The good, the bad and the ugly in books, exhibitions, cinema, TV, dance, music, podcasts and theatre.
As I wrote before the Easter break, Jennifer Egan’s A Visit From the Goon Squad is a captivating novel. Reviewers are clamouring at its brilliance, but I agree with Will Blythe of the New York Times that it is ‘unclassifiably elaborate’. You should believe the hype, but I can’t quite say why. Here is Egan
From an Elizabethan Literature examination set by WH Auden while he was teaching at Swarthmore College: “Explain why the devil is (a) sad and (b) honest.” Have at it, dear readers. [Via Alan Jacobs]
Reader’s Review is a new feature here on the Spectator Book Club, and one which is rather self-explanatory. The idea is that, perhaps every fortnight or so, we shall publish a book review by a reader of the website. The first, below, of P.J. O’Rourke’s Don’t Vote…, is by Coffee House regular Peter from Maidstone
The death of the book has been much exaggerated, it seems. Figures released recently by the Publishers Association show a marked increase in sales of digital books, with total consumer sales rocketing up 318 per cent since 2009. However, there’s no need to dismantle the bookshelves just yet. The digital slice of the book market
Sir V.S Naipaul is the subject of this month’s Literary Review interview, conducted by Patrick Marnham on this occassion. ‘LR: You went to see a fortune teller in West Africa on your recent journey. What did you ask him? VSN: Oh, I always ask them a few specific questions. Will I own a house of
Joan Miró (1893–1983) was a great imaginative artist and a pure painter of genius. Joan Miró (1893–1983) was a great imaginative artist and a pure painter of genius. He produced a huge body of work over a long life, and this excellent selection of it transforms the uninspiring galleries at Tate Modern, which have rarely
Michael Henderson talks to Alfred Brendel about his favourite films ‘I belong to no tribe,’ says Alfred Brendel, taking tea at his home in Hampstead, surrounded by some of the books that constitute his vast library. ‘I follow no creed, subscribe to no ideology, and I despise nationalism. I have lived in many places but
Fidelio, once regarded as an uncomplicated celebration of what its title suggests, and of freedom, especially political freedom, has become a problem work, and most productions of it amount to uninterestingly complicated attempts to circumvent issues which shouldn’t have been present in the director’s mind in the first place. Fidelio, once regarded as an uncomplicated
The RSC isn’t limited to Shakespeare. The RSC isn’t limited to Shakespeare. It’s also one of the richest and most prolific fringe operations in the country. ‘We have between 30 and 40 writers working on plays for us at any one time.’ Golly. Some Stratford bigwig wants to tell the tale of the Russian space
Thousands of years ago, in or about 1977, I remember reading the intemperate jazzer Benny Green writing about Genesis, whose years of commercial success were just beginning. Green was not impressed. ‘It’s all very loud bits and very quiet bits,’ he said, or words to that effect. You can just imagine his customary wasp-chewing grimace
My Dog Tulip is a tender and exquisite animation about one man and his dog which gets as close to what it is to love dogs as I’ve ever encountered, and goes a considerable way to making up for what dog-lovers have had to put up with at the cinema in recent years (Hotel for
There’s a brilliant moment in the 1975 Doctor Who storyline The Ark In Space when Sarah Jane (Elisabeth Sladen), on a vital mission to save Earth from the evil insectoid Wirrn, gets stuck in a ventilator shaft. There’s a brilliant moment in the 1975 Doctor Who storyline The Ark In Space when Sarah Jane (Elisabeth
Trust a radio critic, she who is paid to listen, not to rely on the wireless set in her car for information when stuck on a highland road miles from anywhere in a jam that stretches far into the horizon in both directions. But when a forest fire closed the road we were travelling on
In the aftermath of an early-evening thunderstorm on a baked Easter weekend, Trembling Bells took the stage in a Lewisham pub. They seemed like visitors from another time. It wasn’t quite clear which, but the most evident contender is the early Seventies, and it’s no surprise that Joe Boyd, the celebrated producer of Nick Drake
Children’s literature is sexist, has too many male heroes and represents the “symbolic annihilation of women”, according to a deranged woman writing in the latest edition of my favourite journal, “Gender And Society”. Janice McCabe singles out poor Winnie-the-Pooh for particular scorn, although she also has a go at that misogynistic bastard, Peter Rabbit. But
Sporting literature is a strange old business, often underrated by those who don’t like sport and overrated by those who do. In particular, a warm glow hovers over the reputation of golf writing, which has attained an eminence the unsung litterateurs of snooker and darts can only envy. Golf Stories (Everyman’s Library, £10.99), edited by
Wicked Company is the collective biography of a group of men with little in common, apart from a generalised dissatisfaction with the state of the world around them. Perhaps that is true of most intellectual coteries. The kings of the Parisian Enlightenment of the 18th century were the mathematician Jean d’Alembert and the playwright and
This is a lovely book. Judy Golding writes of her father —indeed of both her parents — with candour, humour and great insight and perception This is a lovely book. Judy Golding writes of her father —indeed of both her parents — with candour, humour and great insight and perception. More than that, here is
The Forgotten Waltz is one of those densely recapitulative novels that seek to interpret emotional crack-up from the angle of its ground-down aftermath. At the same time, it is not really a book about hindsight. Sometimes extending information to the reader and sometimes deliberately covering its tracks, sometimes inviting sympathy for its characters and sometimes
Jason Stearns is a brave man. He once worked for the UN’s disarmament programme in eastern Congo, a job which required him to probe the forests around the town of Bukavu, seeking out members of the local Mai Mai militia. Jason Stearns is a brave man. He once worked for the UN’s disarmament programme in
It’s impossible not to warm to the author of this book, a perky Turkish-American woman with a fascination with Russian literature and an irresistible comic touch. It’s impossible not to warm to the author of this book, a perky Turkish-American woman with a fascination with Russian literature and an irresistible comic touch. I began it
This is a strange exercise. It is a commonplace book of quotations from great authors, assembled by the philosopher A. C. Grayling. The extracts from the great books, how- ever, are provided without attribution. Furthermore, they are arranged in numbered ‘verses’, like the divisions of the ‘texts’ in the Bible. The Bible was thus divided
The sum of hard biographical facts about Captain Cook never increases, nor is it expected to. It is the same with Shakespeare. J. C. Beaglehole’s Life of Captain James Cook (1974), which Frank McLynn quotes often, contains most of what is known about Cook’s family life and origins. As the son of a Yorkshire farm
Marcus Berkmann has written the Bookend column in this week’s issue of the magazine. Here it is for readers of this blog. Sporting literature is a strange old business, often underrated by those who don’t like sport and overrated by those who do. In particular, a warm glow hovers over the reputation of golf writing,
Historical fiction has been a staple of the reading public for more than a century. Fashions change and there are eras when these novels are more fictitious than historical. The current fashion sees history trump fiction, particularly in the realm of real crime. Colquhoun’s new novel, Mr Briggs’ Hat, is the story of the first
During the summer of 1864 the British newspaper-reading public was gripped by reports of the first ever murder on their railways. First came descriptions of the discovery of a bloody railway carriage and the battered body of an elderly, respected City man. Police posters on street corners across the land screamed bloody murder. A crushed
“It sometimes makes me wretch, just the thought of writing,” said an author whose book launch I attended last night. This was not said in jest as part of a routine of good natured badinage, or as a novel sales pitch. He meant it. “There’s a moment of deep anxiety. A quandary. A kind of
There was a very funny joke told by the slightly weird American comedian Emo Philips a dozen or so years ago. He was talking about his German girlfriend, and how she loved being in New York. What she loved best, he said, were those New York bagels, she couldn’t get enough of them. “And you
Essentially, Alan Bennett’s new book is about its title: Smut. Here the National Treasure reads extracts from this duet of sly and unseemly stories.