Book review

Adventures in Bookland: Northumberland by Gemma Hall

21 September 2016
Edoardo
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Categories: Book review

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This is the second Bradt Slow Travel guide we’ve used, after their guide to the North York Moors by Mike Bagshaw. In common with the first, it provides a wealth of detail, digging deep down below the guide book surface and, in the process, revealing an author who really does know the area well. As I know Northumberland pretty well myself (four books, many magazine articles and frequent trips), I was looking for something detailed to provide some new perspectives on the county. Hall’s book does do this, particularly with respect to wildlife and walking – her love for both shines through – but, with a three year old whose legs stop working after walking for five minutes, we unfortunately weren’t able to follow the suggested walks on this visit.

I would rate the North York Moors guide as slightly better, but I think that’s largely because the author’s interests mapped more closely onto my own. But for any visitor to Northumberland, this is now the stand-out guide to the area.

Adventures in Bookland: Empires of the Sea by Roger Crowley

18 September 2016
Edoardo
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Categories: Book review, History

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The world was strange five hundred years ago. The unity of medieval Christendom had ruptured, breaking apart a thousand years of cultural understanding (even if that had not translated into any lasting peace between the warring European states). Meanwhile, the old bulwark against the advance of the armies of Islam, the impregnable walls of Constantinople, had finally proved pregnable in 1453. Each new Ottoman Sultan had to prove his legitimacy through war and conquest – hence the inexorable drive towards a century and more of conflict.

The Ottomans were originally a nomadic people. Naval warfare was something new to them. But, in the 16th century, they learned fast. Land conquests had made the Sultan master of the Black Sea. Now, he sought to rule the White Sea too.

Standing in his way were the Venetians, the Genoese and the Spanish, under their Habsburg kings, Charles I and Philip II.

The struggle for the Mediterranean was one conducted through generations, with fathers and then sons and even grandsons engaged in the conflict. And it was a brutal conflict, its brutality exacerbated by the demands of the chief engine of this particular naval war: the galley. In the shallow, generally calm waters of the Mediterranean, these oared sailing ships, with their ability to ram and run fast under the pull of the oars, were the most potent vessels, but their potency was earned through human misery: the men pulling the oars. For most sides in the conflict, the chief source of oarsmen was slaves. Slave-taking expeditions became a constant menace, particularly to the southern European states. All sides took part in the trade, but the Ottoman armed forces were predicated upon slavery for their most feared troops, the Janissaries, were slaves, children taken from their, usually Christian, parents, converted to Islam and then raised as soldiers.

Crowley takes this fearsomely complex war and relates it well, breaking down the long struggle into a number of key battles while not neglecting the longer-term diplomatic and economic factors that also played into the war. But, in the end, it came down to four great battles, three island sieges and a concluding naval battle: the siege of Rhodes (1522), when the Ottomans succeeded in expelling the Knights of St John, the successors to the medieval Hospitallers, from the island; the siege of Malta (1565), when the knights held, just, to their new base; the siege of Famagusta (1571), in which the Ottomans took the last Venetian stronghold on Cyprus and, by their barbaric execution of the defenders, inflamed Venetian passion to such an extent that the Republic forwent trade for war and became one of the chief instigators of the Holy League that faced the Ottomans in the great naval battle of Lepanto (7 October 1571).

Four great battles in one long war. That the Sultan did not rule the White Sea as he did the Black was down to these men, men like Cervantes, who fought at Lepanto and counted it his most glorious deed, Don Juan of Austria, commander of the Holy League, who danced a galliard on the poop deck of his ship before battle began, Jean de Valette of the Knights, who fought at the siege of Rhodes and then commanded the Knights during their defence of Malta, and many others. Remarkable men for a remarkable conflict, and one that deserves to be better known. Hopefully, Crowley’s excellent book will serve to make that happen.

Adventures in Bookland: Postcards from the Front 1914-1919 by Kate J Cole

31 August 2016
Edoardo
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Categories: Book review

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Postcards were the Snapchat of their day: (almost) instant messages sent with accompanying picture to reassure the receiver of the good health of the sender. For soldiers serving in World War I on the Western Front, they provided quick communication with home; often scribbled on breaks from marching, postcards were the counterpoint to the considered letter. Cole shows the pictures chosen by soldiers serving, as well as reproducing the messages, thus serving to confirm the notion that the British are obsessed with the weather: seemingly every postcard includes a comment on whether it is wet or dry, hot or snowing, while generally eschewing any mention of the actual war. This highlights the stoicism and restraint of the men (and women) of the time: a nurse, serving in a field hospital taking casualties from the Somme, in her first postcard home after the start of the battle, writes about the weather (naturally), asks after her mother’s health and sends thanks for letters received. Not one word of the casualties filling the hospital. Of course, this may in part have been because all postcards were censored, but the overwhelming impression is of brave men and women seeking to protect their loved ones at home from the full reality of war.

The two best chapters follow a pair of nurse friends and two serving brothers through their wars, setting their postcards against the events which they faced. Although I began this review by saying postcards were the Snapchat of that time, it’s hard to believe we would respond with the same understated bravery if ever we were to face such trials.

The book concludes with three useful appendices on researching First World War postcards, including what can be gleaned from the censors’ mark and the army post mark.

(Review first appeared in issue 32 of History of War magazine.)

Adventures in Bookland: The Harrowing by James Aitcheson

31 August 2016
Edoardo
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Categories: Book review

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James Aitcheson made his name with his Sworn Sword trilogy of novels set in the years after the Conquest, which followed the fortunes of one of William’s knights. In this standalone novel, he puts his previous hero, Tancred, aside to look at the aftermath of defeat from the point of view of the English and, in doing so, makes a huge step up as a writer. As a scholar of the period, there’s never been any doubting the historical accuracy of Aitcheson’s work, but in the taught prose of The Harrowing, he proves himself completely as a writer.

Five refugees from the reiving Normans, who are laying waste the north to snuff out any possibility of future rebellions, come together, fleeing through a brutal winter towards hope of sanctuary. The story follows them through their flight, as well as telling the tale of what formed and made them all: fleeing noblewoman; servant; warrior; priest; and bard. In line with his historical training, there’s always been an anti-heroic theme to Aitcheson’s novels, but this goes further: in its bleak depiction of small-scale battles and large-scale despoiling it presents a far truer picture of the nature of medieval warfare than the action fantasies – the male equivalent of chick lit – that generally get published under the label of historical fiction. In fact, The Harrowing was so good that not even it being written in the present tense – one of this reviewer’s pet literary hates – served to diminish it. Highly recommended.

(Review first published in History of War magazine, issue 32.)

 

Adventures in Bookland: The Serpent Sword by Matthew Harffy

7 August 2016
Edoardo
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Categories: Book review, Writers

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Like two warriors, we circled each other: wary, watchful, waiting for the other to make the first move. Each of us thought ourselves kings of our realm, alone and unchallenged until, through whisper and word, news came of another claimant to the throne.

The throne was the king of the 7th century and we, writers, working in what we had each thought was a personal playground until we found the other: the interloper, the intruder. The rival.

At least, that’s how it was for me. I’d been writing Edwin: High King of Britain for a month or two, all the while congratulating myself on my wit in staking claim to this most transformative yet unrepresented era in history when I learned that one Matthew Harffy was busy writing his own novel, The Serpent Sword, set in the same period. What was worse, Edwin, my King Edwin, was in his book as well.

My first reaction was, naturally, to hope for his complete and utter failure. That this Matthew chap – what was it with the two ‘f’s, after all? – would prove just another wannabe, telling the world he was a writer before he’d actually written anything of any worth.

But then he went and got himself an agent. Not good. Not good at all – particularly when I didn’t have one. All right, I had a publisher – Lion Fiction – but it was surely only a matter of time before his agent got him a publisher and then he’d be the first to put his words into the 7th century and lay claim on Northumbria. Luckily, I was almost finished with Edwin and, what’s more, we got a commendation from Bernard Cornwell – yes, that Bernard Cornwell – to go on the cover. Round 1 to me, I thought.

But then The Serpent Sword came out. And while it didn’t have Bernard Cornwell extolling it, it had pretty well everyone else. Looked like this Matthew bloke could write. What was worse, he was being nice to me online – he even bought (and read!) Edwin. Now what was I going to do?

Read his book, of course.

But there we hit the hidden fear that gnaws at the heart of every writer. What if we’re really not any good? All the good reviews flow off our backs like water, but every 1-star sticks barbs into our souls and refuses to come out.

What if I read Matthew’s book and thought it was better than mine?

Then my publisher asked me to read another book set in 7th-century Northumbria, The Abbess of Whitby by Jill Dalladay. While there was some overlap with my work, the focus was clearly different: I could try this.

So I read it and, reading, found myself twisted sideways, like looking at a spoon through a glass of water: everything distorted. Reading about these people – people I had written in my own books – imagined differently was intensely, in fact unpleasantly, distorting. Having finished The Abbess of Whitby, I realised I could not go near another vision of 7th-century Northumbria until I had finished my own exploration of the time.

While Matthew and I had become steadily more acquainted online – chiefly through his unfailing generosity and support – I prevaricated and circled around the great big elephant in our room: the fact that he’d read my book and I hadn’t read his. Two more books were written – my Oswald: Return of the King, his The Cross and the Curse – and still I circled away, attempting to repay his generosity with promises to, someday, read Matthew’s work.

Then, the day came. I had finished Oswiu: King of Kings. I was finished in the 7th century. Now there was no more hiding. Now, I had to read his book and answer the question: is he better than me?

The answer: yes.

Yes, he is. He is better at doing what he is doing than I could ever be. But, reading The Serpent Sword, I realised that Matthew isn’t doing what I am doing: we are writing different worlds set in the same place and time, and exploring different aspects of storytelling and world creation.

Matthew writes of men and battles and blood and war better than pretty well anyone else around – his nearest comparison is, in fact, Bernard Cornwell’s Uhtred and a mark of how fine a debut The Serpent Sword is, is the fact that Beobrand doesn’t suffer in comparison with Uhtred.

I don’t know how he did it, but Matthew seems to have escaped every single one of the usual first novel traps: there’s no over exposition, there’s no repeating information to the reader, there’s no failure to trust his words. Everything is lean and taut and finished: like the titular sword, this story cuts.

My only word of warning to prospective readers is that it’s pretty brutal. These were, of course, brutal times, but if you are squeamish about the depiction of violence, this might not be the book for you. But if you enjoy story telling of the highest order, this book is for you.

 

 

The Reviewer: A Story Review of Robert Aickman’s Strange Stories

8 July 2016
Edoardo
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Categories: Book review, Writing

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The Reviewer – for that was how he signed his name at the bottom of his column – sat down at his desk. He always took an almost physical satisfaction at it: the grain of the polished wood, the smoothness of the carving, the finish, all quietly spoke, in unison, of the taste of the man who sat before it. That was, the reviewer, thought, as it should be.

He picked up his pen, feeling it thick between his fingers, and paused, holding it above the fresh expanse of virgin paper that waited, spread upon his writing desk. Always, the pause; the delicious hesitation, the wait.

Ah, the wait.

The Reviewer allowed the wait to turn into the weight: the heavy load of words, building in his mind, swirling there in inchoate, pregnant silence.

Then, release.

When it was over, and he was spent, the Reviewer put the pen down, laying it neatly beside the sheet of paper: always, exactly parallel to the edge, and an inch away. Precision in such matters was a signifier of his own singularity.

With the pen retracted, the Reviewer turned his eyes to the paper. First, he cast his eyes over its entirety, taking the expanse in, in one single, appraising glance. The shape of the review was the first element of its felicity: how often had he, in his youthful, fumbling experiments, cast aside a work simply because the words made an unbecoming shape upon the page.

But here, the paragraphs were well proportioned, their very form propelling the reading eye onwards, down the page towards the final, juddering climax. For, of course, the Reviewer saved his best work for those authors he cared for most deeply: the ones he truly despised. For them: evisceration. The exposure of their incompetence was his satisfaction, the reason for his existence as a reviewer.

And this was one of the worst. A writer whose cod historical dialogue was meant to add veracity to his recreation of the 7th century, but who revealed, by the inversion of word order and his failed attempts to catch the alliterative punch of Anglo-Saxon poetry, only the tin ear of the 21st.

The Reviewer, satisfied with the form, steepled his fingers.

Now, to read.

The writing always came in a Bacchic flood, the word frenzy flooding his body and mind, so that he did not know what he wrote; only, that he was, finally, deliciously, spent.

The reading, however, was Apollonian: the careful, weighted appreciation of every word and phrase, every syllable and sentence. The Reviewer knew no purer aesthetic experience than the first reading.

He breathed out, calming mind and body, then brought his eyes to the page.

The Reviwer read through to the end.

He stared long at the page.

The words upon it did not change.

For a moment, he thought if, perhaps, some other hand had written them. But he was too fastidious in memory to allow himself that escape.

The words. Those trite, banal, graceless words were his.

They were worse, even, than the talentless hack he had sought to expose.

The Reviewer stood up. He left the paper white upon his desk, and went out into the street. The street lamp, its dirty yellow staining the pavement, lit him. The Reviewer looked up and down the street where he lived. No one left and no one came.

The Muse had left him.

No matter. The Reviewer knew where to find her again.

The last time, she had called herself Jade. The Reviewer’s lips ticked upwards in something like a smile. She had said, he had the biggest talent she’d ever seen.

He would just have to find the Muse again.

As he set off, walking down the street towards the cluster of drab yellow neon that told of the Muse’s presence, he wondered what she would call herself this time.

The End

(There. Robert Aickman’s strange stories are, indeed, strange, and I wasn’t at all sure how to review them. But if you like this little tale, then you’ll enjoy Aickman’s stories too.)

 

Who Killed Horror?

8 July 2016
Edoardo
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Categories: Book review

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I’m old enough to remember how, back in the 1980s, it seemed like the horror genre was going to take over the world. Stephen King, of course, had started it: Carrie came out in 1974, Salem’s Lot in ’75, The Shining in ’77 and The Stand in ’78. Jumping on the bandwagon, a whole host of writers and publishers began churning out horror books through the following decade – and I was a big fan of them, picking lurid covers off the shelves at bookshops.

And then, it died. Not for Stephen King, of course, but for the rest. The blood-stained tracks became too trampled, the public lost interest, the publishers stopped publishing. The 1990s saw lots of articles written, asking variations on the question, who killed off the horror genre.

Now, having read The Turn of the Screw, I can answer the question. We did. We writers, we killed it off. Drove a stake through its heart, chopped its head off, pulled out its entrails and painted its drained blood upon the walls.

And that’s how we did it too: by piling up bodies, horror on horror, and forgetting that, for horror to work, there has to be something worse than death and the pain of dying; something much worse.

This is what makes The Turn of the Screw, and the other Victorian ghost stories, so effective: because these writers believed – or at least belonged to a culture that believed – that there are things worse than death. That a soul can be lost and, in its loss, something infinitely more precious than the mere pumping of blood and inflating of lungs is lost too.

After all, the problem with death, when that’s all there is, is that death ends everything. It’s the black curtain, the exit, the end, the close to suffering and the final release. Writing in a culture where death is the great, the sole, evil, robs horror of, well, its horror. Take away dread, the unspoken, wordless, formless dread of things and fates beyond and above and below death, and horror is reduced to variations on torture porn: how much can we make the protagonist suffer before his end? There is no horror in this, only the workings out of a monkey curiosity, drained of empathy.

So, for horror to work, then there must, indeed, be fates worse than death. It is the knowledge that this is true that makes The Turn of the Screw – despite Henry James’s rather curious prose style, so much more laboured and laborious than his brother, William James’s – into such a haunting book. And, reading it, tells us how flattened we have allowed our imaginative world to become.

 

Adventures in Bookland: The Colour Thief by Andrew Fusek Peters

8 July 2016
Edoardo
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Categories: Book review

25590502Depression exists underneath words, and outside them. It drains meaning from them and renders them pointless squiggles on a page or passing breath, taken by the wind. So, this picture book largely dispenses with words and uses pictures to tell of how a young boy learns of, understands and copes with his father’s depression. It does so beautifully and the central metaphor – of depression as the thief of colour – works perfectly. Highly recommended for anyone having to deal with depression in the family, and particularly when it affects children.

 

Adventures in Bookland: Here Comes the Poo Bus! by Andy Stanton

5 July 2016
Edoardo
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Categories: Book review, Poetry

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In Here Comes the Poo Bus! narrative poetry – an undeservedly neglected form in the 20th century – reaches a new pitch of artistic tension and, final, blessed, relief. Have you ever reached that point, in the creative process, where the artistic load has grown to such a mass that it simply has to be dumped, immediately, no matter where you are and what you are doing? Even in the midst of the most important meeting or walking the high hills of Yosemite, unseen connections have been made in the dark, unplumbed places and then, suddenly, they all come together and have to be released.

Ever had that happen to you?

Or, if not, have you ever been overcome by the desperate, this-will-not-wait, desire to do a poo?

Then this is the book for you!

It contains what is, I think, the single finest verse ever committed to paper:

Here it comes! The poo bus!
Along the avenue.
It’s big! It’s brown! It drives through town!
It’s made out of poo!

I should mention that, before I read this extraordinary work, my favourite poetic couplet came from T.Rex’s seminal statement of artistic, cultural and political change, Children of the Revolution, and simply states:

I drive a Rolls Royce
‘Cos it’s good for my voice.

Mind, it’s worth bearing in mind, when choosing suitable reading matter for yourself and your children, that my own finest poetic achievement came in distilling the emotion (“Oh my goodness me, I cannot believe I am seeing this”) in the tranquility of recollection. So, to finish, here it is. If you like this, you’ll love Here Comes the Poo Bus!

Gorillas eat their poo?
I can’t believe they do.
Oh no! Oh yuck!
It’s true!