Book Reviews

Our reviews of the latest in literature

Thursday

David Kynaston

The ups and downs of high-rise living

‘On BBC 2 last Monday,’ noted the Sunday Telegraph’s TV critic Trevor Grove in February 1979, ‘the return of Fawlty Towers was immediately followed by a programme about faulty towers.’ He went on: This was odd, but on close examination turned out to be without significance. After all, what connection could there possibly be between a comedy series based on the exploits of a domineering, havoc-wreaking megalomaniac called Basil Fawlty and a serious study of what has been done to Britain’s urban environment by a bunch of domineering, havoc-wreaking megalomaniacs who call themselves architects? The programme was Christopher Booker’s still remembered City of Towers, a ferocious attack on Le Corbusier-inspired

Stephen Bayley

How London became the best place in the world to eat out

London has become the best place in the world to eat out. Of course, there are a thousand other cities with marvellous food, but for organic vitality, ethnic variety and nose-to-tail creativity, London is unmatched. New York and Paris are parochial by comparison. Two new books locate the source of this revolution of taste and aspiration in the 1980s and 1990s. But, like the Zen paradox, this is both true and untrue. Waves of immigrants immediately raised postwar expectations. It is estimated that 80 per cent of the ‘Indian’ restaurants which dominate high streets are in fact Bangladeshi and that most of the owners arrived from Sylhet immediately after Partition.

Wednesday

Friday

Maggie Fergusson

Songs of murder, rape and desertion

A century ago, the Orkney poet George Mackay Brown was settling into his first term at Stromness Academy. His schooldays were to prove a dismal grind, but English lessons brought moments of magic. He was especially intrigued by poems – ballads, mostly – signed simply ‘Anon’. The name of the poet was lost – and perhaps there hadn’t been just one but a host of craftsmen in the making of each of these wonders. They were the creation of a tribe, the inheritance of a community, songs ‘seraphically free/ Of taint of personality’. Today, as publishers bust themselves to promote the cult of individual authors, it’s a thrilling, liberating notion.

Sarah Churchwell

The evasions of smalltown Alabama: The Land of Sweet Forever, by Harper Lee, reviewed

Harper Lee’s writing career was brief, but her single novel became one of the most famous in American history. To Kill a Mockingbird (1960) won the Pulitzer Prize, sold tens of millions of copies and remains a fixture of classrooms and popular memory. She published almost nothing else until Go Set a Watchman – an earlier draft of Mockingbird – appeared in 2015, just before her death and perhaps without her meaningful consent. The Land of Sweet Forever gathers apprentice stories written before Mockingbird, along with a few later magazine pieces. Most are slight and the volume is more commercial than literary. Yet the early stories show Lee testing the

Sarah Hall

Rory Stewart’s romantic view of Cumbria is wide of the mark

It’s tricky for writers to gather up pieces of old work and collect them in significant literary form. It’s risky for former politicians to publish outdated commentaries, with no agenda other than to show politics on the ground and as a record of their efforts and prejudices. Most hazardous of all is titling a book in such a way that it eschews the established geographical and psychological identity of the region it describes. These are the challenges Rory Stewart sets for himself in Middleland. The book consists of the granary-floor sweepings of journalistic pieces published in the Cumberland and Westmorland Herald while Stewart served as MP for Penrith and the

Tanya Gold

Peril in Prague: The Secret of Secrets, by Dan Brown, reviewed

Robert Langdon is a symbologist, and that is the meta joke – the only joke – of Dan Brown’s series of blockbusters, of which this is the sixth. Langdon, an Everyman – Frodo Baggins but taller, and with a professorship at Harvard – is a monied, moderate intellectual who likes swimming. And he is very ordinary – until he isn’t. All novels have subtexts, even if they don’t really want them. They can’t help it. This one is: a monied, moderate intellectual can be interesting, and interesting things can happen to him. (I think Brown spends a lot of time at his desk. I also think he prefers ideas to

Andrew Rosenheim

Cosy crime for Christmas: a choice of thrillers

Christmas is prime time for cosy crime and the excellent thriller writer Nicola Upson offers a short, pleasing contribution with The Christmas Clue (Faber, £10). As in her longer novels, where she uses the real-life figure of Josephine Tey as her heroine, here she fronts a couple – Anthony and Elva Pratt – who also existed, and who invented the classic boardgame Cluedo. It is 1943, and the Pratts decide to return to the resort hotel, Tudor Close, where they used to work, Anthony as the house pianist and the two together as creators of whodunnit entertainments for the guests. The idea is that it should be a respite from

Suzi Feay

The little imps who pretended to be poltergeists

It comes as a surprise for anyone assuming that ghosthunters are easily fooled scaredy cats to learn that there was once a Society for Psychical Research based at Cambridge University. Undergraduate members would gather on Sunday evenings to hear the latest reports of investigations into supernatural phenomena. It sounds quaint; but to judge from Ben Machell’s account of the group’s charismatic leader Tony Cornell, there must have been many enthralling moments. Machell uses the figure of Cornell to prise open the SPR, founded in 1882 in London. Members included Arthur Balfour, William Gladstone and Arthur Conan Doyle. Cornell became a member after encountering a hermit in India when on active

Simon Winchester

The cartographer’s power to decide the fate of millions

I had searched for it for the better part of 20 years. An enormous trove of lost maps, the 800 or so sheets of an immense and madcap Victorian project known as the International Map of the World at the Scale of One to a Million. It had taken its makers 70 years of costly surveying, engraving and printing before it was abandoned unfinished in the 1980s.  An original set of these stunningly lovely British-made maps was first deposited in the swanky Manhattan offices of the American Geographical Society. But, after falling on hard times, the AGS had to move to smaller digs in Brooklyn and had no room for

Sue Prideaux

Football vs opera, and the terror of being considered highbrow

After Handel introduced Italian opera to London, Georgians and Victorians went to performances to wear their diamonds and meet friends. As Victoria’s reign progressed, opera percolated down, via brass bands, organ grinders, music hall warblers and whistling delivery boys. In 1869, the Leeds impresario Carl Rosa set up ‘a sort of operatic Woolworths’, a touring company putting on shows in cinemas and working men’s clubs Lilian Baylis was the other great populariser. In 1897, she took over her aunt’s music hall, the Old Vic, and threw herself into social improvement: ‘My people must have the best. God tells me the best is grand opera.’ With 2,000 seats priced between 3d

Lynn Barber

‘This sweet, delightful book’: The Natural History of Selborne revisited

Gilbert White’s Natural History of Selborne is a true classic in that it has never been out of print since its first publication in 1789. It was based on the daily journals White kept for years in which he noted first the weather (‘Rain. Rain. Rain’) and wind direction, then the progress of his garden (he was very proud of his cucumbers) and occasional nature notes, usually about birds. Jenny Uglow has chosen to concentrate on one year of these journals, 1781, when he was 60 years old and halfway through writing his Natural History, and to interpolate it with her own observations. But these feel oddly irrelevant since she

Ian Buruma

The extraordinary courage of Germany’s wartime ‘traitors’

I once interviewed the late Enoch Powell for this magazine (the article never appeared, for reasons I forget). One thing he said on that occasion stuck with me. He remarked that loyalty to one’s country should be unconditional. I asked him what he thought people should do if their country were taken over by a criminal regime. After a short pause Powell replied that some people were luckier than others. I failed to press him further on this point, but it struck me as an unsatisfactory answer, and it still does. Jonathan Freedland has written a very good book on precisely such unlucky people: German patriots who hated Hitler and

Thursday

Sara Wheeler

The young Anton Chekhov searches for his voice

This book collects 58 pieces of fiction that Anton Chekhov published between the ages of 20 and 22. Many appear in English for the first time. In her introduction, Rosamund Bartlett refers to the material with disarming candour as a ‘wholly unremarkable debut’. Is there ever any point in publishing juvenilia? In his first years as a medical student Anton Pavlovich dashed off these pieces for a few kopecks a line (his father, born a serf, was a bankrupt shopkeeper). Ranging in length from three paragraphs to 76 pages, they appeared under pseudonyms in lowbrow comic magazines that included another Spectator (founded in Moscow in 1881). Unremarkable they may be

Helen Barrett

Nostalgia for the 1980s New Romantic scene 

It is hard to write the history of a subculture without upsetting people. Events were either significant or inconsequential depending on who was there, which leads to absurdities. When Jon Savage wrote England’s Dreaming, his history of punk, Jenny Turner berated him in the London Review of Books for being ‘a bit of a Sex Pistols snob’. Ironically, the most exclusive British subculture of them all seems to have escaped infighting over who or what mattered, possibly because so few people were part of it. The Blitz, Steve Strange and Rusty Egan’s much mythologised early 1980s nightclub, had a brutally selective door policy. Strange let hardly anyone in, which must

Leyla Sanai

Revenge of the invisible woman: Other People’s Fun, by Harriet Lane, reviewed

Do you have one of those friends who is uncannily conscious of the most subtle signs of insincerity; who quietly witnesses selfish and narcissistic behaviour and drily expresses their observations with devastating wit in a few well-chosen words? Well, Harriet Lane is like that friend, and you don’t have to know her to enjoy her deliciously bitchy awareness of fakery. Her first novel, Alys Always (2012), told the story of a silently sour sub-editor who seizes her chance to better her lot through a tragedy. She inveigles her way into the life of a recently bereaved male writer and exploits the situation to enjoy new-found power and material benefits. A

Wednesday

Sam Leith

James Geary: A Brief History of the Aphorism

43 min listen

My guest in this week’s Book Club podcast is James Geary, talking about the new edition of his classic The World in a Phrase: A Brief History of the Aphorism. He tells me about what separates an aphorism from a proverb, a maxim or a quip; about the long history of the form and his own lifelong infatuation with it; and about whether – given our dwindling attention span and appetite for zingers on social media – we can expect to be living through a new golden age of aphorism.

Simon Heffer

The last straw in Lloyd George’s cash for honours scandal

Why another book about Maundy Gregory? The spiv who in the 1920s acted as middleman between David Lloyd George and potential peers, baronets and knights – the former desperate for money to fund his campaigns, the latter greedy for status, irrespective of any merit they might have – has been documented extensively. Gregory also features in histories of the period, in studies of the honours system and in countless newspaper and magazine articles. Stephen Bates’s book, which appears to have been published to mark the centenary of the 1925 Honours (Prevention of Abuses) Act, adds little to what we already know. Despite other potential candidates, Gregory is the only person

David Crane

The nearest we’ll ever get to experiencing the horrors of 1914

In a German war cemetery to the north-east of the Belgian town of Diksmuide is the grave of a young soldier called Peter Kollwitz. He once lay among the 1,500 dead of the Roggevelde cemetery and it was there, in 1932 – the same year that Lutyens’s memorial to the dead of the Somme was dedicated – that his mother, the great German printmaker and sculptor Käthe Kollwitz, placed at his graveside the two granite figures known as the ‘Grieving Parents’. There is, as the historian Jay Winter wrote, ‘no monument to the grief of those parents who lost their sons in the war more moving than this simple stone