Bibliography, November 2021

BOTM: F. Herbert, Dune (1965)*

R. Aickman, Dark entries (1964)
P. Fitzgerald, The beginning of spring (1988)

B. Sanderson, The final Empire (2006)
---------, The well of ascension (2007)
---------, The hero of ages (2008)
W. Tevis, The man who fell to earth (1963)
C. Wilman, Rednecks and Bluenecks: The Politics of Country Music (2005)

Obviously, the best book I read this month was Dune. However, I have read it a lot of times, so I did briefly agonise about whether it should be BOTM again. And, had I a standout alternative, I might have gone there. But I didn't. Honourable mention for Rednecks and Bluenecks which had a lovely turn of phrase, as well as fascinating context on the Iraq political controversy. I dread to think what the current analysis would look like. I also enjoyed Sanderson, but it was a little too fond of the twist at the end. I did really enjoy Fitzgerald - I think her historical novels are excellently imagined and conceived. However, Dune is Dune. 

I watched it because of the film. It's better than the film, though I thought they did a good job with it this time.

Bibliography, October 2021

BOTM: M. Shipstead, Great circle (2021)

G. Tindall, The fields beneath (1977)
C.L.R. James, The Black Jacobins (1938)
N. Gaiman, Norse mythology (2017)
P. Lively, Treasures of time (1979)
P. Lockwood, No-one is talking about this (2021)
M.S. Lovell, The Mitford Girls: The Biography of an Extraordinary Family (2001)
N. Mohamed, The fortune men (2021)
R. Powers, Bewilderment (2021)
B. Pym, Quartet in Autumn (1977)

A chance conversation with Anna revealed that she overwhelmingly reads books published since 2000. I do not: I've read 48 novels this year so far. Eight were published after 2000, and six of those were the Booker shortlist. In comparison, 17 were published before 1960. This seems reasonable to me. It would be a slightly weird position to believe that the majority of great literature was written in two decades when they've been writing good ones in volume for at least fifteen. This month, both Pym and Lively were really good novels: well observed, imaginatively done, and shining a light into stories less often told. Both are older than me. Non-fiction is usually more modern as the scholarship usually needs updating in a way a stories don't. Both Tindall's book on the history of Kentish Town and especially James' classic on Haiti have endured. The Black Jacobins is a product of Marxist theory, which does date it, but James is too good an historian to follow it blindly, and his analysis breaks free of ideology. It remains a shamefully neglected piece of history.

All that said, my favourite book this month was contemporary. I liked a lot of the Booker shortlist. Even Lockwood's sort of twitter one was not as bad as I thought. There were very funny bits. None were outstanding, but a number were decent. Best I thought was Shipstead's Great Circle which runs a strong, deep, central narrative around a female aviator (not a neglected subject) in the early age of flight. It has a secondary, parallel narrative that provides a lighter counterpart, which works really well. But the main narrative is the star - beautifully written, ranging over a wide canvas, and packing real punch at several points. It's not a masterpiece, but it's very good, and it was my favourite.

Rest of the Booker shortlist was tight. Mohamed (Second part) and Powers (first) both wrote very uneven books which, had they sustained them would have pushed them higher. Galgut, the favourite, I found underwhelming. My ranking:

1. Shipstead
2. Arudpragasam
3. Mohamed
4. Powers
5. Galgut
6. Lockwood

Bibliography, September 2021

BOTM: I. Asimov, Foundation (1951)*

A. Arudpragasam, A passage north (2021)
I. Asimov, Foundation and Empire (1952)*
ꟷꟷꟷꟷ, Second Foundation (1953)*
E.F. Benson, Queen Lucia (1920)
J. Cameron, An Indian summer (1974)
D. Galgut, The promise (2021)
P. Lively, Judgement day (1980)
J.G. Williamson, Trade and poverty: when the third world fell behind (2011)

In my mind, I have a broad understanding of history in all periods and can understand all full length treatments easily based on my general knowledge. Williamson was enthralling, but blew that belief away. It turns out A-level economics is not enough to dive in to pages of data. Part of me wants to dig much deeper; part of me doesn't. Quite a few of the others were underwhelming on their own merits. I thought I would love Benson, but I found it a slog. I thought Galgut would be harrowing, but profound, but instead it was easy, too easy, and managed to tell the story of the betrayal of a promise to a black woman by erasing her voice. I'm sure it was deliberate, but I didn't feel it worked.

That 'not working' was an issue for me too in the later, and much beloved, Foundation novels too. By the time we get to the Second Foundation, I feel Asimov has lost track of his central conceit. Instead of psychohistory being about mass movements and probabilities, it relies on a shadowy cabal of psychics to fix the outcomes. If he could secure a millennium-long magician elite, the probabilistic aspect feels a bit pointless. My other complaint, though this really applies across the whole thing, is that he gets the maths wrong. And every time he talks about the capital world of the galaxy, all I can think of is that he doesn't know how big a billion is.

Having said all that, it's still magisterial. Yes, psychohistory is total nonsense; yes, it's ridiculous to imagine that a galaxy-wide polity could exist in a meaningful way in the manner described; no, there are no women at all in the first book. But it's fantastically imaginative, broad in scope, and little sounds cooler than a universal Galactic Empire. I also like its openness and its cleverness. Asimov wasn't afraid to poke holes in his own model: the Mule is a wildcard so that breaks the prediction, Foundation inhabitants think about their destiny and so that undermines it too. These come later, but the unfolding of the original concept is still the best bit - and that's captured economically and brilliantly in the opener. 

Apple better not mess this up.

The Oval, 5th September 2021

It happened about five o'clock, though it may have been later. Evening shadows over the grounds are a trope of cricket writing, but shadows are supposed to be of church steeples. In this case it was the mass of the huge Vauxhall End stand at The Oval. But shadows there were and, suddenly and implausibly unexpectedly, we had entered my favourite part of watching the cricket. We were sitting in, give or take, the same seats that I first watched test cricket sixteen years ago for an overcast Ashes securing day, and again, four years later where watched us actually win the Ashes themselves.

Yesterday wasn't one of those successful days for England, though - thankfully - nor was it a repeat of this test in 2007, where I watched Dravid score 12 in 96 balls and seemed to spend an hour getting each run. But it didn't matter. We were amongst cricket people, at the cricket, and very little else mattered. I'd brought a set of people who didn't know each other at all at eleven, but by the afternoon had developed their own in-jokes. To our left was a ten year old whose excitement was matched only by the sharpness of his eyesight and his understanding of the LBW rule. We didn't need the replay to tell us Jadeja was out and they had wasted a review, he'd already talked us through it. At lunch we took the admiration of the group behind us because one of us had managed to bring a large pie; after tea we managed a full cheeseboard. I personally continued my unbroken run of smuggling drinks into the ground in defiance of the absurd ban on bringing alcohol in, though the lack of effort they put into bag searching did rather demean the outcome. 

And the cricket, well, it was exactly why only test cricket really counts. I don't really think anyone was superlative, but it didn't matter. It was enthralling, while allowing time for conversation (and more drinks. There were a lot of drinks). Early England inroads made us hopeful that we'd limit India to a manageable lead before a hundred run seventh wicket partnership rather drained us of all optimism. My low case prediction of a 350 target with some big batting after tea came rather depressingly true. It was shortly after that that the shadows fell, and this time my low case predication was entirely wrong. We didn't end four wickets down at the close of play. Somehow, we avoided subsiding like, well, England, and we watched Rory Burns hold out on his home ground and Haseeb Hameed write the next lines of what will hopefully be a deeply satisfying redemption story this summer. 291 to get today with all wickets in hand is possible, if unlikely.

And we drank in the summer evening, talked novels, and watched that slow patient cricket, and - pausing briefly after the cricket itself to have a further drink - I walked home listening to the only known popular music act to entirely specialise in cricket songs singing about sleeping on the boundary.

I fully expect us to lose today, but it doesn't matter. It was marvellous, and by that I truly mean that it is a marvel. None of this should work, but it does, almost every time. I had missed the cricket far more than I realised, but no longer. Marvellous indeed.

Bibliography, August 2021

BOTM: J. Didion, The year of magical thinking (2005)

W. Golding, The inheritors (1955)
W. Holland, Paupers and pig killers. Diaries 1799-1818 (1818)
J. Kaufman, Kings of Shanghai (2020)
M. Kurlansky, Milk: a 10,000 year odyssey (2019)

J. Lindsay, Picnic at hanging rock (1967)
E. Newby, Something wholesale (1961)
K. St Clair, The golden thread. How fabric changed history (2018)
R. Silverberg, A time of changes (1971)
A. Hussein, The weary generations (1963)
T. Nasrin, Lajja (1993)

Didion's book is a masterpiece. Everyone knows that and they are right. It's beautifully written, and engrossing. I read it in a morning when I could not put it down. I think it's the skill she has in articulating her thoughts in a moment of unimaginable awfulness (with her husband dead and daughter in acute care in hospital) in a way that immediately makes them resonate both in their depth but also in their reality. It's also very easy going and somehow uplifting. There's a lovely bit about marriage in there, which is written in the context of it going, but should be something we think about all the time. 

I found some of the others harder going than I had imagined. Golding, Holland, Newby, and Kaufman were books I expected to race through, but they were slower and less impressive than I had hoped. All of them had better second halves than first. I did really like the duo of subcontinental novels that I read and The weary generations in particular was outstanding.  

Bibliography, July 2021

BOTM: L. Sprague de Camp, Literary swordsmen and sorcerers (1976)

M. Baylis, Man belong Mrs Queen (2013)
D. Brin, Startide rising (1983)
D. Brin, The uplift war (1986)
J. Strachey, An integrated man (1986)
M. Pollan, The omnivore's dilemma (2006)

K. Wilhelm, Where late the sweet birds sing (1977)

I enjoyed lots here. Pollan a close runner up and I really liked the first third on the dominance of corn in our food system. It's made me mutter - to Anna's horror - that maybe we should eat more seasonally. I think the conceit is unbalanced though, and the latter sections don't really work as well. I could completely have lived without the foraging / hunting section. Plus I have also gone over some of this ground before. 

Bizarrely, I hadn't gone over the ground of de Camp's account of the major heroic fantasy authors of the first half of the twentieth century. In this, he covers who he sees as the biggest nine with some linking contexts and mini-biographies and reviews. It was illuminating, and hugely enjoyable to read. Some of the judgements are dated: there's a too quick dismissal of the lack of women in Tolkien and some clumsy psychology (though driven by the fact that almost all the American writers are really weird).  However, he knows his stuff, and I have a huge fondness for clear judgements, backed up with reasons, especially when picking through a lot of scattered short story material. As also a protagonist, de Camp is really good at showing the overlapping nature of the worlds people created; and also contextualising the famous bits into their wider oeuvre. 

This is not the definitive history of fantasy literature, but it's probably a lot more more fun than one. I'm going to read some Conan the Barbarian now.

Bibliography, June 2021

BOTM: S. Alexievich, The unwomanly face of war (1985)

D. Brin, Sundiver (1980)
J. Critchley, House of vanities (1990)

D. Mask, The Address Book (2020)

A. Oz, The Hill of evil counsel (1976)

S. Schama, The Story of the Jews 1000BC – 1492 (2013)
J. Strachey, Cheerful weather for the wedding (1932)

H.R. Trevor Roper, The invention of Scotland (2014)

I loved a lot of these: Critchley and Strachey were razor sharp and acutely observed; Schama's book episodic, but with many very good episodes;  And I did like very much Trevor-Roper debunking of Scotland's traditions. Alexievich was something else. They gave her the Nobel for this, an exceptional collection of testimony from Soviet women who fought in the Second World War. I'm not sure they should have done. It's value doesn't lie in the writing - she does little of that - but in the arranging and allowing those voices to speak. The arranging does matter. Managing that mass of material and removing the author's voice is itself a major achievement. But the centre stage is held by the women themselves. It's a work of history of the highest level and a stunning piece of sustained editing and presentation to keep the momentum of them without it dissolving in a repetitious litany of largely depressing narratives. The subject matter is fascinating as well as horrific, and another corrective to the view we have of the War which remains stubbornly centred on Western Europe. It's always worse in Russia.

Bibliography, May 2021

BOTM: S. Sturluson, The Prose Edda (c.1220)

R. Adams, The savage mountains (1979)
R. Adams, The patrimony (1980)
R. Adams, Horseclans Odyssey (1981)
R. Adams, The death of a legend (1981)
P. J. Farmer, To your scattered bodies go (1972)
P. Fitzgerald, The golden child (1977)
T. Penn, The brothers York (2020)
A. Szerb, Oliver VII (1942)
R. Zelazny, This immortal (1966)

I wanted this to be Thomas Penn's book. I really liked his book on Henry VII, and this one was great on the narrative of the Yorkist kings, and really emphasises the complete dissipation of the dynastic potential in the 1470s and 80s. If either Clarence or Richard III had been able to set aside their own stratospheric ambition then there would have been no Tudors. And it's great on that, and as a detailed narrative. It's too long though, and needed an analytical chapter or two. John Gillingham's book does this really well.

So, instead, I'd recommend you read the Prose Edda. It was excellent and short. The slightly weird framing is clearly an attempt to put a Christian wrapper around it in the thirteenth century. But the core, it gives the bones of Norse mythology, and it's a fantastically bleak mythos. It's good for us to read these things.

Against the Nazarenes

Preached the 6th Sunday of Easter (9th May) 2021, St Michael's, Stockwell
Christian Aid week

Acts 10:44-48
Psalm 98
1 John 5:1-6
John 15:9-17

I want to start today with our first reading from the Acts of the Apostles. Our short reading here comes at the end of a chapter about St Peter’s visit to Caesarea. Caesarea was a city in Judea, in modern Israel. It’s ruined now, but then it was the capital of Roman Judea, where the conquering Empire was based. As a result, it wasn’t very Jewish. The clue is in the name; it’s named for the Caesars, the Roman Emperors.

That’s important, because it is there St Peter encounters Cornelius, a gentile official, and this passage comes at the end of Peter’s evangelisation to him. In fact, this whole part of Acts (chapters 9-11) is about the mission to the gentiles led by Peter.

Just before this section, talking to Cornelius, Peter states very clearly that ‘God knows no partiality.’ (Acts 10.35), and he then tells the story of Jesus, his death and resurrection to them, and – for the first time since Pentecost – the Spirit descends on them all, Jew and non-Jew alike. And Peter calls out:

Can anyone withhold the water for baptizing these people who have received the Holy Spirit just as we have at the presence of the Lord.

It’s a rhetorical question. Peter isn’t expecting anyone to say ‘Yes, actually we can and should withhold the water for baptism,’ though if you persevere with Acts, they do have this exact discussion in the next chapter. There was a fight within the early church between those who would limit the gospel of Jesus to Jews alone, the Nazarenes, and those who, like Peter – and Paul, preached universality.

Peter won.

It is one of the most radical parts of the promise of the New Testament. Unlike the Old Testament, which hammers home, as the psalmist today says, God’s ‘steadfast love and faithfulness to the house of Israel.’ Peter here reveals the universal message of Christ. The resurrection is not the salvation for the Jews, but for everyone.

Can anyone withhold that water for baptism?

Water isn’t just special for us as Christians. It’s sacred to many religions, be it the river festivals of the Hindus or the ritual purification in Islam.  And there’s no surprise why. Water is one of the important things of all. We can imagine no life without water, no food, and without clean water that life can be pretty short.

We here in this congregation have the historical luxury of clean water universally available. Pretty much every rickety tap gives us access to drinkable water. Our water is absurdly clean, far in excess of what we need. We flush toilets with water cleaner than millions of people drink. Many of you will know first hand that’s not the case everywhere. Globally, 800m people still do not have access to clean water nearby, three times that don’t have it in their houses. And it kills: 1.5m people die every year from diarrhoeal disease, mostly caused by dirty water.

Millions suffer from the effects of drought. Climate change means that millions more will suffer over the next few years as new unstable conditions means that traditional agriculture patterns no longer work. And people will go hungry. And people will starve.

Who withholds the water from them?

Because water is being withheld from communities and people across the world: by poverty, by climate change, by corrupt and incompetent governments, by unjust western powers, by a lack of generosity of spirit and lack of action. It means people go hungry, it means people are sick, it means women (and it’s almost always women) have to walk further and make harder journeys to get the water they and their children need.

But it doesn’t have to be like this. 1.5m people die of diarrheal disease every year. In 2000, that figure was 2.6m. Since 2000, nearly 2 billion have people gained access to clean water. Here, at the time of the building of St Andrew’s, tens of thousands of Londoners died from cholera, a disease caused by dirty water. We built the sewers, and they didn’t. Not just the rich, but everyone.

We have the ability to change the world.

• The psalmist says: ‘Let 'the floods clap their hands; let the hills sing together for joy.'
• And from the letter of John: ‘whatever is born of God conquers the world.’

This Christian Aid Week we can be part of the solution and the answer to Peter’s question. Through our generosity, we can help ensure the much-needed water is not withheld from communities that need it. In practical terms, there are, at the back of church envelopes for making contributions, however small, to the work of Christian Aid in delivering water, resilient to climate change; and a leaflet to think about what else we can do.

I don’t think we have a choice about this. John’s gospel today is clear: Jesus says: ‘You did not choose me but I chose you.’ It is not simply that we can, but we must.

That’s the heart of our gospel today. This section of John’s gospel is a long parting speech from Jesus to his disciples, with his final commands. They’re all about love. That’s why we should help others; because we’re enjoined to love them. And you help those you love. The English translation is slightly unhelpful here as it talks about his disciples being friends, but the Greek is philoi, those beloved. They aren’t just friends; this isn’t a casual alliance, but a deep commitment.

And we can see this in John’s letter, which talks about the water and the blood. Blood lasts. Baptism lasts. It does not dry off with the water. Help for those without water lasts. In accepting the appointment by Christ, we accept that we are members of a universal, global church, with universal global ambition. The messiah came not for the Jews alone, but for the world. And this means our commission to love is global. I had planned here to make a point about water not being static or recognising no borders, but this week the French have decided to go to war with Jersey over fishing. But the water of baptism knows no boundary. There is one baptism for all.

So can anyone withhold the water? No, they can’t withhold the water of baptism. And we must share it with the world and act to make that real. The Psalmist today says ‘For he is coming to judge the earth. He will judge the world with righteousness, and the peoples with equity.’

So let us never withhold the water. And let us work to share it with the world.

In the name of Christ,

Amen

Bibliography, April 2021

BOTM: R.A. Heinlein, Double Star (1956)

L. Booth (ed.), Wisden Cricketers' Almanack (2021)
D. Feldman, Unorthodox (2012)
E. Ferrante, My brilliant friend (2011)
H. Freeman, House of Glass (2020)
R.A. Heinlein, Starship troopers (1959)
E. John, Following on (2016)
E. John, Wayfaring stranger (2019)
F. Lieber, The big time (1958)
T. Pratchett, Equal Rites (1987)*
C. Simak, The waystation (1964)
G. Stein, The autobiography of Alice B. Toklas (1933)
A. van Voght, Slan (1940)

I've been very busy at work this month, so I retreated into early science fiction. Listed here are the Hugo award winners from 1940, 1956-9 and 1964. I thoroughly enjoyed them, especially Simak, van Voght, and Heinlein's Double Star. I'm much more glad I read them than Stein's autobiography, which I found hard going. I really liked Emma John's books, especially her one on bluegrass. I also, after a faltering start, really liked My brilliant friend, though it inevitably didn't live up to the hype. House of Glass was similarly interesting.

So, a lot to like, and I struggled to pick a favourite. I think I'd take Double Star, which was exactly what I needed, and which was taut and well done. It's also a plot that in no way required any science fiction whatsoever, but Heinlein put it in anyway.

Bibliography, March 2021

BOTM: H. Trevor-Roper, The last days of Hitler (1947)

J. Barr, A line in the sand (2012)
J. Erdal, Ghosting (2004)
B. Feirstein, Real men don't eat quiche (1982)
S. Jones, Endless winter (1993)
C. Nichols and P. Hardman, Disrupted (2021)
H. Pearson, The Smith of Smiths (1934)
D. Richards, Outpost: a journey to the wild ends of the earth (2019)
P.G. Wodehouse, Uncle Dynamite (1948)

I am slightly disappointed that I couldn't make yet another book of the month for my favourite Wodehouse character. It was another classic. But I found a few others were outstanding. Surprisingly, Hesketh Pearson's biography of Canon Sydney Smith was not quite there. I loved the character and writings of Smith, but I felt the biography was a little drawn out for my tastes. On the other hand, I properly loved Ghosting. It's obviously an extreme situation, but I thought it trod the balance of substance and frippery very well. If you are at all interested in books and bookmen or 80s and 90s society, it's a fascinating read. 

However, everyone should read The last days of Hitler and I cannot imagine why I wasn't made to at school. It's a masterclass in historical method: the issue is important; the available data is circumscribed, but incomplete; the writing is crisp and clear;  and it's short. I'm baffled why my history teacher at school suggested Oxbridge candidates read War and Peace and not this.* It's also fascinating on both the absolutely fantastical world of the Nazis by the mid-40s and the precise nature and events of the final days. I don't particularly like the place that the Nazis occupy in our historiography - I feel they dominate our understanding in a deeply unhelpful way, but because of this, these details matter. Anyway, it turns out I didn't know that much about this bit or some of the protagonists and it was superb. Note also, it is worth reading a later edition (mine from the 1990s), as the introduction details with the resurfacing of parts of the story which the Russians had initially hidden.

* This is not a comment on W&P. I love W&P and I'm due another reread.

Bibliography, February 2021

BOTM: C. Achebe, Anthills of the savannah (1987)

K. Amis, New maps of hell (1959)

C. Connelly, After the party (2018)

S. Corbett & B. Fikkert, When helping hurts: How to alleviate poverty without hurting the Poor (2014)

C. Criado - Perez, Invisible Women (2019)

I. Hardman, Why we get the wrong politicians (2018)

E. Mitchell, The silver brumby (1958)

D. Mosley, A life of contrasts (1978)

A.J. Symonds, The quest for Corvo (1934)

J. Tey, A daughter of time (1951)

I have lots to day about some of these. Firstly, Diana Mosley's book is astonishing. It was well reviewed and attracted compliments for style, but a) it's not that well written - there are no real moments of standout style and b), really importantly, it's really obviously really Nazi. I don't mean recognising the desperate times and sympathising with the spirit of the era; I mean, Hitler was quite nice really; all those reports about him lied. It's astonishing. Here's my, er, favourite. Remember, this is in 1978:

he truth is that in private life he was exceptionally charming, clever and original, and that he inspired affection. He also inspired fear, perhaps, but he was essentially one of those rare beings who make people want to please them, want to work for them, eager to sacrifice. He identified himself with Germany and this identification was accepted by his countrymen. In his make-up there was both pride and a modesty, even vulnerability, which aroused chivalrous feelings, a very powerful motive force. .... Hitler was the most unselfconscious politician I have ever come across. He never sought to impress, he never bothered to act a part. If he felt morose he was morose. If he was in high spirits he talked brilliantly and sometimes did wonderfully comic imitations.

Second: Josephine Tey. This was voted the best crime novel of all time in 1990. It is not. It is not even a crime novel,but a novelistic wrapper around an argument for the innocence of Richard III. I have simply no idea why it was written. If Tey had wanted to write a defence of Richard III, then she was welcome to, but presumably the footnotes were beyond her so she dressed it up as a novel to allow herself to play fast and loose with medieval reality, and facts about how succession or courts work. And miss out the boring bits. It was stress-inducingly dire.

Everything else was fine. I partly wanted to give this to a reread of one The Silver Brumby, which I read and loved as a pre-teen. I still do, and I was surprised by how much I remembered of it. However, I think it's probably Achebe that was the best. I didn't really enjoy Things fall apart when I read that, despite its reputation. I found it a bit laboured and the historicity didn't quite work, though of course the voice is the key thing. This I thought this was much better. The story excellent, and the writing direct and rich. Good end too.

Bibliography, January 2021 (Full Mitford)

 BOTM: The Mitford sisters, ed. C. Mosley, Letters between six sisters (2007)

T. Gooley, How to read water (2016)
N. Mitford, The Pursuit of Love (1945)
--------, Love in a Cold Climate (1949)
--------, Madame de Pompadour (1954)
--------, Don't tell Alfred (1960)
J. Mitford, Hons and Rebels (1960)
L. Spinney, Pale Rider (2017)
P. Vogler, Scoff: a history of food and class in Britain (2020)

This all got rather out of hand. By coincidence I asked for (and got) Hons and rebels and Madame de Pompadour at Christmas and then it rather snowballed. I've resisted Mitfordania for ages, so I wasn't really expecting to fall into such temptation. I think I'm out now. I'm just reading Diana's memoirs and then I'm done. They were clearly all mad, except possibly for the Duchess of Devonshire, and mostly dreadful to be around, except definitely for the Duchess of Devonshire. The most famous, and best bits, are the early family accounts because the domestic scene are even more bonkers than the rest and have all the family riffing off each other. 

As most of the reading was Nancy, I can confirm that the critical view is right. Her later work does decline fast and by 1960, it's Powellian in its failure to really grasp what it going on. The Pursuit of Love is great though. However, I enjoyed the letters best. They are a slog at over 800 pages, but they give the panorama of the relationships, and are almost merciless in what they reveal about the protagonists. None of them (save, predictably, the Duchess of Devonshire) come out well. With many thanks to K, who recommended them.

Bibliography, 2020

At one point this year, it looked like lockdown was going to deliver a post-baby record level of reading, but Autumn put paid to that, and the last few months have been mediocre, so I finished one behind. Still, I have kept myself at the relatively high level of post-doctoral reading. And a strong mix of reading too; I haven't read this much 'hard' non fiction (History, Philosophy, Politics) since 2010. And I'm glad I did that. Fiction was weak, accounting for only three of my BOTMs; it did mark the first time I read more women than men, though I don't think the two are related. Six other BOTMs were cultural, and three 'hard' non-fiction (all history).

This makes fiction pretty straightforward. I briefly wondered if there was an excellent piece of fiction sitting in other months, but there wasn't. The best two novels I read were both Mantel, and the best one remains Wolf Hall. I don't think it needs any more analysis from me, save that I liked it even more this time than I did first time round. I'd also note that a decade on we sort of take it for granted, and we shouldn't.

Non-fiction was overwhelmingly harder. I could make a case for at least three of these, but with mentions for Pope-Hennessy and Cohn, Meetings with remarkable manuscripts is an absolutely gem of a book. It's stylistically interesting, taking a complex and highly inaccessible subject and making it informal was a stroke of genius. But it's also robust, illuminating (pun intended) and important. I've never really been interested in manuscripts (or physical editions of books at all), but this made me look at the whole thing afresh. And I read it on kindle, when you can't even see the lovely pictures.

Jan: T. Salih, Season of migration to the north (1966)
Feb: J. Child, My life in France (2006)
Mar: P. Paphides, Broken Greek (2020) 
Apr: C. De Hamel, Meetings with remarkable manuscripts (2016)
May: V. Moore, How to Drink (2010)* 
Jun: J. Pope-Hennessy, The Quest for Queen Mary (2018)
Jul: H. Mantel, Wolf Hall (2009)*
Aug: L. Lee, A Rose in Winter (1955) 
Sep:  J. Gillingham, The Wars of the Roses (1981) 
Oct: M. Mengiste, The Shadow King (2020) 
Nov: C. Stevens, Born Brilliant: The Life of Kenneth Williams (2010)
Dec: N. Cohn, Awopbopaloobop Awopbamboom (1969)