The best thing about this book, naturally enough, are the designs here showcased. The reproduction quality is excellent, and the format is appealing. The text is very plain-Jane and straightforward, though sometimes baffling and with occasional typos, which seems odd in a book of this minimal length. We are told in one explanation that a 'Cactus' design of wallpaper 'is described as having "a hint of freakishness".' The author had apparently mislaid her glasses: the actual advert, which is reproduced here, says quite clearly: 'Sheer delight in wallpaper decoration -- where originality of motif comes without a hint of freakishness'. That’s without, not with. Then we are told, over and over, that various items for the 1930s house were 'on sale'. I don't know about the idiom of the author's own locale, but wherever I've lived in the English-speaking countries, 'on sale' means 'at a reduced price'. What she clearly means instead is 'for sale' -- meaning, available for purchase. These blemishes apart, this book is a lovely glimpse into the happier aspects of the 1930s.
Outstanding -- and frequently amusing -- step-by-step introduction to field archaeology, timescales, and the basics of digging, with many less-obvious or less-well-known facts about the nature of British finds, archaeology as a career, and the rights and wrongs of snooping in the earth. Loaded with diagrams, it seems greedy to say that I could even have benefitted from a few more. Tons of photos, not so much for beauty as for pertinent illustrations. All-round, a terrific book and I would love to see one day a new edition, brought up to date. (Archaeology is these days a rapidly developing discipline.) The late Mick Aston is missed! And the current (now Sir) Tony Robinson is much appreciated.
One other thing: when I finished the book, the sense of beauty and grace was so strong that I actually shed a tear. This book doesn’t just show you how to do archaeology. It shows you why it matters.
Well, after waiting for more than a year I’ve finally seen it…. and have to agree with the reviewer on Roger Ebert.com, Peter Sobczynski. It’s a dud.
If you want to know why people have any interest in Donald Crowhurst, even more than 50 years later, then watch the documentary Deep Water. It’s riveting.
At the book’s end, we have confirmation that Mr Epstein and those in his circle, whom he says he canvassed, do not find much charm in most famous people of today or recent times. But I kept raising names in my own mind: what about the late Freddie Mercury? The late John Candy? How about the late John Inman, who charmed millions in America and around the world as Mr Humphries on the long-running English TV show, Are You Being Served? What, precisely, is uncharming about the current Queen of England?Read More
Have just finished the Simon Callow book on possibly the most obnoxious composer ever to have lived. Let me first say that Callow is a delight: full of humour and a precise scholarship that is almost belied by his breezily economical style of writing: this man is many-gifted, and he certainly writes brilliantly about Wagner (I also greatly enjoyed his much earlier work, Being An Actor). Callow is just a fabulous person. No wonder he has to beat them -- men and women alike -- off with a stick.
I laughed a few times during my reading, but the funniest lines are these:
A few months later, Cosima [daughter of Franz Liszt] and Wagner married. She was thirty-three, he was fifty-nine. As he had said five years earlier: there was no question about it, she belonged to him. They made an odd couple to look at: she was Amazonianly tall, with severe, beaky features; he was uncommonly short, with a somewhat simian lope. But it was a perfect match. They were of one mind: his.
As a matter of fact, I think this description is sparing of Cosima: it would be hard to find in the whole of history a more manly-looking woman, and indeed she could have cross-dressed whenever she liked, young or old, and fooled everybody.
There are quibbles, of course. Let's take Nietzsche. Callow echoes the writer Bryan Magee in claiming that one can write about Wagner without mentioning Nietzsche but the reverse is not the case: I disagree. I would say that, au contraire, each man is famously present in the other's biography, and Nietzsche is always discussed in Wagner's life story, even if Wagner didn't write works with the philosopher's name in the title (as N. wrote works about W.). This book is case in point: Nietzsche features prominently. I also dispute the idea that Nietzsche's cause of dementia (and ultimately, death) was syphilis: and I am not alone in that, even if that has been 'consensus' opinion for decades in some circles. The fact is that some people can't imagine a chaste life. As one that lives it myself, and has done so for the vast bulk of my adulthood, I certainly can imagine it. Nietzsche was as likely to contract syphilis in his lifetime as I was to contract AIDS in mine: enough said.*
Callow has written a wonderful book. Anyone, even without much musical knowledge, can enjoy and learn from it. But I wonder if the author is being wholly honest in saying at the start that he is not a musician. It may be so. But someone as attuned to all the arts as he may well sing his own songs in the shower.
NB: The 2018 paperback edition goes by another subtitle: 'The Story Of The Most Provocative Composer Who Ever Lived'.
*This was my opinion upon finishing the book. Then, after a casual Internet search, I found this interesting article.
I've just viewed the movie, Everest (2015). Normally I would give a more or less detailed commentary. But all I can say is: Wow. This has a grip and emotional wallop that is strong without ever being vulgar, wrenching without ever being manipulative or false. The reason that the climbers give for their drive is not convincing to anyone but their own group: but that's the way of many human drives, and the need to venture up heights is just one expression of our unwillingness, as a species, to stay shackled to the known if uncomfy cave. Yes, that sometimes irrational drive has often cost us dearly, but it's also part of the daring that gave us civilization. The movie anyway is a tour de force.
Dear Marcus Berkmann:
I like your style and I have enjoyed other books by you -- one about the history of the quiz in Britain, and especially the one about middle age, which I have reviewed -- but I do wonder whether you are familiar with Paul Cantor's book about intelligent 1960s television (if not, you should be). And I wonder also about why you seem convinced that Leonard Nimoy was Canadian, notwithstanding their five-dollar bill doodle indulgence. Everything I can find online states most firmly that Nimoy was born in America, to non-Canadian parents. Most perplexing.
I've just finished reading the new John Ridland translation of Sir Gawain And The Green Knight, and it's a triumph. An often difficult yet charming and morally serious poem, it is written in a Middle English midlands dialect that is even more inaccessible for the modern speaker than is Chaucer's dialect. Not only that, the squat scribal hand is very difficult to make out: I imagine that frequent breaks must be required, even for experienced philological eyes! But back to John Ridland's translation: what's good about it?
In the first place, Ridland sees himself in this project as a translator -- and by definition he is thereby tasked with rendering accurately the poem that the late-14th-century (1370s? 1380s?) poet wrought. Just because we do not know the poet's name, it is not on that account a vehicle for the poetry version of a 'starchitect' (yes, Mr Armitage: I'm looking at you). In the second place, he strikes exactly the right balance in diction (word choice) such that the poem seems neither stilted and artificially quaint nor off-puttingly adolescent and aggressively unacademic. It is a mistake to suppose that readers cannot be taken into an enchantment that is not of their own time -- and an even worse mistake to suppose that readers don't even want that. The promise of history and of literature from the past is precisely that it shows us what is timeless and what is also, often gloriously, profoundly rooted in a time and place, simultaneously. The time-bound and the timeless: that is what the sensitive reader of any poem can be expected to want. And John Ridland, most evidently, understands that.
I loved this concise and cheerful Christmas-detective book -- covering everything from why Christmas has long featured certain types of food to the songs we sing and the fairytales we believe in (not least about Santa Claus). Next year it will make a wonderful Christmas gift -- and I say this as one that is shy about buying others books these days. We all like what we like, but my goodness you'd have to be some sort of Grinch not to get some pleasure from this!
The ending in particular took me by surprise.
In the Epilogue we are told:
An annual feast will always have something missing: the empty chair at the Christmas table where somebody used to sit, who is now missing. And one day, I suppose, I shall be missing too; and you, dear reader, will be missing; and everyone we sit down with this year, old and young, will one day be missing. And the feast will continue.
That is how it always has been and must be. Things disappear, like pieces being slowly removed from a jigsaw puzzle. For children, Christmas is everything they might be given; for an adult Christmas is everything we have lost. This is a truth that was as clear to Charles Dickens as it was to George Michael.
George Michael! The one that wrote 'Last Christmas', the biggest-selling pop song that never became Number 1 on the charts, I think I read in the news report -- and the one that died in the middle of Christmas Day. The uncanny mention gave me a start.
There are three things, according to this book, that will make a man (or 'man', if you're female) of you: 1) Confront what you fear *or don't want to see*. (Yep: I know all about that -- especially the part in the asterisk, about which more in a moment.) 2) Reject comfortable self-preservation in favour of taking reckless risks, even if there is no beneficiary other than your pride or relief in having dodged a bullet. 3) Manliness is the strength to be found, in addition to items 1) and 2), in belonging to a group that shares a code.
It's hard to know where to begin in critiquing this. On the one hand, the 'code' stuff is obvious and important -- but it's not sufficient. The code -- many examples of which are given at the end of the book in an appendix -- is all-important. ISIS members have a code, and it's evil. What you fight for is more important than your 'manliness' in fighting for it, since it's better to be a less-than-brave man on the side of justice than to be a very courageous man on the side of INjustice -- something the author acknowledges early on but then leaves aside. The way of mediating among codes -- which code to choose -- requires philosophical and political thought and judgement, which is well outside the scope of this book.
Then there is the vulgarity. The author uses the word 'gentleman' on occasion, but the nature and quality of a gentleman are almost entirely outside his interest and understanding. You won't find anything like Harvey Mansfield's discussion of what distinguishes manliness from gentlemanliness -- and how and where they overlap -- in this book. There is very little genuine reflection in it. So we might say that Miniter's idea of manliness is that the manly man doesn't inquire or reflect very much. He may think that the whole book is an inquiry and a reflection, but what I found instead is an affirmation: entirely a different thing. And what was affirmed was very often the Wisdom of the Manly Masses, the Self-Approval of the Manly Herd. But what comes across most strongly is not that they need to feel connected to real living (guess what?-- we all do) but rather that the only things that connect them are extreme, thrill-seeking, risk-for-its-own-sake experiences -- as if life, just by being life, isn't dangerous and tricky enough!
We are told by the author that real men are manly for the sake of something beyond themselves. Yet the centerpiece of the book -- the Pamplona bull runs -- doesn't bear this out. I am much more impressed by the military men that, with or without vulgarity, put their lives on the line for the higher good of free and decent self-government and peace in the world. I am much less impressed by the exemplars typically described in this book. Far from making manliness seem grand, Miniter succeeds in making it a brute, insensible, and rather pitiful need.
*What we don’t want to see*: how many of Miniter’s exemplars face up to THAT? How many have more than a willingness to do physical harm or have such harm done to themselves?
I really enjoyed this -- and I hope it's all right if I say that I think it especially accomplished, considering that the poet-author was very young at time of writing it (24, if my memory is correct). It's a coming-of-age story told largely in retrospect, but not entirely; it takes up a favourite theme of mine as a writer, which is the difference between perception and reality and the way that people feel they move back and forth between distorted and actually reliable views. They may, of course, be wrong, even at the supposed moment of clarity. I found the end of the book especially memorable, emotionally catching: and that's the sign of a writer that knows his business. After writing this (in 1947), Larkin dropped the novel as a medium that he thought others did better in; but I'm glad he bothered. Almost no life is too short for fitting this into it, in my opinion.
This very enjoyable book presents its information in short entries for the modern distracted and highly distractible reader. Let's face it, we are not the sort of people who, like the Germans once upon a time, positively pride themselves on reading long and difficult academic books. We are will o' the wisps, chasing after other shiny lights as they flash in the near and far distance.
I do have a few minor criticisms. Despite what looks like an extensive index, it isn’t extensive enough, while the internal cross-referencing ('see p. —') is occasionally overdone (in one case we are asked to refer to the page we’re actually looking at: it’s just an editorial slip: the page we are meant to see is nowhere in the vicinity, as the index confirms). At times, despite the breezy tour-guide treatment, I felt that more precision was warranted. For instance, in the entry entitled 'An Actor's Lot', we're told that 'Playwrights were allowed only three actors (all males)...'. The obvious question is Why? (and By Whom?), but no reason is given or suggested. For another example, the Dardanelles are mentioned several times, but never once does Dr Jones take the opportunity to tell us that the straits used to be called the Hellespont (‘Greek sea’, in essence) from one mass of water (the Aegean) to another (the Black Sea). A strange omission. Given that many readers will have heard of the Hellespont, this can be somewhat confusing. ('Where does the Hellespont we heard about fit in?’). But unless you're an expert on all things ancient Greek, I'd go ahead and buy the book anyway.
written by Josphine Poole and illustrated by Angela Barrett
A beautiful version, both in the direct yet elegant telling and in the gorgeous, intelligent, and imaginative illustration. A couple of questions, though: why does the prince look like everyone else at the final coffin scenes, instead of looking distinguished? He begs Snow White to marry him, but we get no sense of their interaction, never mind why she might want to consent! Amid the coffin-bearers, when the glass lid is finally open, Snow White seems to be looking at no one in particular, and it's not hard to wonder why. (Many of the onlookers seem to be gazing at an unseen star well over her head.) Ask a friend to pick out the prince and see whether he/she can!
Meanwhile the writer is excellent at indicating *why* things happen, in this book, without aping the phrasings of other writers, and does an admirable job. I love the addition of birds (I assume they are additions) to watch over the glass coffin. I did wonder, however, why the evil stepmother brought a rose to the wedding to put on the bride's pillow. Do most wedding guests have access to the bride's pillow? I should have chosen the bride's bouquet as a more obvious and accessible place to place a poisoned rose. But these are quibbles.
The story is beautifully, classily told by Mr Eilenberg, even if he does use the occasional English idiom with which Americans may not be familiar (both he and the illustrator are English). The writing is pacy, emotive, and sincere in the best possible way. The language is not moon-june-spoon though it is certainly clear -- delivering on the publisher's promise that this is a tale for anybody (of the romantic bent. There is also a dry sense of humour, just enough, in the right places. Bravo, Mr Eilenberg!
As for the paintings: they are intelligent, and most are unspeakably gorgeous, and they illustrate the scenes and emotions with great imaginative flair and taste. The artist has a sensitive eye for beauty and pathos, which comes out in the delicate colouring, the scene-design, and the facial or body expressions of the characters. Angela Barrett is a rare and special artist. I shall be looking out for whatever she does that is still in print.
Why is this book not in print? It certainly lacks nothing. Perhaps it is too good.
It's tempting, when praising a fairytale book, to rave about the painting but ignore the writing. In this case, despite the exquisite oil paintings by the author, the writing must also be given its due. The story is beautifully, flowingly, evocatively told. Ruth Sanderson is one talented lady.
What can you say about the illustrations, having gawped at them happily, page after page? I did have doubts, at first, about the half-short half-long hairdo of the Lad in this story (his name is Michael): the look of a 70s boyband idol? But I got over that. The people in this book are represented as individuals, but not overly so: I actually prefer slightly idealized faces in fairytales (think, for instances, of the faces in Arthur Rackham's work). Everyone is given real expressiveness, genuinely expressing what we can imagine, as told by the text, are their thoughts. The only time that I thought this failed to happen was when the princess is telling the Lad her real thoughts, and she looks as if she's reaching out for a beloved dog or child rather than crying out to intervene. Also -- and this is a quibble but as an artist I think it's worth mentioning -- the dancing shoes are supposed to be worn out. We see these worn-out shoes, as motifs, on page after page. But the shoes are represented as having become unstitched from their soles: gaping open at the toe and beyond. Now, I know that this is fantasy, so anything can happen. But surely the important sign of a worn-out shoe is that the heels are worn (and the toes are scuffed). Hence the term for a poor person -- 'down at heel'. Worn heels. (My husband doesn't agree with me, by the way. He thinks that in this fantasy world, the shoes fall apart structurally even if they don't degrade mechanically. He may be right, but I'm not convinced.) Otherwise, Ms Sanderson doesn't miss a trick.
Fascinating and unexpected; wholly original research; entirely free of fantasy but sympathetic to the human capacity for creating it. Nice clear prose, without padding. (This edition has a new preface.) I give it five stars because, apart from any other consideration, there is no book I know of that is even remotely like this. It is path-breaking and stands by itself.
Barber's book is a rational investigation into the claims made by Eastern European folklore -- its witnesses and spectators -- who often observed the processes of decay but did not understand what they were seeing and therefore came up with what seemed like plausible explanations for them. Barber expertly separates fact from folklore but also shows how they intertwine, in ways that uneducated locals were unaware of. Their account of the often bizarre mysteries of death makes sense when you understand, as Barber shows us, that they believed Nature to have will and personal agency. We moderns are still free to examine their accounts for truthful clues about the reality of nature contained within them.
I always enjoy learning new words, and this book taught me 'apotropaic', which means 'methods of turning evil away' -- see chapters 7 & 8. Many apotropaics were applied to decomposing bodies not properly settled in their graves, since the pre-scientific peoples were not familiar with the facts of decomposition (but only with rigor mortis, which they expected to last).
I can't say enough good things about this book, which I've read three times and which is a desert-island treasure for me, along with only a handful of others. It is massively moving -- the poetry written by Crowhurst, found in his trimaran's logbook, is not only affecting (which is more important in poetry (like singing) than any kind of technical perfection), but is also especially important in revealing yet another facet of this riveting and beautifully told real-life drama. Crowhurst's moral dilemma is the dilemma of an essentially fine man, but a man that is not particularly privileged and finds himself hard up against certain realities: I like him. Very much. And I love the details, the by-now period feel of the time and of the book, and the 'players' that reacted to him and tried, with varying success, to bolster him up.
Once met, never forgotten.... He was not your ordinary sort of man, and this is not an ordinary sort of book.
Note about the co-authors: Ron Hall was directly involved in the Golden Globe single-handed sailboat circumnavigation race that led to Crowhurst's trouble; Nicholas Tomalin was a journalist, killed by a missile while covering the Yom Kippur War in 1973. His widow, Claire Tomalin, is also a writer, and has written a biography of Jane Austen.
The Golden Globe sailing race of 1968-69 is a fascinating event full of interesting characters and human drama, both on shore and at sea. If this is your first book about the subject, you are bound to love it: pacy, informative about the sea and sailing without assuming knowledge or going too much into detail, and with a real human sympathy for the people involved.
If you know about the race and have read A Voyage For Madmen by Peter Nichols or The Strange Last Voyage of Donald Crowhurst (by Tomalin and Hall), you may wonder what more this book can offer. Well, it's this:
1. Eakin interviews all those that are still alive and willing to talk, about their involvement in the race and its various catastrophes. We hear, for example, from Captain Craig Rich, who investigated Crowhurst's sailing positions during and after the race. People that were just names before now come forward as interesting people in their own right. Eakin has rightly judged, I think, that those already acquainted with the race story, from the Crowhurst angle or from the nine sailors angle, find their interest rippling out to the non-sailors, publicists, journalists, investors, wives and family that all played their own parts in the saga. He indulges that interest by widening the cast of 'speaking' characters in this account.
2. Eakin brings the story up to date, by sharing the thoughts and attitudes of the surviving key players, forty years on. Some have already died (e.g. Crowhurst's publicist, Rodney Hallworth), but others are old men and women whose stories and final thoughts on the drama were captured by Eakin before it was too late. In a way, the Globe race was too large an event in the lives of the competitors -- and for onlookers -- to be just about 'then'. It's a story that people have reflected on, argued about, and researched ever since. It's a story of 1968 that has a 'now', too.
3. Because there is original research, and a big-picture approach to the whole event -- people-wise, technology-wise, time-wise, and significance-wise -- one learns facts that are not presented in other accounts, and one gains a more rounded view.
The writing is very good: clear, direct, conversational, uncluttered and unpadded. Eakin effortlessly weaves the chronologies of nine different sailors: the book is tautly structured and you never wonder why he is talking about this or that now, instead of something else.
Whether you're new to the Golden Globe story or you're a completist that can't get enough, you'll find this book well worth your time.
Highly engaging and memorable tale of love and politics in the countryside, by one of the language's masters. The characters are chewily, juicily real and distinctive -- even the least interesting character of Mary, who is described in a number of ways as being merely 'brown', and virtuous to go with it. The higher-flying, naughtier Arabella is the real delight of the book, and the scene in which Lord Rufford must preserve the decencies with regard to her is possibly my favourite one in the whole story (not a spoiler, as you can't possibly know what that means unless you've already read it). Watch out for word play: the names, invented or otherwise, aren't accidental.
This book is the A - Z, the Hope to Despair to Beyond Caring of men's middle age, or really, human middle age in the Anglosphere. Someone apparently doesn't understand this: his review on Amazon UK complains, without any hint of a joke, that there's not enough in it about sheds.
The book is seething and teeming with insights, wittily or even hilariously expressed and also clearly representing original thought about the subject matter. There is nothing of the borrowed or much-trodden in the book. Its subject is both researched and known intimately, inside out -- for the author was 50 while writing it: what might be called young middle age. But then again, as he explains, nobody can really agree on which age range qualifies as 'middle'.
There are infelicities, some of which bothered me more than they bother others, I expect. There was too much of the S word and the F word, for one thing. (Does anybody actually say or think 'you bag of f----?' I'm glad to say I've never heard the expression.) His rendering (p. 118) of a 'well-established American campus joke' substitutes 'mother------' at the punchline, which not only doesn't square with the vintage of the joke, but more to the point, puts a sour lemon in your mouth at the precise moment when you should have laughed. I know this because a very eminent American academic told me his version of the joke many years ago. His version wasn't prissy: the last word was 'asshole' (though 'jerk' would have done the job). The 'senior' student of Berkmann's version was a professor in my professor's, and the joke's professor added 'young man' at the end of his comments. Princeton wasn't mentioned. The joke I know comes across as less crass and belligerent. It's how you tell 'em.
It is also curious that none of Berkmann's editors or proofreaders was aware of the difference between 'margherita', which is a style of pizza, and 'margarita', which is a cocktail. So we have this sentence:
When we complete our long years of toil, we shall gain entry to a quiet, prosperous, pastel world of golfing holidays and Caribbean cruises, resting our weary limbs on padded deckchairs while sexually ambiguous serving staff mix our margheritas and massage our aching feet. (p. 53)
The idea of torture as a condign punishment, however unreal the context, appears twice in the book, which to my mind is two times too many. And no, my second thought on seeing rioters on TV is not that it 'looks as though it might be fun' (p. 21). And no, reading the obituary of someone younger than I whose life has been cut short gives me no joy whatsoever (p. 242). Witness the case of Charlotte Furness-Smith, a serving Navy veteran and prep-school math teacher (and a beautiful girl) who drowned recently in a Dorset sea cave. I've thought about it several times with a sense of the waste and the loss, not only to herself but to all that knew or could have known her. But that's reality. Sometimes Berkmann gets carried away with the need to keep a jolly detachment from it.
Still, the man can write, and what's more he gets his teeth right in, without worrying about whether he might be going too far into truth about life, aging, and death for today's therapeutic Oprahmatic sensibilities.
The book is packed with goodies, nooks, corners, angles, and spider's webs: all the sorts of things you'd expect to find in a man's shed, in fact. No review, without regurgitating the whole book, could do its scope and curiosity about everything full justice. Some of it is rather profound. Much of it is quirky. It is hardly ever anything less than fascinating. Berkmann talks about the difference between ambition in youth, which is understandable and laudable, if perhaps in some way doomed, and the ambition of middle age, at which point one is 'driven'. But perhaps it is right to be driven still in middle age, since another word for that is 'desiring'. And what is life but desiring? Much later, he writes about parents and our tendency to throw their baggage out, and then to reclaim bits of this and that as we get older. My own feeling about my parents is ambivalent. In some ways I appreciate the freedom they gave me, the lack of nagging; on the other hand, looking back from mature adulthood, I wish they'd pushed me. Not just harder, but at all. We had very little money, but we did have a piano in the house. Why did no one ever sit me down as a small child at the piano? (I have since discovered, in adulthood, a music-writing capability). But I know the answer. They were too busy trying to stay afloat in their own lives.
At one point the author asks, 'Does a gentleman trim his pubic hair?' (p. 38). My spontaneous answer was 'Yes, if his lady does and he wants to match her, stylistically'. The unexpectedness of the book is one of its charms.
-- November 2013