Current read: Hackney, That Rose-Red Empire
Where / how acquired: Amazon
Vibe: Easterly
Whisked through Owen Sheers' Resistance over the past few days: perfectly enjoyably, a little light for my taste with a few too many hints of aga-saga but pleasantly enjoyable none the less. It's a 'what-if' historical fiction - D-Day has gone wrong and the Germans successfully invade the UK. A group of women in the hills bordering England and Wales wake to find their husbands gone (to join the Auxiliary Units fighting the guerilla war against the occupying Nazis, but that's about as much as you know about them), and are befriended by some nice thoughtful and considerate Germans and all sorts of drama ensues. I'd love to read a history, in fact, of the British resistance which never was - there's a historical footnote at the end of Sheers' book which is tantalising - will have to search that out...
And now for something completely different. Iain Sinclair, if you don't know, is the English WG Sebald and a marmite writer if ever there was one. His meandering, poetry/prose/history/geography/travel writing style needs some getting used to, but it does exert a sort of hyponotical pull once you're successfully entranced. Like many others, the first book of his I read was Lights Out for the Territory - top of the reading list for the literate east Londoner - and while I've infrequently returned to that book I haven't read anything else in the Sinclair canon in it's entirety. London Orbital in particular I must read...
Anyway, his latest is a door-stopping c.600 pages of Hackney history and musings and I await the local-history trance with glee. There's talk of Baader-Meinhof terrorists on the run, Lenin, Stalin (who I do know lived in Whitechapel; I didn't know of the Hackney connection) Orson Welles, Conrad and more, with much hand-wringing on the shopping mall-ification that the Olympics is bringing to this still partly untamed corner of our city. If it wasn't such a huge bastard of a hardback book I'd go and sit in some Clapton cafe or under some suitably grimy canal bridge to read it and get the full experience; as it is I'd have to be something enjoyed at home only. So what paperback novella or slim history should I read alongside it? Hmmm.
Sunday 8 February 2009
Monday 26 January 2009
Current read: The Beautiful Machine
Where / how acquired: See below - very thoughtful Xmas present from...myself
Vibe: Velo-riffic
Finished the Roger Deakin last week, which forced me to muse upon posthumous works and what responsibilities an author's heir or executor has to publish, or to avoid publication. I mentioned that I feared Penguin, in publishing these notes of Deakins', might have done to him what they did to Sebald, and sullied his reputation by posthumously publishing bits and pieces that really weren't meant to be published, at least not just like that.
The Guardian definitely took the best bits of Notes from Walnut Tree Farm for their extract; clearly some of the notes in Deakins' notebooks were just that - notes, marginalia, destinded to germinate and sprout forth fuller works perhaps but not to be to let out of the greenhouse just yet. Having said that, it was a lovely read: by turns melancholic, learned, modest and poetic. Maybe there should just be some breathing space once an author has died before their unpublished stuff is allowed out. I must read Waterlog again...actually, I must get Waterlog back from whom I lent it...
So now onto, as it says (in quote marks but unattributed, oddly), on the cover, a zen-like paean to the beauty of cycling, Graame Fife's The Beautiful Machine. I really didn't like it when it kicked off - I thought it was sloppy and rather clumsy, like a retired sportsman who'd started writing his memoirs while reading Will Self, and thus started to randomly insert unnecessary verbosity. But, like a cyclist 'getting his legs' it picks up soon enough and lives up to that strapline on the front. It's basically Fife's autobiography, his tales from the handlebars of life, and he does make riding a bike seem (even more) magical, fundamental, earthy, essential and as if it really the vehicle on which true existential peace, happiness and serenity will be found...which it is of course. I'm really enjoying it and will probably finish it soon. And it's likely to prove a pricey read - it makes me even more determined to get down to Condor on Grays Inn Road and place my order for my £1500 2009 Squadra so that's it's built in time for spring...I'll ask for a Fife-related discount, they must get that a lot...
Where / how acquired: See below - very thoughtful Xmas present from...myself
Vibe: Velo-riffic
Finished the Roger Deakin last week, which forced me to muse upon posthumous works and what responsibilities an author's heir or executor has to publish, or to avoid publication. I mentioned that I feared Penguin, in publishing these notes of Deakins', might have done to him what they did to Sebald, and sullied his reputation by posthumously publishing bits and pieces that really weren't meant to be published, at least not just like that.
The Guardian definitely took the best bits of Notes from Walnut Tree Farm for their extract; clearly some of the notes in Deakins' notebooks were just that - notes, marginalia, destinded to germinate and sprout forth fuller works perhaps but not to be to let out of the greenhouse just yet. Having said that, it was a lovely read: by turns melancholic, learned, modest and poetic. Maybe there should just be some breathing space once an author has died before their unpublished stuff is allowed out. I must read Waterlog again...actually, I must get Waterlog back from whom I lent it...
So now onto, as it says (in quote marks but unattributed, oddly), on the cover, a zen-like paean to the beauty of cycling, Graame Fife's The Beautiful Machine. I really didn't like it when it kicked off - I thought it was sloppy and rather clumsy, like a retired sportsman who'd started writing his memoirs while reading Will Self, and thus started to randomly insert unnecessary verbosity. But, like a cyclist 'getting his legs' it picks up soon enough and lives up to that strapline on the front. It's basically Fife's autobiography, his tales from the handlebars of life, and he does make riding a bike seem (even more) magical, fundamental, earthy, essential and as if it really the vehicle on which true existential peace, happiness and serenity will be found...which it is of course. I'm really enjoying it and will probably finish it soon. And it's likely to prove a pricey read - it makes me even more determined to get down to Condor on Grays Inn Road and place my order for my £1500 2009 Squadra so that's it's built in time for spring...I'll ask for a Fife-related discount, they must get that a lot...
Tuesday 6 January 2009
Books for Christmas 2008
A pretty decent haul, albeit one supplemented by presents to me from...me:
Roger Deakin's Notes from Walnut Tree Farm
Predictable perhaps, given my adoration of Deakin's previous books, but no less delightful because of that. I'd read a pretty extensive taster in the Guardian and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was completely lovely, just as good as previous work. I feared, it being posthumous, that Penguin might have done to Deakin what they did to Sebald and well, if not ruin, then tarnish his reputation after his death by publishing half-finished work that wasn't up to the usual standard.
Fredrick Spotts' The Shameful Peace: How French Artists and Intellectuals Survived the Nazi Occupation
Will no doubt be a contender for most academic book read this year (it's published by Yale UP) but hopefully will be a good read too - a history what the Parisian intellectuals did under the Nazi occupation (and it wasn't all free love and the Resistance, apparently).
Graeme Fife's The Beautiful Machine: A Life in Cycling, from Tour De France to Cinder Hill
Book on bikes innit. One from me.
Stefan Zweig's Chess Story (New York Review Books Classics)
This is one recommendation from librarything to do with German literature - I was checking out what fans of Sebald liked...
And finally I've been reading a proof of Everything Ravaged Everything Burned
by Wells Tower. I've a real love/hate thing with short stories. I'm a huge fan of Jorge Luis Borges and there's really no one better than he at this particular art, and I've had periods reading lots of short stories - Jay McInerney is another author who does them well who springs to mind. But Wells Tower does them differently...I'll review here properly soon.
Roger Deakin's Notes from Walnut Tree Farm
Predictable perhaps, given my adoration of Deakin's previous books, but no less delightful because of that. I'd read a pretty extensive taster in the Guardian and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was completely lovely, just as good as previous work. I feared, it being posthumous, that Penguin might have done to Deakin what they did to Sebald and well, if not ruin, then tarnish his reputation after his death by publishing half-finished work that wasn't up to the usual standard.
Fredrick Spotts' The Shameful Peace: How French Artists and Intellectuals Survived the Nazi Occupation
Will no doubt be a contender for most academic book read this year (it's published by Yale UP) but hopefully will be a good read too - a history what the Parisian intellectuals did under the Nazi occupation (and it wasn't all free love and the Resistance, apparently).
Graeme Fife's The Beautiful Machine: A Life in Cycling, from Tour De France to Cinder Hill
Book on bikes innit. One from me.
Stefan Zweig's Chess Story (New York Review Books Classics)
This is one recommendation from librarything to do with German literature - I was checking out what fans of Sebald liked...
And finally I've been reading a proof of Everything Ravaged Everything Burned
by Wells Tower. I've a real love/hate thing with short stories. I'm a huge fan of Jorge Luis Borges and there's really no one better than he at this particular art, and I've had periods reading lots of short stories - Jay McInerney is another author who does them well who springs to mind. But Wells Tower does them differently...I'll review here properly soon.
Sunday 4 January 2009
Current read: The Smoking Diaries by Simon Gray
Where / how acquired: From Book & Comic Exchange, Pembridge Road, Notting Hill
Vibe: A darkly comic stream of consciousness from the now late playwright
I started reading this a couple of weeks before Xmas but really got stuck into it as soon as I had some free time in the holidays. It's a book impossible to read out of its context, namely, that the author is now dead, killed by the habit that makes up his title. But stranger still that the book opens with a dinner between Simon Gray and Harold Pinter, where the latter reveals that he has cancer - the cancer that finaly killed him on Xmas eve, I think it was. Pinter plays more than a bit part in The Smoking Diaries so these are mediations from beyond the grave in more ways than one.
It was billed as laugh-a-minute and really isn't, which isn't to say I back track from the darkly comic description above. Gray meanders around all sorts of subjects, mostly quite personal ones, and his honesty, and indeed the bravery of the editor at Granta to (at least seemingly) print the author's diaries simply as he writes them, even with his ridiculously long sentences, is what's really touching. In many ways his is a tale of failure, despite his obvious outward successes - towards the end he catalogues a series of financial cock-ups which had left him (comparatively) penniless - which makes him frankly a much more interesting diarist than someone whom led a life of unmittigated victory. The only dilemma though is - does that mean I've just read and enjoyed a misery memoir??
Where / how acquired: From Book & Comic Exchange, Pembridge Road, Notting Hill
Vibe: A darkly comic stream of consciousness from the now late playwright
I started reading this a couple of weeks before Xmas but really got stuck into it as soon as I had some free time in the holidays. It's a book impossible to read out of its context, namely, that the author is now dead, killed by the habit that makes up his title. But stranger still that the book opens with a dinner between Simon Gray and Harold Pinter, where the latter reveals that he has cancer - the cancer that finaly killed him on Xmas eve, I think it was. Pinter plays more than a bit part in The Smoking Diaries so these are mediations from beyond the grave in more ways than one.
It was billed as laugh-a-minute and really isn't, which isn't to say I back track from the darkly comic description above. Gray meanders around all sorts of subjects, mostly quite personal ones, and his honesty, and indeed the bravery of the editor at Granta to (at least seemingly) print the author's diaries simply as he writes them, even with his ridiculously long sentences, is what's really touching. In many ways his is a tale of failure, despite his obvious outward successes - towards the end he catalogues a series of financial cock-ups which had left him (comparatively) penniless - which makes him frankly a much more interesting diarist than someone whom led a life of unmittigated victory. The only dilemma though is - does that mean I've just read and enjoyed a misery memoir??
Wednesday 26 November 2008
Book recently acquired
What: Simon Gray's The Smoking Diaries
Where: Kick-ass second-hand bookshop just round the corner fron Notting Hill Station
Expected vibe: blacky humourous existential angst
We'll see...
Where: Kick-ass second-hand bookshop just round the corner fron Notting Hill Station
Expected vibe: blacky humourous existential angst
We'll see...
Sunday 23 November 2008
Some top reads of 2008
Estates by Lynsey Hanley (see photo)
Surprising, touching personal history of social housing in Britain. Manages to be polemic and sweet at the same time.
Fire and Steam: How the Railways Transformed Britain by Christain Wolmar
Brilliant, page-turning history of the railways. Just don’t tell anyone that it was what I was reading most at Glastonbury this year.
Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere by Jan Morris
Have wanted to read this for ages. Just the sort of meandering, part-travel, part-history, part-memoir that I love and my wife thinks is just silly. It just makes me pine for holidays…
The Discovery of France by Graham Robb
When I heard that the author researched much of his epic, monumental but very human history of France en velo, is was there in a flash. I read it in France, of course.
Utopian Dreams by Tobias Jones
Jones’ The Dark Heart of Italy is one of my very favourite books of the last few years so I was always ken to read this. It has its moments but it’s just not Jones’ thing, really, the soul-searching travel in the mind kind of thing. Was thought-provoking, though and I’m in full argreement with his dislike of excessive material comforts. Where did I put my smartphone?
Corvus: A Life with Birds by Esther Woolfson
Beguiling, utterly bewitching beautiful hymn to birds. Deserves a fuller mention on this blog, which it'll get soon.
My Revolutions by Hari Kunzru
Fiction, whaa? Yup, but of the agitprop, political sort. The other (and much less embarrassing and fitting) book that I read at Glastonbury. Fight the power.
Surprising, touching personal history of social housing in Britain. Manages to be polemic and sweet at the same time.
Fire and Steam: How the Railways Transformed Britain by Christain Wolmar
Brilliant, page-turning history of the railways. Just don’t tell anyone that it was what I was reading most at Glastonbury this year.
Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere by Jan Morris
Have wanted to read this for ages. Just the sort of meandering, part-travel, part-history, part-memoir that I love and my wife thinks is just silly. It just makes me pine for holidays…
The Discovery of France by Graham Robb
When I heard that the author researched much of his epic, monumental but very human history of France en velo, is was there in a flash. I read it in France, of course.
Utopian Dreams by Tobias Jones
Jones’ The Dark Heart of Italy is one of my very favourite books of the last few years so I was always ken to read this. It has its moments but it’s just not Jones’ thing, really, the soul-searching travel in the mind kind of thing. Was thought-provoking, though and I’m in full argreement with his dislike of excessive material comforts. Where did I put my smartphone?
Corvus: A Life with Birds by Esther Woolfson
Beguiling, utterly bewitching beautiful hymn to birds. Deserves a fuller mention on this blog, which it'll get soon.
My Revolutions by Hari Kunzru
Fiction, whaa? Yup, but of the agitprop, political sort. The other (and much less embarrassing and fitting) book that I read at Glastonbury. Fight the power.
Current read: Most Secret War by R.V. Jones
Where / how acquired: Second hand, after mention on uber-nerd site www.subbrit.org.uk
Vibe: Bit snobby and self-congratulatory but nonetheless gripping
My current read is this by ex-WW2 British scientific intelligence officer R.V. Jones – a detailed account of his work during the second world war to defeat the dastardly hun through quick wits, schoolboy gumption and the firm, steadying hand of science. It is actually very good, both a fascinating insight and a pacey narrative. It’s just that you firstly have to get over the Daily Mail-esque ‘if people in this country now worked like we did in the war we wouldn’t be in this mess’ (the book was published in 1979) and the general sense that the English-German bit of WW2 was a conker fight with slightly higher odds. The excellent Behind Closed Doors docu on BBC 2 at the moment, focusing so far at least on Stalin, reminds me that the vast majority of the war was won not by English grit and stiff upper lips but by the blood of many, many millions of Russians in particular. They starved and ate cats at Stalingrad, but held out, and then raped and pillaged their way back to Berlin, winning the most Pyrrhic of all victories. There’s very little that’s glamorous or worth celebrating about that – you don’t see a Russian Band of Brothers, do you?
As mentioned, the edition of this book that I’m reading was published in 1979. One of two things, mostly of tone, seem a bit dated but really not much. Why then is their such an industry in new books about the second world war – surely it’s all been said before? But it’s a massively popular and successful area of publishing at the moment. I was at a meeting recently where a new book by Giles Foden, author of the book-then-film The Last King of Scotland, was mentioned – and it’s set around Dunkirk (or D-Day, one of the two). A very audible gasp of ‘christ, that’s an immediate massive seller’ went up, and I’m sure it’s true. Is it that we’re at the point when the grandchildren of the people who fought in the war (like me) are at the sort of age to be interested in this history? Is it that the supposed black-and-white of the second world war makes such a contrast to the innumerable shades of grey of the many conflicts in the world today? Or is it just that WW2 is such a mine for good stories – because it really is. Whatever, I’m in no position to criticise – I’ll be at Andrew Roberts’ Masters and Commanders, Richard Evans’ The Third Reich at War, Nichols Rankin’s Churchill’s Wizards at the rest as soon as they’re in paperback… Just as soon as I’ve finished Most Secret War, and devoured today’s Sunday Telegraph…
Where / how acquired: Second hand, after mention on uber-nerd site www.subbrit.org.uk
Vibe: Bit snobby and self-congratulatory but nonetheless gripping
My current read is this by ex-WW2 British scientific intelligence officer R.V. Jones – a detailed account of his work during the second world war to defeat the dastardly hun through quick wits, schoolboy gumption and the firm, steadying hand of science. It is actually very good, both a fascinating insight and a pacey narrative. It’s just that you firstly have to get over the Daily Mail-esque ‘if people in this country now worked like we did in the war we wouldn’t be in this mess’ (the book was published in 1979) and the general sense that the English-German bit of WW2 was a conker fight with slightly higher odds. The excellent Behind Closed Doors docu on BBC 2 at the moment, focusing so far at least on Stalin, reminds me that the vast majority of the war was won not by English grit and stiff upper lips but by the blood of many, many millions of Russians in particular. They starved and ate cats at Stalingrad, but held out, and then raped and pillaged their way back to Berlin, winning the most Pyrrhic of all victories. There’s very little that’s glamorous or worth celebrating about that – you don’t see a Russian Band of Brothers, do you?
As mentioned, the edition of this book that I’m reading was published in 1979. One of two things, mostly of tone, seem a bit dated but really not much. Why then is their such an industry in new books about the second world war – surely it’s all been said before? But it’s a massively popular and successful area of publishing at the moment. I was at a meeting recently where a new book by Giles Foden, author of the book-then-film The Last King of Scotland, was mentioned – and it’s set around Dunkirk (or D-Day, one of the two). A very audible gasp of ‘christ, that’s an immediate massive seller’ went up, and I’m sure it’s true. Is it that we’re at the point when the grandchildren of the people who fought in the war (like me) are at the sort of age to be interested in this history? Is it that the supposed black-and-white of the second world war makes such a contrast to the innumerable shades of grey of the many conflicts in the world today? Or is it just that WW2 is such a mine for good stories – because it really is. Whatever, I’m in no position to criticise – I’ll be at Andrew Roberts’ Masters and Commanders, Richard Evans’ The Third Reich at War, Nichols Rankin’s Churchill’s Wizards at the rest as soon as they’re in paperback… Just as soon as I’ve finished Most Secret War, and devoured today’s Sunday Telegraph…
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