Despite the best efforts of every newspaper and magazine
with their Summer Reading features, I do sometimes arrive at a period of time
off with nothing new to read. It’s not a problem per se as upstairs, never mind
downstairs, has plenty of books to re-read notwithstanding the daunting
prospect of resuming Proust after 37 years.
I didn’t have that syndrome this time. I have a few non-new
release titles to mention and further on hand. The major bugbear this time is
the connection being down, including telephone, so not only can I not access
all the e-mails that have flooded in from friends and the great and good, I’m
typing this into Word and will copy it onto the internet later so that you, one
of the precious few elite who come here to read, can see it.
Catching up with my Sebastian Faulks backlog I borrowed,
rather than begged or stole, Paris Echo although it will have to be bought to
maintain that vaguely completist set of the ‘proper’ novels. It became as
moving as his blub normally claims him to be in its later stages. Having read
that a criticism of McEwan is that he mentions wine too often and thus betrays
his class status, one does wonder if Camus is more authentic on France, the war
there and Algerian immigrants. It’s a worry but need not be if the fiction
convinces. I’m not one to insist on authenticity or any individual’s right to
write about whatever they decided but if it doesn’t entirely convince, doubts
can creep in.
Not for the first time, Sebastian uses the device of a
character looking back via archive material. But that story, again in a way we
are accustomed to, is woven into other strands, some of which are sexier than
one might feel like writing oneself but that’s another area that he’s not been
afraid of. While unquestionably adept at producing highly readable novels he
has in common with McEwan that sometimes one or two things beg the question and
diligent research might not always be adequate compensation for knowing
first-hand.
One couldn’t accuse John Francome’s Born Lucky of that.
There is no one I’d rather read on the subject of ‘being a jockey’ but this is
a book that surprises in the same way that ‘what it was like in the 70’s’ comes
as a surprise to younger generations of comedians who appear on telly to raise
their eyebrows and be astonished at what levels of now unacceptable sexism and
racism used to pass for humour. I bow only to those who have ridden horses in
my admiration of Francome’s horse riding and thought I’d also like his laconic
wit but the acceptable quotient of laddishness, with is increased by the
Smith-Eccles co-efficient whenever a story involves his mate, is exceeded when
driving on the public highway. I don’t mind his bare-faced cheek to the
stewards and his admissions of cheating are at least more honest than the
abstruse arguments offered by Lance Armstrong but we have surely now moved on
from larking about in motor vehicles. I don’t think even Clarkson or the
Hamster would approve of all of such behaviour by now. You rode Border
Incident, Swindon boy, and should be grateful.
You wouldn’t find Ian Bostridge celebrating laddishness. His
Schubert’s Winter Journey, the ‘anatomy of an obsession’ with Winterreise is a
stout book, investigating and making all kinds of connections from the song
cycle through Schubert himself, the poetry of Muller and the themes therein in an entirely convincing
and compelling way. It is what the best art makes one do and Ian Bostridge does
it tremendously well. It puts the songs in context, at the dreamiest, most
self-indulgent height of Romanticism, with contemporary thought and politics as
well as making connections far beyond. Wearing its wide learning very
comfortably, it makes both the book and the music it describes resonate
gorgeously and ought to take its place among the frontrunners (and where have I
heard that word far too often in recent weeks) if I ever embarked on the series
of articles most portentously aimed at deciding ‘The Best Book in the House’.
And still to come are the biography of Lou Reed by Anthony
DeCurtis. Lou, of course, my fondly imagined soulmate who worked in a hit
factory, which must be the best job in the world, to setting the template for
every worthwhile definition of ‘cool’ with the Velvet Underground. You can’t leave
a book like that in a charity shop that only wants £1 for it.
And it would be unbecoming of me if I didn’t follow up a
recommendation for Doktor Faustus by Thomas Mann. A few of my very favourite
things (Patrick Hamilton, The Magnetic Fields) have come from recommendations
from trusted friends. I wasn’t averse to following up this tip because I
remembered Thomas Mann from several decades ago as the author of short novels.
Top marks to my friendly postlady for managing to get these 500 pages through
the letterbox. We will find out how trusted this recommender is once I’ve
battled through it.