring example for old age; also a reproach to those who think ‘upper class’ a term of abuse and that women have only recently had a life. Her extraordinary cut-paper flowers, collected in the 10-volume Flora Delanica, are now enshrined in the British Museum as masterpieces of collage art. Looking at their remarkable intricacy and accuracy, it is incredible to think she made them between the age of 72 and 82. Nonetheless, these

Tuesday

Alex Massie Alex Massie

Death of the Novel & the Birth of the Everlasting Telephone

From a letter written by the American novelist F. Marion Crawford, on August 23, 1896: The old fashioned novel is really dead, and nothing can revive it nor make anybody care for it again. What is to follow it?…A clever German who is here suggested to me last night that the literature of the future might turn out to be the daily exchange of ideas of men of genius—over the everlasting telephone of course—published every morning for the whole world…. As Marbury says, that’s a pretty good description of the internet, though, of course, access to the everlasting telephone is scarcely restricted to men of genius… But Crawford – who

Saturday

The Spectator

Christmas Books II | 21 November 2009

Ferdinand Mount Andrew Brown has spent a lot of his life writing about religion, not least for The Spectator. He has never written anything remotely like Fishing in Utopia (Granta, £8.99), but then nor has anyone else. The book tells the story of how the author fell in love with Sweden and everything Swedish, including his first wife, the fishing and the socialism. And when he falls out of love, it is not a straightforward disillusionment, but rather a rueful recognition of how hard it was for a country of dirt-poor farmers to emerge as an industrial nation without losing some of the idealism in the affluence. The descriptions of

Wednesday

Jonathan Sumption

The peace to end all peace

The first world war was the last major conflict to be brought to an end in the traditional fashion, with a formal treaty of peace. Or, rather, several treaties of peace, one for each of the defeated belligerents. They were all negotiated in Paris, but named after the various royal palaces in which the signing ceremonies were held: Versailles, the Trianon, Saint-Germain-en-Laye, Neuilly, Sèvres. These great buildings, arranged like pearls in a necklace around Paris across the hunting grounds of the former kings, were built to impress. But the treaties signed in them were arguably the most prodigious acts of folly in the history of European diplomacy. The process began

Anita Brookner

Nightmare in Dublin

Caroline Wallace, a journalist specialising in book reviews and the occasional travel piece, is asked, or rather told, to go to Dublin to interview Desmond FitzMaurice, a once famous playwright and foreign correspondent, in order to revive interest in his now forgotten work. Fitzmaurice is nearly 90, and so there is no time to be lost. She will listen to his reminiscences and with luck fashion a major article. There is no reason why she should not do this. All she leaves in London is a house in Notting Hill which she shares with her partner of ten years who has never suggested marriage. She is over 40, so time

Andrew Barrow

Tears of laughter

At first glance, these books have an awful lot in common. Indeed, all three might have been produced by the same self-centred chatterbox, so similar is the slightly manic, self-consciously jokey, self-interrupting, lower-middle class vernacular in which they are all written. Fluent, full of ideas and, above all, conversational. All three authors treat their imaginary readers like members of a live audience. ‘Sorry, I’m rambling,’ confesses Jo Brand at one point. ‘Tear this bit out and use the pages to make paper aeroplanes or something,’ advises Jack Dee at another trick moment. And in his opening remarks, Peter Kay goes right over the top by mysteriously including Jeremy Irons in

Alberto Manguel

The unreliable narrator

There are literary monuments that don’t allow for intimacy. Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities is one of these imposing masterpieces; Hermann Broch’s The Sleepwalkers is another. There are literary monuments that don’t allow for intimacy. Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities is one of these imposing masterpieces; Hermann Broch’s The Sleepwalkers is another. Vastly ambitious, densely intelligent, profoundly inquisitive, these works demand from the reader constant attention and unlimited patience to make out the images reflected in what Broch called the ‘dark mirror’ of fiction. Unlike Proust’s monumental Recherche, into which the reader can wander and stay to converse with a particular character or linger in one of its

Colin Amery

With a view to impress

It all began at Hardwick Hall. Imagine an impressionable and imaginative young boy staying with his relations, wandering about absorbing the atmosphere of that miraculous survivor of an Elizabethan house. Mark Girouard’s intellectual curiosity about English architectural history was ignited by his childhood experience of living in those extraordinary rooms. He was on the roof or climbing the worn stone stairs up to the High Great Chamber and experiencing the passion and artifice of Elizabethan architecture at first hand. Girouard’s major new book is the fruit of years of intensive research following on from his first book, Robert Smythson and the Architecture of the Elizabethan Era (1966). This explored the

Sarah Anderson

Round India with Charly

In 1800 Henrietta Clive, wife of Edward Clive who had been appointed Governor of Madras in 1797, embarked on an 1,100-mile, seven-month journey round southern India with her two daughters and her Italian artist friend, Anna Tonelli. This was an unusual thing to do at the time, and the fact that she was accompanied by over 750 people, 14 elephants, 100 bullocks and her pianoforte and harp does not detract from her remarkable journey. Henrietta Herbert had grown up next door to the Clives on the borders of England and Wales, marrying Edward, Clive of India’s son, in 1784. When they embarked for India in 1798 they left their two

Joanna Kavenna

Origins of the human race

At first glance, a history of running seems a pretty doomed exercise, like writing a history of breathing, or sneezing. For how can anyone really describe and ‘historicise’ an intrinsic physical process, something people do, involuntarily, without thinking? Perhaps alert to this potential pitfall, Thor Gotaas confines himself to a specific sort of running — not the inevitable startling of our limbs when we are about to miss a bus, or be ravaged by bears, but rather running as competitive sport, calibrated by a track or a clock, regulated by officials. In this way, Gotaas crafts a cultural history of a sport, in the same way as he has explained

Marcus Berkmann

A choice of humorous books

For generations, the Christmas ‘funny’ book has received a poor press. For generations, the Christmas ‘funny’ book has received a poor press. We have all been given one, usually by someone who thinks we still have a sense of humour. We have opened it in good faith, we have searched within for the promised mirth and merriment, and finally we have thrown it aside in a burst of unseasonal rage. By mid-January these volumes are clogging up all available Oxfams, or starting fruitful afterlives as loft insulation or raw material for as yet unbuilt motorways. A friend of mine heard that a Christmas funny he had written had ended up

Saturday

The Spectator

Christmas Books I | 14 November 2009

Marcus Berkmann I tend to read non-fiction for review or research and fiction to keep me sane. This year I have rarely been more than two books away from another Georges Simenon. I started late last year with three old Maigrets I found on a shelf (fortunately my own), then progressed to the romans durs, fantastically bleak, unforgiving portrayals of psychological collapse, recounted in the old rogue’s characteristically flat, unemotional prose. The Man Who Watched the Trains Go By (Penguin, 1938) is justly revered; Monsieur Monde Vanishes (1952) has recently reappeared under the NYRB imprint; but I particularly admired The Little Man from Archangel (1957), which is out of print

Wednesday

Craig Raine

Was he anti-Semitic?

Letters give us the life as lived — day-to-day, shapeless, haphazard, contingent, imperfect, authentic. Letters give us the life as lived — day-to-day, shapeless, haphazard, contingent, imperfect, authentic. That is their value. Life-writing, biography, is plotted, shaped by an argument and is summary, selective and often tendentious. There is a lovely moment in these letters when the shivering Eliot, trapped on the top of a French mountain, a long mule ride from civilisation, is writing to Richard Aldington on a defective typewriter. It sticks and repeats. ‘I’m writing there fore the r therefore more briefly than I intended and shall do when I get to Nice again and hie h

Ian Thomson

Reader, beware

In this diverting, well-written history of deceitful and counterfeit literature through the ages, Telling Tales, Melissa Katsoulis chronicles a variety of fraudsters and fibsters, and their motives for hoodwinking the public. The earliest known literary hoaxer was the philosopher Dionysus the Renegade, who inserted a number of unflattering acrostics — ‘HERACLES IS IGNORANT OF LETTERS AND IS NOT ASHAMED OF HIS IGNORANCE’ — into his trumpery Sophocles play, Parthenopaeus. Dionysus had acted in a spirit of mischief. Recent spoofers have been motivated more by the promise of celebrity. In 2001, Michael Gambino published his bestselling memoir, The Honoured Society, which purported to reveal the ‘innermost workings’ of the American Cosa

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Facetious or scandalous?

Very funny guy, John O’Farrell. Very funny guy, John O’Farrell. His columns are a hoot and his excellent memoir, Things Can Only Get Better, turned me temporarily into an insomniac. His latest book, a facetious history of the last 60 years, lacks the cohesion of his memoir and the concentrated force of his columns. Because he feels obliged to cover the whole of the shoreline he finds himself writing about subjects, like Northern Ireland, that don’t engage his emotions, only his knack for mockery. If you tried writing to Bobby Sands MP at the House of Commons about getting your parking ticket rescinded, while he was starving himself to death

Simon Baker

Just the bare bones

It is impossible (as I prove in this sentence) to review Philip Roth without mentioning the surge of creativity that began when the author was around 60 and which now sees him publishing a novel every year (his next one, Nemesis, is already finished). However, I would argue that it is only recently that we have seen Roth’s genuine late style. In three of his last four books — Everyman (2006), Indignation (2008) and this one, The Humbling — there has been a shift towards winter in his writing. Those are short works, lacking the manic humour that energised Roth’s earlier fiction. Gone is the narrative scope of books such

Susan Hill Susan Hill

Chic lit

First, I must declare an interest. I have never met Nicholas Haslam. As everyone else has, this makes me uniquely qualified to review his book without partiality. But not without interest, for Haslam is an intriguing man. I think there is more to him than meets the eye — whichever Nicholas Haslam it is that currently happens to do that. He is the easiest person to send up — but that surely is not the whole story. Then what is? — and can we read it here? There are some useful questions to be asked about the subject of a biography/autobiography. Has this person justified their existence? On balance, have

Alan Watkins

Man and urchin

Frank Johnson, the finest and funniest parliamentary sketch-writer of his generation died, too young, in late 2006. His widow, Virginia Fraser, has now compiled and edited a selection of his writings. It is mostly about domestic politics as seen from his seat in the press gallery of the House of Commons, interspersed with expeditions to by-elections and general elections. There are also pieces on his early life in Shoreditch, his lifelong enthusiasms — opera, ballet, warfare, diplomacy — and at the end of his life, his newly acquired house near Montpellier. In a work of this kind it is a temptation to review the man and not the book. I

Andro Linklater

When words were scarce

Most of us are brought up not badly, but wrongly. Trained to the tenets of Mrs DoAsYou-WouldBeDoneBy, we are easily trampled underfoot by students of the Master DoItMyWay-OrBeDoneOver school. Consider the career of Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery as an example of the second method of upbringing. Mercilessly whipped and humiliated as a child, he grew up self-obsessed, wilful, arrogant, and it would seem without any redeeming personal qualities. Yet it was largely Monty’s egotistic drive that made him the most effective British general of the second world war, while more sympathetic commanders like Wavell and Alexander were relegated to the sidelines. High among the surprises of this delightful memoir of

Charlotte Moore

Delight and horror

‘Everything that the lovingest of husbands can express to the best of wives, & love to the little ones, not forgetting the kicker in the dark,’ Jack Verney wrote to his pregnant wife in 1683. ‘Everything that the lovingest of husbands can express to the best of wives, & love to the little ones, not forgetting the kicker in the dark,’ Jack Verney wrote to his pregnant wife in 1683. I read this 326 years later with a pleasurable frisson. I don’t know why it is so charming to find that our ancestors felt as we do, but it is. In Louisa Lane Fox’s fascinating anthology, that thrill of recognition