In an admiring review (Spectator, 15 May, 2004) of Peter Parker’s biography of Christopher Isherwood, Philip Hensher conceded, perhaps reluctantly, that ‘Isherwood was not, in the end, a writer of the first rank’.
The Flying Troutmans, by Miriam Toews
Andrew Taylor reviews a selection of recent crime novels
The Outlander, by Gil Adamson
2666, by Roberto Bolaño
Evelyn Waugh told Nancy Mitford he was ‘surprised to find’ that Proust ‘was a mental defective. He has absolutely no sense of time.’
Land of Marvels, by Barry Unsworth
Heliopolis, by James Scudamore
And Then There Was No One, by Gilbert Adair
When you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas
by Justin Cartwright
Israel Rank, by Roy Horniman
James Patterson likes rape, torture, mutilation and death.
Vanity Fair, by William Thackeray
Susan Hill reappraises Charles Dickens’s classic
Juliet Townsend reviews a selection of Christmas books
Willy and the Killer Kipper (1981) by Jeffrey Archer
When does a novel stop being a novel and become a crime story? It’s often assumed that there is an unbridgeable gap between them, but that’s not necessarily so.