Warren Loveridge

A beautiful little book, an extended essay really, a poetic paean to the bee. As a hobby beekeeper I learned much from Maeterlink; his observations of bees are peerless, his love for them unmatched. But I have to knock a star off for his frequent digressions into flowery Victorian nature-worship and philosophical speculations.

I've come to expect so much from Morris West, and he let me down badly with this one. In fact, it was so bad I had to give up and put it down. Truly awful, one-dimensional, stereotyped characters, turgid dialogue, a hackneyed plot. There wouldn't be a strong enough rope on Earth to suspend my disbelief at how the yacht ends up wrecked on that island. I had difficulty believing Morris West actually wrote this tripe, but I suppose it's the rare author who doesn't have at least one turkey. Yes, I'm looking at you, Graham Greene...

I wanted to give this 3.5 stars, because it ain't really worth 4. But it deserves better than 3, so I chose to round up. Honestly, you can't go past Dennis Wheatley for guilty pleasure. He's the granddaddy of page turners, the master of foot-to-the-floor action. Sure he wears his ultra-conservative politics on his sleeve, and his attitudes to women (they need protecting), “Gips” (heads like cannon balls, those Arab types) and left wing governments (“It will be years before the incredible muddle they made can be unsorted.”) are the stuff of nightmares for the politically correct, but you've got to loosen up and just enjoy the ride. Excuse the risible dialogue, because some of the prose is actually quite good. Three cheers for Johnny, an insufferable Mummy's boy who proves himself a solid bit of good old-fashioned English manhood by the end of the book. Another three for Mumsie, who has her own inimitable and completely unapologetic way of dealing with rotten Satanists. This book has more faults than the shaky earthquake zone I live on top of, but I loved it.

Looking at his bibliography, Nigel Cawthorne appears to be a rent-an-author, the James Patterson of non-fiction, churning them out at the rate of several a year, on a vast range of topics. Accordingly, Fighting Them On The Beaches contains all the hallmarks of production-line writing. To maintain his fast-paced, confusing and sometimes disordered narrative (which possibly mirrors the manner in which he wrote it), Cawthorne relies heavily on battlefield anecdotes, many of which read like old soldier beer talk, and at least one or two urban legends. Facts or events are thrown at us holus bolus with little context or explanation, the rather simple maps are difficult to relate to the text, and the whole book is full of glaring typographical errors. At the very least you need Wikipedia and Google Maps close at hand, or you'll never figure out what's going on.

For all that, I learned a lot about D-Day, an important event about which I'd never known more than could be expressed in a brief paragraph. I just wouldn't recommend this book to anybody - there are great numbers of far superior books on the topic, as my WW2-mad son was keen to point out. And he'd know. He told me not to read this, but since it had been gifted to me I felt I had to make the effort.

I have literary pretensions. I've got bookshelves full of high-falutin' stuff, and I wouldn't be seen dead in the same room as a Dan Brown novel. But every time I pick up a Lee Child I'm hooked. I simply cannot put it down until Jack has taken down the very last bad-ass. As with any of the Reacher books Worth Dying For has holes you can pick at should you be so inclined, but to hell with all that. I don't care. I'm on board for the whole crazy ride. I know exactly why I like these books so much. It's because, deep down, I wish I was Jack Reacher.

Frequently wooden, occasionally terrible, prose; rather too much tell-not-show; an excess of cardboard characters; a big fat cliche involving a pretty FBI agent who wins the hero's heart; the road map of Europe described in excessive detail... this book is full of faults.

BUT! It's a cracking story! The pace, slow at first, builds to a fabulous crescendo. Forsyth's dialogue is crisp and on point, the way people actually talk. The twists keep you turning the pages until way past your bedtime. The research and detail that sometimes bog the book down also give it heft and substance, and you feel as if you've learned something from reading it. I ended up enjoying it far more than I thought I would at the start.

Informative but somewhat dry. Not Hibbert's most engaging work.

The historical background is complicated, so to reap maximum enjoyment from this short novel a decent knowledge of the French Revolution and its aftermath is desirable. It is not necessary though, it being enough to know that there is a plot afoot to topple Napoleon. A decent story then unfolds, complete with historical characters (Napoleon himself makes a cameo), a sinister policeman, a smart, strong female lead, and far more. Beautiful writing, conveyed skilfully by Herbert Hunt's excellent modern translation; drama, suspense, and an interesting lesson in French history.

This was the first Balzac I ever read, and it made me look forward to more.

In many ways a remarkable piece of fan fiction, this book has a fatal flaw: it is as dry as a rusk, and deadly dull.

For the Hornblower completist only.

Not a novel, but four standalone short(ish) stories. The first is a little clunky, but things improve until we reach the third and fourth, which are thoroughly enjoyable.

A good book containing a wealth of interesting material, but marred by sloppy editing and numerous glaring errors, mostly of a technical nature. The way Gould has structured the book results in chapters that read like separate and disconnected essays thrown together in a single volume, with information frequently repeated.

Considering Gould's background and the information he had access to, this might, with a little more care and effort in its preparation, have been a 5-star book, the definitive tome on the Rover Group.

In writing a review for this book I must be careful. For starters, I thought I'd picked up a social history of magic and the occult in England. It tuned out to be considerably more than that, containing a lot of “how-tos”, interviews with modern occult practitioners, lists of places to visit and things to do, reading lists and so on. There is also a bit of woo, and some rather dubious assertions that don't stand up to a modicum of basic internet research. But I'm a dyed-in-the-wool skeptic, so these aspects were always going to be anathema for me, and indeed I skimmed over much.

However for the believer, or somebody seeking an introduction to the history and modern practice of the occult, this book contains a vast wealth of interesting and valuable information. So putting aside my own prejudices, I have to give it four stars on account of its strengths for the audience at which it is aimed, deducting one for the occasional woo which mars the otherwise objective and healthily skeptical approach it takes, and some other annoyances such as irritatingly uncaptioned illustrations.

A Legacy Of Spies is ostensibly set in the present, but le Carré is necessarily vague about exactly when the events of the novel take place, otherwise Peter Guillam is preternaturally young, and George Smiley's continued lucid existence almost entirely improbable. The book closes with Guillam noting that the events described took place a long time ago.

I've mixed feelings about this book. There are numerous little inconsistencies that trip up the continuity between this and The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. Considering how much of the background to the earlier novel Legacy fills in, such anomalies are irritating. Legacy essentially cannot exist apart from its famed predecessor, and continuity errors aside there is no evidence of le Carré's powers declining in his old age, so I'm at a loss as to why he allowed them through. They were always going to be noticed by the target audience, i.e. fans of Spy.

But plot details have possibly taken a back seat to le Carré's major theme here as I see it: that spies are flawed human beings, and their very human emotions and selfish motives can fatally blind their judgement, leading to tragedy and lifelong repercussions for all involved.

A satisfying book? Somewhat. But in once more cracking open a window upon the Circus le Carré shattered the completeness and self-containedness of Spy, retrospectively creating loose ends and reawakening a dormant curiosity that by the end of Legacy was nowhere near satisfied.

Typical Dennis Wheatley. Outdated and corny. Wooden prose, clunky dialogue. Bunch of toffs getting themselves in the poo. A rather abrupt denouement. But meanwhile Wheatley has taken you on a whirlwind ride, and it's been a heap of fun. Nothing like a Wheatley for a bit of undemanding fun when you need a break from “Ulysses” or “À la Recherche du temps Perdu”.

It is what it is, and for what it is, it's a great fun read. I'd been meaning to read Sabatini for ages, and I see now why he is still widely read. He's a cut above the usual corn. I got off to a slow start, but then read the last 150 pages in a single sitting... I couldn't put the silly book down! For that alone, I give Mr Sabatini a fourth star.

Let's not beat about the bush here. This is vintage Wheatley. That means that anybody with half a mind to can pick huge holes in it. It's cornier than a field in Kansas. The characters are all cut from cardboard. There are plot holes you can fly a Miles Hawk through (I'm still wondering what the hell happened to Sabine's mother, since Lord Gavin seems to have got away at the end and he would have been hell-bent on murderous revenge). There are improbable situations. Serious evil is afoot. “For God's sake, man! Get with the plot! This isn't about a few frilly French knickers! It's an evil Communist plot to destroy England!” So, or something like it, exclaims Gregory Sallust to his plodding policeman sidekick. You see, Wheatley desired a particularly evil, unscrupulous, unprincipled villain for this story, and not content to make him simply sinister and deformed, he made him a Communist as well. Because there's nothing more evil, unscrupulous and unprincipled than a Communist, of course. Curiously, this particular Communist does seem to enjoy the finer things in capitalist life, such as casinos, wealth, country estates, private aeroplanes and general all-round fine living. But wait - he's unprincipled. I do wonder why he had to import his saboteurs and agitators? Surely he could have found plenty of indigenous troublemakers without all the hassle of sneaking in foreigners with strange and conspicuous foreign accents to disperse among the disaffected English proletariat? Perhaps Commies are one of the few things foreign countries do better than England. I'm sure Lord Gavin knew what he was doing.

Wheatley has a curious worldview by our modern standards. Exhibit A: the beautiful French girl, having been saved from the clammy clutches of the despicable Lord Gavin, must now be saved from rotting in an English gaol. At any cost. A well-bred specimen like that simply cannot be thrown in the can with all those slags and harlots. It's unthinkable! Have you EVER smelled a women's prison? Just look this way please, Superintendent, while Sallust commits a felony and spirits the lady away. There's a good man. You just come to dinner - I'll have the Home Secretary over, you know. Other bigwigs too. Nudge, nudge...

One assumes Sallust eventually makes it back to England without being charged and imprisoned, because he has other books to appear in. And I'm pleased about that. Because, despite all its glaring faults and curious anachronisms, I had a grand time getting through this ripping yarn.

In my opinion the driest of the four volumes, it maintains Winston's interest in all things political and military, at the expense of everything else. For example, the American Civil war consumes a good third of the book; the Industrial Revolution is almost entirely overlooked. Allowing for this (would we expect anything more or less from Winston?), I'd award four stars, except that I found the Civil War chapters peculiarly tedious - Winston's enthusiasm for battle details got in the way of his writing a truly interesting account of the War.

Still, you can't go past this series. It's a unique account if history by a man who made an awful lot of it. it is compulsory reading if you are interested in Churchill- it tells you as much about the man as the history he describes.

This concise biography is an expert, beautifully written introduction to the life and character of the mercurial, conflicted and brilliant Dickens.

Upon first seeing Peter Ackroyd's immense bibliography, I suspected he might be a prolific hack biographer, and feared for the $6 I had impulsively spent on this slim volume at a local second-hand store. My concern was greatly misplaced. I shall keep a weather eye out for more of his work.

Wow! This was good. The wit, the sparkle, the cynicism, the magnificent, evil Vauquin, the compassionate, endearing Rastignac! My own words cannot do this book justice. I can only justify my omission of a fifth star - an occasional excess of melodrama that made me grit my teeth.

Cleverly constructed and even prescient, “Harlequin” never quite engages. It has serious defects, particularly in terms of character depth and development. The first person perspective might be to blame - we only see Harlequin through the eyes of Harlequin's bestie Paul Desmond, and Desmond is an Aussie boor, equipped by West with a cynical philosophy and a fine turn of phrase, but far too self-centred and shallow to take us right under Harlequin's skin.

We might have had a taut, chilling psychological study of two mighty antagonists, Harlequin and Yanko, determined to destroy each other by means foul. But West eschews a formidable opportunity, and delivers a banal thriller awash in formulaic characters and missing key emotional ingredients. The heights of his best work are out of view here. His previous novel, “The Salamander”, was considerably better, but “Harlequin” seems to accelerate a slide that resulted in the following year's “The Navigator”, an excruciating book that represents an embarrassing nadir in his otherwise distinguished career. 

When it comes to authors of espionage thrillers, Dennis Wheatley is a far worse writer than Frederick Forsyth. Far, far worse. However I keep getting drawn back to Wheatley, and doubt I'll ever pick up another Forsyth. The conclusion I've come to is that Wheatley is so bad he's good, whereas Forsyth is just bad. Wheatley's dialogue is excruciating. He wears his politics and his prejudices loudly on his sleeve, and his books are peppered with bigoted howlers. There's a lot of tell and not much show. But the plot maintains a furious pace, and it is tightly constructed with surprisingly few holes. Wheatley makes good use of his historical setting, and the detail can be very interesting. There's a cartoon quality about the book that makes you forgive the excesses and omissions. In fact, like every Wheatley I've read so far, The Scarlet Impostor doesn't in the least seem to take itself seriously, and that might just be the key to Wheatley's attraction. Have a chuckle at all the cliches - the perverted Nazis, the vicious Gestapo officers, the gallant Frenchies. Give way to your inner English snob. Cheer for Gregory! Hooray for Sir Pellinore! Sigh at the beautiful Erika. Enjoy the ride.

Fighting Sail covers the half-century or so up to and including the Battle of Trafalgar. Perhaps Whipple can be criticised for his Anglo-centric bias, but a certain slant was inevitable - this was the golden age of the Royal Navy. Their mighty ships-of-the-line ruled the oceans, and no figure stood taller (metaphorically speaking) than the flawed, captivating Horatio Nelson. A certain concentration on the details of his life and career cannot be avoided.

It's a desperate shame that Time Life no longer produce books like this. Personally, The Seafarers is my favourite Time Life series. Handsomely bound, richly detailed and superbly illustrated, it vividly evokes faraway places, distant times, and the characters that inhabited them. These books captured my imagination when my seafaring father purchased them more than 30 years later, and they still inhabit a proud position on my straining bookshelves.

A third generation, my 12-year-old son, is reading Fighting Sail right now, as a primer ahead of tackling Forester's Hornblower series.

After near forty years this book cannot help but be a little outdated, yet it comes from a time when the rigours of modern scientific enquiry and the discoveries by then made had laid down the fundamental theories and ideas about human evolution that still stand today. Allowing, therefore, that you may afterwards wish to catch up on the latest developments, this book provides an excellent introduction to the subject. Clear, lucid, and intelligently presented to a general audience, and well supported by photographs, maps and drawings.

An extraordinary book by an extraordinary individual.

Almost without doubt the greatest disappointment I've ever experienced reading one of the “great” novels.