Warren Loveridge
Professor Cumberland offers a unique perspective on New Zealand history: that of the land itself and the forces that have shaped it, natural and human. History is most often an account of people and rarely more than scratches the surface of its physical setting, but here unfolds the story of New Zealand itself - that is, the little group of islands we know by that name. Of course, as the book's subtitle makes clear, the story is a human one too, and so we are introduced to a multitude of interesting characters; determined, hardy men who remade the landscape into the familiar shapes and scenes of today.
Clearly written and beautifully presented with photographs, maps, diagrams and focus boxes, Landmarks is a compelling look at the development of modern New Zealand through a geographical eye.
Only the last chapter mars the experience by veering away from the book's main thrust. Forty years on, Cumberland's speculation about the future is mostly inaccurate and often irrelevant, but occasionally prescient, for example when he predicts and describes the Internet very much like we know it today. But even this largely unnecessary postscript fails to detract from an informative and interesting book that positively changed my own view of the land in which I was born and bred.
Three stars not through any fault of Casanova's, but because this volume is a slim set of isolated vignettes plucked from the vast panoply of the great libertine's memoirs, with little to no context or explanation. The episodes themselves are fascinating; but the manner in which they've been presented leaves a little to be desired.
Between the 1950s and the 1970s Leonard Cottrell wrote extensively on archaeology and the Ancient World. Subsequent decades of research and discovery have doubtlessly rendered him out-of-date, but for a popular audience his many books remain well-written, entertaining, and informative introductions to a vast field of knowledge. “Lost Cities” is no exception.
Despite writing with a general audience in mind, Piper can at times get a little deep for the average layperson. But nevertheless, The English Face was an excellent education for a numpty like me. When it comes to art I have no talent, no knowledge, and only the dimmest comprehension. Yet despite skimming the more difficult parts, I reached the end feeling I'd learned an enormous amount, had greatly improved my mind, and was much closer to an understanding of why so many people in portraits from the 17th and 18th centuries were so ugly and bug-eyed.
I can't think of any reason to give this less than 5 stars. We know Dickens isn't perfect. The merits and flaws of his work have been discussed exhaustively for nearly two centuries now, and we all know the arguments. The Old Curiosity Shop doesn't break any moulds. Yes, the villains are very villainy, and the goodies are very good. Why, little Nell, pure, courageous Nell, she's practically an angel on earth right from the get-go, and it should come as no surprise when she gently but gloriously ascends to the heavenly domain, particularly since the author builds up to it with some rather heavy-handed allusions in the immediate preceding chapters.
But Dickens exerts enormous power over his helpless readers. Such magnificent prose, passages comic, passages grotesque, passages profound, stirring, moving, joyous... let us stop there. I will spare you the full list of adjectives I had in mind. I mean, what can I say about Charles Dickens that hasn't already been said a million times or more?
Suffice it to say that there is a reason that Dickens sits high atop the pile of 19th century novelists, and perhaps atop the pile of all novelists ever. He is a byword, the last word, and he's even an adjective. He left to us one of the most compelling windows on the 19th century. He is a phenomenon that will never fade.
Pericles the Athenian purports to be a memoir by the philosopher Anaxagoras, Pericles' friend, confidante, and former tutor. Unfortunately it is a dry account, containing no dialogue, and in large part it reads far more like an ordinary history book than a work of historical fiction. Warner neglects the opportunity to spark Pericles into vivid, imaginative, three-dimensional life that the genre provides. Neither Pericles nor his supposed biographer, Anaxagoras, ever really lift off the page.
Rex Warner was a brilliant scholar and a fine writer. On the heels of his outstanding Young Caesar and Imperial Caesar, Pericles the Athenian is a disappointment. It is well written, intelligent and erudite, but it lacks colour, energy and interest. For the casual reader looking for an introduction to Pericles it is a dull book best avoided.
Curious one this. Despite my love of Twain's writing, I found myself slogging through the second half. This is really two books, as the story of its publication reveals. The first half is a brilliant, witty account of Twain's own piloting days. It's riveting. But the second half, or more accurately the second two thirds, ostensibly Twain's account of a later life journey of nostalgia and rediscovery up the river, seems like a rather general collection of anecdotes and tales only loosely bound by the Mississipi. The individual pieces are at times vintage Twain, but somehow the whole is less than the sum of the parts. Unlike the river, it lacks flow. I'd put it down after one chapter and find I wasn't compelled to pick it up again. But don't overlook it on this account. There is a wealth of interest in here, a portrait of a vanished time, intimately drawn by one of the English language's best writers and most astute observers.
I'd like to give it 3.5 stars, but since Goodreads allows me only integers, I'm compelled at length to round down to 3 rather than up to 4.
Rendezvous With Rama isn't without its faults. But its strengths penetrate Clarke's somewhat pedestrian prose and interchangeable characters and deposit it on the top shelf of 20th century sci-fi. Visions of the enigmatic, fascinating Rama remain with you forever. Thus we approach Rama II with great anticipation, eager to learn answers to the tantalising mysteries of the first book.
Well, I suppose we learn a teensy bit more about Rama. But we learn a whole lot more - a WHOLE lot more - about a bunch of one-dimensional, hackneyed, stereotyped walking cliches. Excruciating detail. Useless detail. Unless they're the Russian scientist or the Japanese crew members. They lurk around like useless shadows. And everybody communicates in stilted, clumsy dialogue. And they have perfunctory, pointless sex. The prose is awful. Like, how many times is Francesca referred to as the “Italian journalist”? Aarrgh. There are strange gaps in the narrative, something I thought was down to my own deteriorating memory until I confirmed them with my son, who'd read the book just before me. To describe them would be too much detail in a review such as this, but read the book and you will see what I mean. You'll have the odd “what the...?” or “how did...? moment as the story proceeds. Entirely missed by all the friends and colleagues who supposedly gave their feedback on the manuscript...
Inexplicably, the big technological and scientific concepts are glossed over. The mechanics of the Newton craft, the helicopters, the drones and even Rama itself are barely touched upon or entirely neglected. But we know all about Nicole ordering an airline meal from her seat and buying a bus ticket or something, whilst learning nothing about the plane she's on. And apparently she was able to load the text of five (yes, FIVE!) books into the discretionary memory in her personal computer. C'mon! You could already fit five books on a floppy disc in 1989! Surely by 2200 we'd squeeze a few more into a personal computer? And what's with Francesca shooting on FILM? The digital still camera had been around since the mid-70s - was it so hard to imagine a digital video camera by 2200?
I think it's clear from the available evidence that Gentry Lee had a lot more to do with this book than Arthur C. Clarke, despite the billing on the cover. So it's Gentry at whom the raspberries and brickbats should be aimed. There was enormous promise in the prospect of a Rama sequel, none of it realised. In this turgid tome Gentry has greatly amplified Clarke's weaknesses as a writer, and entirely buried his strengths. Clarke never needed to collaborate, and in doing so his legacy was damaged.
Because he is held in high regard by many people who love Dickens, Wilkie Collins has been on my radar for a while. As the earliest of the three Wilkies presently in my possession, I decided to start with this one, aware that it isn't regarded as his best work. And that consensus seems to me to be correct, because Hide And Seek contains some considerable flaws. Wilkie plonked far too many deuses in the machina to make the story completely plausible, and his occasional flights of purple Victorian prose can tax the modern attention span. However the characters are well drawn, the story is ultimately a good one (unlikely coincidences and all), and there is much good and witty writing. I thoroughly enjoyed it, enough to forgive it its trespasses and make me look forward to my next Collins.
To date I have read exactly half of Graham Greene's novels, encompassing Stamboul Train through Doctor Fischer of Geneva. There is an observable arc as his powers build from the early thrillers, peaking with such great classics as The Power And The Glory, The Heart of the Matter and The Quiet American, then declining through the series of low energy novellas with which John le Carré describes Greene completing his shelf.
In Brighton Rock I discern the stirrings of that great power which brings me back to Greene over and over. It's unquestionably the darkest Greene I have read so far. The dichotomous, tormented Pinkie is a frightening creation. It's a blessing this novel is only 250 or so pages long. Many more would result in too much time spent with Pinkie. Nobody escapes Pinkie's company intact.
Brighton Rock ends with quite possibly the most devastating final sentence of any novel, ever.
After taking years to get around to reading Nevil Shute I'm left with mixed feelings. This is far from a flawless book. There's enough in here to make a modern feminist freak out and foam at the mouth, for example. And then there's the curious business of Dr Scott's apparent omniscience. Numerous chapters are narrated by him in the first person, and that's fine because he was there. But then we'd move to a different scene, often thousands of miles away from Dr Scott, and the narrative would switch to the third person, except for the odd comment from Dr Scott, weirdly just dropped in there. I couldn't figure it out.
Nevil Shute's writing is workmanlike. He is no great prose stylist in the vein of, say, Graham Greene. There is no great exploration of the human condition going on here. But he writes an intelligent, engaging story. I'd give it 3.5 stars but, and I'm sure I've said this before in a Goodreads review, I think it's fairer round it up to 4 rather than down to 3.
Somewhere somebody called this book cut-rate Wodehouse. I think that's a little unfair. Finding a copy in a secondhand book shop some time after thoroughly enjoying Linklater's Private Angelo some time ago, I had high hopes which weren't entirely realised, but I will cut a little slack for this being an example of his very early work. There are a few continuity errors, and one or two anachronisms (did anybody else notice that Wesson never mentioned the 1.55pm train when talking to Nelly, but later in the book she recalls his complete nonchalance when apparently doing so?). However it's an enjoyable romp that prompts the odd chuckle. Linklater is an erudite and learned author, and Poet's Pub points towards his later, more polished work.
This is another case of a 3.5 star book to which it is fairer to round up to 4 stars than down to 3.
Although this book isn't a great deal more than a collection of jokes strung together by a loose narrative, Benson still manages to convey some of the real atmosphere of the logging camps and the men who inhabited them. Some of the jokes are rather good, too.
In my humble opinion this biography did not live up to its promise. It was more perfunctory than intimate, a once-over-lightly that could have been so much more given its authors. We are provided with a pretty thorough rundown of dates, events and record releases, but we are never really admitted to Roy's inner world, except for the glimpses obtained when he (or in some cases his friends and collaborators) are quoted directly. The book barely touches the terrible events which shaped Roy's life as much as his music: the deaths of his first wife and, later, his sons. The later death of his brother gets barely more than a sentence. We hear more of his reaction to Elvis's passing than Claudette's, or the boys. Overall the book entirely lacks the kind of detail that devoted Orbison fans would like to sink their teeth into and that they might have hoped for from his sons.
Other than clearing up my mental Roy Orbison timeline somewhat, I didn't feel I'd really learned anything significant and new about him by the time I got to the end. A few factoids maybe. In contrast, I found the documentary the Orbi-Sons made (Mystery Girl Unraveled) far more intimate, revealing, and moving.
The boys redeem their effort to a certain extent by the inclusion of a wondrous number of fabulous photographs, many never previously published. These, in my opinion, lift the book from 3 stars to 4, although if Goodreads allowed half-stars that would probably have been from 2.5 to 3.5 stars.
A very dry read, as might be expected, but very informative despite its age, and although I skimmed over large parts, I learned a lot about a subject that is of general interest to me.
If I were to level one criticism at this book, it would be that many characters who would have been very simple, plain-speaking folk express themselves in the golden prose of Kahlil Gibran. Let us overlook this though, because there can never be enough of Kahlil Gibran's golden prose in the world.
There were moments when I thought I might never finish this book. It's a dense and detailed account of Scottish history, battle by battle. And it seems at times that Scottish history comprises nothing but battles. The Scots, especially the Highlanders, were always fighting. They fought the English. When there were no English to fight, they fought each other. And occasionally, when they ran out of people to fight, they'd head across the North Sea and enlist in Continental armies so that they could keep on fighting. Somebody. Anybody. Terry Pratchett's Nac Mac Feegles kept springing to mind, and I realized how devastatingly on target the late, great Sir Terry's affectionate parody actually was.
To be honest, I'm not sure who this book appeals to, even after having read it myself. It is far too dense for anybody with just a casual interest in Scottish history, and its age and apparently loose connection with facts (according to some Scott relied too much on anecdote and folklore) likely make it of only historical or passing interest to the serious reader. Perhaps the reader of military history is most likely to gain something here - the rich and detailed descriptions of the defining battles are a resource that could be turned to again and again.
But for all its shortcomings, the book stands as a mighty testament to Sir Walter Scott's incredible storytelling talent. Rich, detailed, dramatic, and sometimes even exciting, there is an awful lot here to balance up the ledger. For those who tackle it on its own terms, Tales Of A Grandfather is a rewarding investment in time, and an epic tale of an extraordinary people.
This is the second Nevil Shute that I've read, and I'm starting to get an impression of him as a workmanlike writer who tells a good story. His prose is a little clumsy. I couldn't tell you how many times Professor Legge was referred to as “the civilian”, or how many times the hero's car's engine was described as “worn”. I was left particularly bewildered by an odd paragraph in which Shute inexplicably appears to break the fourth wall and writes in first person singular about encountering some secret material regarding the protagonist Chambers.
Shute makes up for his shortcomings with his profound technical knowledge, his ability to convey it to the reader, and his gift for stringing together a good plot. Quotable he isn't, but the stories stick. In this case he has got me very interested in going to look at the Avro Anson on display at an aircraft museum near me.
The acid test is: will I read another Shute? Sure I will.
A brief but frequently tedious biography of Caesar that devotes too much space to reciting the name of every Gallic tribe that ever crossed his path.
I found only one fault with this excellent biography, one it shares with many others: as you read it is frequently difficult to keep track of the timeline. The problem could easily be solved by putting the year concerned somewhere in the border of every page. I've seen it done, and it's a wonderful innovation
Very much a novel of its time, a little hokey, riddled with cliches, and coloured considerably by the patrician attitudes of the day towards women and, er, our Eastern cousins. If I had given up at page 50 I'd have said it was a 2-star book, maybe less. But the action picks up, Gibbs' writing begins to flow better, and Camilla Dean, the female protagonist, begins to show a bit of modern grit. Putting aside its contemporary prejudices, we have a quick, fun read from which it's entirely possible to learn a little about the Middle East of that period, and the attitudes that governed it. I'll push it up to three stars for that.
I enjoyed the beginning when the Baron was fighting wolves and bears with his bare hands, however things became increasingly ridiculous. It was more silly and less fun, and the prose became increasingly purple. You need a bit of staying power past the halfway mark. By the time Don Quixote turned up I'd really had enough but, like the Baron himself, I don't quit easily so I finished the book, however not without a sigh of relief.
You will not read a better book about the great Armada of 1588, simply because this one is written by the major participants, from both sides, skilfully woven together by Stephen Usherwood with enough brief contextual explanation inserted to maintain the flow.
I'd only suggest that you do read other accounts first to familiarise yourself with the chain of events. I recommend Garrett Mattingly's “The Defeat Of The Spanish Armada”.
A brief and interesting read for those who grew up with, and in, these cars, but very much a once-over-lightly effort. For example, there is not a single mention of overseas CKD production, such as the significant New Zealand operation which accounted for around 9% of total 2000/2500/2.5 production. While interesting photographs abound, there is a scarcity of facts, figures and statistics, and a near-complete absence of technical data. The book is also significantly marred by very poor editing, betraying its essentially amateur production.
On another note, the binding is so cheap that this brand new book fell apart completely within the couple of hours it took me to read it.