Book Reviews

Our reviews of the latest in literature

Saturday

Philip Hensher

Native wood-notes wild

This is an exceptional biography, which is just as well, since I don’t think one could bear to have the heartbreaking story it tells recounted carelessly. John Clare is one of the great Romantic poets, but his history and origins have always meant that he was either treated with neglect or used by his admirers for their own ends. This unusually tactful and sympathetic book tries, for once, not to claim Clare for any particular cause, but to see what he was trying to do in his own terms. Clare came from the poorest of the agricultural classes, and indeed continued working as a labourer even when he had attained

Saturday

Nigel Nicolson

Spillikins of wisdom

This is not exactly an autobiography — John Mortimer has written three already, one about old age — but more like a collection of reminiscences designed to inspire and warn his grandchildren of the delights and pitfalls of life. It is a testament, the ‘Will’ of his title, in which he bequeaths to them the experience of a long life. There is not much about what he will leave to them in tangible goods, though a house, its furniture, art and garden, and a bit of cash, are not to be sneezed at. What he leaves them is his wisdom, and this he conveys in a loose, anecdotal, joky, non-preachy

Victoria Glendinning

For ever taking leave

Martha Gellhorn, an American who lost faith in America, was one of the most important war-reporters of the 20th century. She was not interested in briefings from the top brass, though she sometimes used her blonde charm to get the top brass to fly her where she needed to go. What she did, in her own words, was to ‘bear witness’ to what war did to innocent people, especially children. She found her stories on the street and in the orphanages. Her style was pared-down and succinct, powered by outrage. She believed in the ultimate supremacy of goodness and justice until she went into Dachau. Then, seeing what she saw,

Tim Congdon

Not such a low and dishonest decade

If it is to be interesting, contemporary history has to be a battle between good guys and bad guys. In his The Roaring Nineties Professor Joseph Stiglitz lets the reader know at an early stage in the proceedings that he is a good guy. As he says in the preface, when he first fell in love with economics, I wanted to understand what caused the poverty, unemployment and discrimination that I had seen all around me growing up, and I wanted to do something about these problems. Stiglitz spent much of his early career in universities and made important advances in such highly theoretical areas of economics as the understanding

William Trevor

The making of a professional

All the clichés are true: travel refreshes the taste for living; it brightens the jaded mind, it stimulates and deludes. The border that is crossed in leaving the familiar behind is the same one whether the journey is travel at its most serious — on perhaps the Terra Nova or the Endurance — or a cut-price trek to the fun palaces of Florida or the Costa del Sol. And equally for the heroic explorer and the three-week tripper there is the risk that escape may turn out to be the worst journey in the world — a hazard that is not, for either, an element in adventure’s allure. But when

Eric Christiansen

The love that dared to speak its name

As you went into the tower door of the church at Marsh Baldon (Oxon), there used to be two wall-tablets. One was to the relations of Sir Christopher Willoughby, who died in 1808, and the other was To the Memory of Friends, listed as John Lane, Elizabeth Lane, Phanuel Bacon, Margaret Bacon and Ann Barton. About which, 30 years ago, there seemed to be little to note, except that it was ‘unusual’. But why? Given the high value we still set on friendship and the tendency of some Britons to advertise themselves through their connections, such mementoes ought to be quite usual; if not in churches, then in fields and

Grey Gowrie

Zimmerman bound or unbound?

What is going on here? What on earth is going on here? Christopher Ricks, the world’s leading critic of poetry in English, Frank Kermode and the American Helen Vendler his only rivals, has devoted, has lavished 500 pages of hard-core, hardback, exegetical analysis to the words which propel Bob Dylan’s songs. The issue is not proving a point about Dylan’s poetic talent. That could be achieved in an essay. Indeed Ricks has already written one, in the Listener, as long ago as 1972 when Ricks was 39 and Dylan 31. Now Ricks is 70 and Dylan in his early sixties and Ricks has decided to throw neither flowers nor tomatoes

Pn Furbank

Battle versus work

The great popular success of Forster’s Howards End, published in 1910, meant that he was under pressure to set to work on a new novel, and in the following year he did so, but in a mood of self-doubt. He told himself it was wrong to force oneself to write; that before attempting a new work he always felt he needed to reappraise his own existence; that (as he noted in his diary) he was weary of ‘the only subject that I both can and may treat — the love of men for women and vice-versa’. He was suffering moreover from a superstitious sense that success didn’t suit him and

M R-D-Foot

The run-up to a giant leap

World history is pitted with world wars. Last century was conceited enough to call its pair the First and Second. One of the turning-points of that Second was the Anglo-American landing in Normandy on 6 June 1944, of which the 60th anniversary falls next year. David Stafford, a leading 20th-century historian (once a professor at Toronto), has got in early with a fine book on what the run-up to the landing felt like, both to the much-publicised high command and to far more junior combatants and civilians. He notes that the opposing generals, Eisenhower and Rommel, were both appointed on the same day, 15 January. He treats in some detail

Angela Huth

Happy band of brothers

Very occasionally one comes across a book which, in its unexpected delights, inspires one to leap about wild with praise, and rush out to buy copies for friends. This first work by William Newton, retired doctor, will surely have this effect on many readers. It is, simply, the story of remarkable teenage years in the late 1930s. The facts make fiction look uninventive. They are described in what might be called polished prose — but that implies a lot of buffing and shining. Dr Newton’s art, as a storyteller and a master of description, is to make the reader feel it has all poured out of him just as it

Clive James

Slogging to Byzantium

Yeats was a great poet who was also the industrious adept of a batso mystical philosophy. Do we have to absorb the philosophy before we can appreciate the poetry? If we are lucky enough to be in a state of ignorance, the question won’t come up. The poetry will get to us first. Suppose you’ve heard this much: that Yeats’s best stuff came late. So you pick up the 1950 edition of the Collected Poems and start from the back. The last few lines in the book are the first you see. And now my utmost mystery is out:A woman’s beauty is a storm-tossed banner:Under it wisdom stands, and I

Saturday

Stuart Wheeler

Finding a way to beat Catch-21

‘You’re not losing; we don’t care for that type of play here. Just cash in your chips and collect your check.’ Thus the Caesar’s Palace pit boss to your reviewer in the Sixties when in fact, contrary to what the author says, the casinos did already know about, and object to, players counting the cards at blackjack. Even if bits in the blurb such as ‘utterly gripping’ (of the book), ‘utterly corrupt’ (of Las Vegas) and especially ‘rich, sharp’ (of the dialogue) are something of an exaggeration, the story of how a group of young, highly intelligent MIT boys and girls took on Las Vegas, and beat them for millions

Olivia Glazebrook

Trying to be one of the boys

A group of bored American fighter pilots liven up their posting in cold war Germany with round-the-campfire joshing, petty squabbles, and some traditional extramarital frolicking. But hey — it’s all locker-room stuff: the banter is kept within acceptable boundaries. For safety’s sake a code of behaviour, however peculiar, is observed. Everyone seems to know the rules, written and unwritten. Into this frustrated pride of alpha males arrives an anomaly, Lieutenant Robert Cassada. Cassada is ambitious, aloof, reticent and therefore different. He lacks the carelessness or the natural talent of his fellow officers. He is also Puerto Rican, a fact which causes confusion and suspicion: ‘Well, how’d he get in the

Miranda France

When seeing is not believing

Waking Raphael has all the ingredients one could hope for from a thriller set in Italy: corruption, art, religion, food and very nasty, mafia-style murders. Among the characters are a prim English art-restorer ripe for unbuttoning, a bimbo television presenter, a dodgy aristo, and a butcher who sings as he slaughters. The result is imaginative and entertaining but also highly informative about Italian history and the murky world of the Renaissance (did you know that poor Umbrians sometimes sent their sons to be gelded by the area’s skilled slaughterers in the hope that they might find fortune as castrato singers? In the context of this novel it is information one

Eric Anderson

Settling in Seattle

In Waxwings Jonathan Raban triumphantly transfers the skills of an award-winning travel writer to his second novel. (The first was written 18 years ago.) Like the author, the principal character has moved from Britain to Seattle, ‘where herring gulls were a traffic hazard and all streets led down to the water’. Tom Janeway is Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Washington with a minor reputation for his short radio talks. But this is not the satirical university world of David Lodge and Malcolm Bradbury. Millennium-year America (just before the dotcom bubble bursts and before 9/11) is vividly and amusingly evoked, but the excesses and ambiguities of a

Interconnect

Endless stint of stunts

To be apparently always affable, a person everyone is pleased to see, ‘dear old Johnners’, as it seems was the broadcaster Brian Johnson, takes a nerve of steel, and that is apparent in this slightly awed biography by his son. Perhaps it is true, as Barry Johnson suggests, that the early death of Brian’s father — swept out to sea off Cornwall in a swimming accident when Brian was ten — left him insisting for the rest of his life on a world of japes and jokes. Certainly, insist he did, with astonishing persistence. First there was Eton, where he played jokes and cricket, then there was Oxford, where he

Rupert Christiansen

A sane cuckoo in the nest of art

This is a hugely impressive but somewhat exhausting book, the justification for which — from a brutally commercial viewpoint — I fail to grasp. It is a collection of Sir Frank Kermode’s literary criticism, selected by the author and drawn chronologically from all periods and aspects of his oeuvre. Short prefaces, outlining genesis and context, precede 19 essays (some of them lectures, some of them chapters from full-length works), followed by seven briefer articles, taken from the London Review of Books. In libraries if not in bookshops, the great majority of these pieces are readily available in their original published form, where they make better sense — Kermode’s arguments are

Matthew Leeming

Culture of shame

I really thought I had made it when I went to give a talk at my old Oxford college. But when I got there I discovered that there had been an attempt to have me banned. I was accosted by a dusky beauty in the quad who, practically incoherent with indignation, told me that this was because I produced ‘the worst kind of neo-colonial travel writing’. In other words, I had once described an arranged Afghan marriage between a 14-year-old girl and a 38-year-old man as ‘legitimised rape’. I thought I had rather understated the horror of it. My thought-crime was ‘Orientalism’, the depiction of eastern cultures as strange and

Byron Rogers

More funny peculiar than ha-ha

A shilling life will give you all the facts, or at least a £20 one will. And in the case of Humphrey Carpenter it comes with a guarantee of research, honesty and fair play. Nothing flash, no tricks of style and perhaps not too much humour, but at the end a feeling that what you have read has been as close a likeness as you will get. Auden and Pound, Tolkien and Benjamin Britten, all subjects of Carpenter biographies, not one of them has much of a case for appeal. But his biography of Spike Milligan is different. It has a tension, for, while the author seems to have set