THE JUNGLE BOOKS - Rudyard Kipling, 1894 qnd 1895

I once hated Kipling because I once hated If. I thought it was patronising until I became old enough to understand it.  But that is the very point of it. And then, in my early thirties, I was given the best piece of advice that I have ever heard. It was, of course, bound up in a theory within a theory but the thrust of it is: Be a river not a statue i.e. don’t be afraid to change who you are. So here I am, extolling the virtues of everything I turned my nose up at ten years ago.  I am a river alright.  And, as so, I am proud to read the works of a man I would once have scorned. 

Before we go any further, The Jungle Books (plural) bears very little resemblance to the silly Disney film (singular). Although, again, I must admit that I love the soundtrack to the latter. As an aside, King Louie was originally, I once read, to be ‘voiced’ by Louis Armstrong until it was thought that to have him as an ape would be inappropriate. So another Louie/s was used instead (Louis Prima). What silliness, especially when the ‘monkey’ in question is an animated oran utang which is not native to India and does not feature as one of the leaderless ‘bandar-log’ of the original at all.

However, Kipling’s Jungle Books are a treat to read. ‘The Law of the Jungle ’which is the underlying principle of the series is a fine example of a group of animals attempting to regulate their existence for the benefit of one and all. We could all do no better than to heed their advice. I don’t believe in enforced morality. Currently, my life is being controlled by those who, with guilty consciences of their own, are telling me I need to cut my CO2 emissions. I find it disgusting that we should all be forced to pay for a carrier bag each time we buy a magazine in WH Smith: I have been on exactly three aeroplane flights in the whole of my life and I have never bought  (or worn) a disposable nappy; my car has only three cylinders. But the Law of the Jungle, as espoused by Kipling, is something totally different. It is adhered to, without enforcement, for the good of all, out of a common sense and common virtue.

The stories themselves are of mixed quality, the best of them being Rikki Tikki Tavi and the various Mowgli tales. I’m not sure whether Kipling viewed them all as equals, or whether he used some as ‘fillers’, but even taking that into account, this is still a great collection.

OUT OF THE PAST : ADVENTURES IN FILM NOIR – Barry Gifford, 2001

This is essentially a book of short reviews and, as such, could be considered as the would-be Michelin guide of film noir. It, however, makes no attempt to sort the wheat from the chaff. Gifford does not claim to have seen them so you don’t have to.

There is controversy lurking within these pages.  If we concede that film noir is confined to a style and not to an age, we can be pleased to see the inclusion of Chinatown. But Mean Streets? Really? A fine crime film it may be but film noir it is not. To be fair, Gifford addresses this very point in his introduction. Unfortunately his answer is that it is time to forget definitions. It seems strange, therefore, that he has chosen to study an area of film history which depends upon definition for its very existence.

The reviews are fairly ordinary. I bought it because of the title but didn’t learn anything new except that Gifford doesn’t like Barbara Stanwyck. The conversational style is also highly irritating. He does not refer to Bogart’s character in Key Largo by name, writing instead:  “Bogey knows Rocco will kill him at some point.”

DICKENS – Peter Ackroyd, 2002 (Abridged)

If I may, I would like to start with a complaint. I did not intend to buy the abridged version: I consider myself quite capable of digesting a few extra references and do not need my reading matter presented like a bike with stabilisers. And, nowhere on the front cover did it say ‘Abridged’.  In fact, the only reference to it being so is squashed between reviews by Sheridan Morley and Anthony Burgess on the back.

Having said that, I enjoyed it very much.  Ackroyd writes with just the right amount of speculation. He suggests what may have occurred but makes it clear when the evidence is thin on the ground.

Dickens’ life is full of interest but what I find most compelling is how unpleasant he could be. He could hardly spare the time for his sons and was mean to his wife. For as man who wrote compulsively about the tragedy of family break-up, he seemed to do little to preserve his own.

As I have said before, I was never really that interested in Dickens. I’m sure everyone knows about the Staplehurst train crash but to me it was a revelation how this had such an effect on him. Afterwards he avoided train travel whenever possible and it is even suggested that it may have shortened his life as he died only five years after.

SUMMER’S LEASE – John Mortimer, 1988

I watched a DVD of the TV series recently. I enjoyed it very much but I didn’t really understand it. I read the novel on which it was based this week, hoping for enlightenment. I enjoyed it very much but I still didn’t really understand it.

Mortimer sets up a whole series of mysteries for his heroine, Molly Pargeter (and the reader) to solve. Clearly, the loss of the water is due to a local racket and clearly Mr Fixit was murdered for his affair with Mrs Kettering. But what about the clue of the The Copper Beeches? Why did the advert for the villa ask for a family with three girls if the Pargeters are not intended to be impersonating the Ketterings? And what did Henrietta see in the manhole? These questions are asked but never answered.

My paperback copy, as per usual, has a back cover full of reviews. Each one praises the character of Haverford Downs. He is wonderful but, after seeing him ‘inhabited’ by John Gielgud I cannot imagine him any other way.

But Molly Pargeter is the real gem of the novel. Her quiet strength keeps the family together and her love of Italian art is subtly contagious.

MR BRIGGS' HAT - Kate Colquhoun, 2011

This is a fascinating book. It unravels like a classic mystery: you are almost waiting for Hercule Poirot to enter stage left and explain why a man who already had his passage to America paid for would pawn a stolen watch. Even more interesting, though, is the essential conundrum of the hat itself. It does not belong to the murdered man, even though it is found in the railway carriage where he met his end. I must admit I was a bit disappointed to find that the prime suspect actually did do it; I was hoping for a last minute reprieve from the hangman when some new evidence came to light. But perhaps that is a testament to the quality of this work. It keeps you guessing until the end, until the death row confession.

A TALE OF TWO CITIES - Charles Dickens, 1859

Oh, Sydney Carlton, forgive me, for I knew not that you existed.

In fact, I spent years dismissing Dickens. Yes, I loved Great Expectations. A Christmas Carol was an atmospheric read at Christmas. I studied Little Dorrit for A’ Level and then forgot all about it.

I remember an old lady in a hotel once telling my brother that he would return to Shakespeare. I thought at the time that I was glad she didn’t say it to me as nothing would be more likely to put me off than someone else’s certainty that I would like it. (I did – and still do – love Shakespeare; my brother had loved him and left him. I’m not sure how he feels now.) Shakespeare, however, is not the issue here. Dickens is. And I loved this book. I read it all in the sunshine last week. I had an appointment four chapters from the end and I almost didn’t go. I only finished it six days ago and I’m already re-reading it.

Repression, obsession, passion, incarceration and resurrection; it has it all.

PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS – Rudyard Kipling, 1888

It took me a long time to come to Kipling. Disney may be somewhat to blame, but if I’m honest, it would probably come down to ‘If.’

‘If’ seemed too good to be true. It provided the sort of advice that I just didn’t want to hear. There is a reason why it is quoted above the entrance to the Centre Court at Wimbledon but I think you have to experience a certain amount of your own triumph and disaster to really appreciate why.

I’ve been coming round to him for a while now. In the summer I read his partial autobiography and thought it was so interesting that it revealed most by what it left out. I’ve been reading more since.

Plain Tales from the Hills is a collection of short stories, written during his formative years in India and published in The Civil and Military Gazette.

The stories often end abruptly. Rarely are they brought to the sort of conclusion with which we are now familiar.  But this makes them seem so real. How often do we know only part of the story? What happened next is so often a mystery.

The whole of India is here. All classes, castes and ranks are revealed and all are exposed.

THREE WHYS OF THE RUSSIAN REVOLUTION – Richard Pipes, 1998

There was a series about Russia on Radio 4 last year (Russia: The Wild East by Martin Sixsmith).  I only caught a few episodes at the time but I liked the sound of it. I was given the CD set for Christmas this year and it lived up to my expectations. So much so that it has inspired me to dig out all the books I bought when I studied Russian history.

This one is a fairly slim volume, a concise transcript from a series of lectures which Pipes gave in 1995. It identifies three key questions: Why did Tsarism fall; why did the Bolsheviks triumph and why did Stalin succeed Lenin?  All three are contentious issues which have been debated for almost a century and there are many interpretations of the historical facts which are available (and there are, of course, many which are still restricted). This book gives an overview of the differing points of view but the author also gives his own answers to the questions he poses.

Yet the key question still remains: was Stalin an unfortunate accident or was Lenin heading in the same direction? It still has not been definitively answered.

NORTHERN LIGHTS - PHilip Pullman, 1995

What a silly book! I read it with the expectation that it would, at least, be well written.

It’s not. And I really can’t see why it created such a stir.

Feel free to argue with me but at present I am totally unconvinced.

Two more books in the series. Don’t think I’ll bother.

THE LONG WEEKEND - Robert Graves and Alan Hodge, 1940

Graves, apart from when he quotes from his own letters, gives a fine overview of the inter-war years. Each chapter deals with a particular aspect of life yet it is still possible to trace the development of ideas over the two decades which the book covers.

Books like this, which take me back to an almost forgotten time, actually make me realise just how little we have learnt. Scientific and technological progress is immense. But have we really evolved socially or emotionally? Reading this makes me very doubtful. And all those rebellious little teenagers of the fifties, swinging sixties (my parents were there), free-loving seventies and all-powerful (I was there) eighties see that they actually offered nothing different. Rebellion was a rite of passage, the glue which bound a generation. Then they (and we) grew up. Clearly modern day rebellion involves murder, arson and looting. But where’s the fun in that?

Forget water cannon or ASBOs, force young offenders to read sections of The Long Weekend. It just might make them see that they are not so important after all.

But back to the book, it is an easy read but that belies its message. Graves always had the knack of making history, even personal history, accessible. This has the size and weight of a text book but it reads like a novel.

PEGASUS BRIDGE Stephen E Ambrose, 1988

I have just been to Pegasus Bridge.  I re-read this book on the way there to remind myself of the facts. But facts are nothing compared with experiencing the real thing.

My Grandad was a sapper in one of the gliders which landed there. I have his medals and the photographs of him revisiting the area with the Normandy Veterans. It meant a lot to him; and he meant so much to me.  He was proud of what he had done and, in his later years, relived the ‘glory’ of the War but he never talked about the specifics other than to show us the pocket book which saved his life by coming between him and flak from the German guns.  When he made his return trips to France I was just a teenage girl with an all-consuming interest in Duran Duran. He was such an important figure in my life and I can’t believe now that, back then, I knew as little about Operation Overlord as he knew about Simon le Bon. I do regret that I didn’t ask him but I don’t upset myself that I didn’t. I loved him dearly and I still do and I know that he didn’t love me any the less because I never questioned him about what it was like to be in that glider or how he felt under enemy fire. But I can’t help thinking that if only the Teenage Me had known how much the Adult Me would wish that I had. Researching his movements now, I would have found it so much easier if I had his personal testimony. But I have documents, some written by him, some official, and I am slowly piecing together the part he played. Yes, it is the part of just one individual, just one of many. His name appears in no official Roll of Glory I have found. Had he been in one of the first six gliders he would have had his name recorded at Pegasus Bridge itself. Meeting minimum resistance, the men of this advance party took control of the bridge, ascertained that there were no explosives and waited for reinforcements. Arriving about two hours later, under the same atrocious flying conditions and thrown immediately into the thick of fighting during the German counter-attack, the men of the second wave of 6^th Airborne are not recorded. The acts of heroism by the first group are justly lauded and they deserve their fame but history shows, as always, that there are no prizes for coming second. Or maybe that is just my way of looking at things.  Arthur Brock (Sapper, 249 Field Company Royal Engineers, attached to Ox and Bucks, 6^th Airborne Division) never seemed to feel put out. He was glad to march on Remembrance Day and was, quirkily enough, quite happy to remonstrate with the Royal Marine who lived opposite him for only being involved in a ‘skirmish.’ (This ‘skirmish’ was The Falklands War!)

This book provides a sensible account of the D-Day mission which captured the bridges over the River Orne and the Caen Canal.  It shows the extent of the training which made these men capable of undertaking the task and it gives a balanced cross-Atlantic version of events. Without wishing to demote the role of the Americans, it does seem that many of the books in WH Smiths pay greater attention to the US sacrifice on D-Day than to that of any of the other Allied Forces.  Omaha Beach was a bloodbath and should justifiably be given the utmost importance in any history of the Second World War (I have visited the cemetery above it and been overwhelmed by its quiet fortitude) but Juno, Sword and Gold sectors also received their share of German firepower and the individuals who even made it ashore, let alone those who continued to fight their way off the beach, move inland and eventually, liberate  village after village, town after town and then Paris itself, should not be denied the recognition which they are due. The US beach landings at Utah were supported by the American Airborne (I have also just been to St. Mère Eglise; another sobering visit – don’t watch The Longest Day if you want an accurate version of these events.) It was, however, the overwhelming bravery and vivacity of the British Airborne forces which enabled the troops from all the Landing Beaches to move forward and ultimately rendered the 6^th of June the beginning of the end.

This book details just one part of the story, but it is a very important part and is very well told.

THE KING MUST DIE - Mary Renault, 1958

This book was recommended in my A’Level English class back in 1986. I never bothered with it back then. I bought it in a charity shop last month and I devoured it (much as The Minotaur would have devoured his victims) Except he doesn’t. This gives a rational explanation for the events concerning Theseus and his visit to Crete but it’s not half as exciting as the version I’ve grown up with. So, I have to admit, it’s a bit disappointing.

Renault writes very well and draws you into the world but The Ancient World exists to provide us with mystical explanations for everyday events. We can be inspired by and learn from the challenges faced by their heroes. We do not need them to bring us back to earth.

THE GRAVEYARD BOOK - Neil Gaiman, 2008

What a lovely book this is!

The characters we would all expect to be the ‘bad guys’ (vampires, werewolves, etc.) turn out to be the guardians of life, truth and justice.

Bod is orphaned by one of the ‘Jacks’ and the Dead protect him until he is old enough to fight his own battles.

This is an unusual and such an uplifting book.  I was intrigued by it last year when I saw Gaiman interviewed following the award of the Carnegie Medal but I assumed , like so many books, that it would fall short of the mark (well, actually, of my mark). But it lived up to all I expected of it and more. It is actually such a ‘comforting’ book. When I die, I would love to know that I was part of some sort of community, not doing anything spectacular but just getting on with things. Its message is that everyone matters, whatever small and insignificant lives they lead. The dead are all part of some understated tapestry, and when Bod falls among them, they step up to the plate and give him the years he deserves, whilst, in tandem, his guardians attempt to defeat the forces of evil.

I dislike books which try too hard. This one gets it just right.

THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1892

I love the Holmes stories. As I read through this first set again I was tempted to think that they were the finest of all.

There is The Speckled Band with the classic line “The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same relative position to the ventilator and to the rope – or so we may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull.”

The Blue Carbuncle is one of the greatest Christmas stories ever.

The Red-Headed League, The Copper Beeches and The Man with the Twisted Lip are classics in detection and in short story writing.

But what then of The Resident Patient and The Crooked Man (both in The Memoirs)? What of The Dancing Men and The Solitary Cyclist (from The Return)? Or The Bruce-Partington Plans and The Devil’s Foot (His Last Bow)? Clearly, there is no way I can choose a favourite. And after all, I suppose, they are only somewhat arbitrary groupings, having been published individually in The Strand magazine. Doyle’s success lay in the fact that he kept coming up with novel and interesting problems over such a lengthy period.

And then there is The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes, currently unfinished. The final story is The Retired Colourman and I have not read it. I have never read it. I do not want to be in the situation where there are no more Holmes stories for me to read. (I do not include those stories written since by other authors, some of them surprisingly good; some, like The Last Sherlock Holmes Story by Michael Dibdin, exceptionally good.) If I am ever on Death Row I will request The Retired Colourman instead of food for my last meal, however much I will want a pizza.

ON CHESIL BEACH – Ian McEwan, 2007

After reading the very fine Atonement I have been inspired to try a bit more of McEwan’s work. On Chesil Beach has not been found lacking. It is a strange concept for a book, detailing an unconsummated wedding night in the 1960s but it is written so beautifully that the non-event is placed almost as an island in the river of the two lives which flowed before it and continue after it.

LUCKY – Alice Sebold, 1999

Sebold wrote The Lovely Bones which I really enjoyed. I picked this off the shelf, anticipating something similar. In many ways it is similar. But The Lovely Bones was a quietly optimistic novel, a young girl watching from above as her family and friends come to terms with her murder. Lucky is Sebold’s biographical account of her own rape and the subsequent trial. (The title refers to a policeman’s comment that she should feel lucky she was only raped and not murdered.) I am glad that she survived her ordeal and that she is now a successful novelist but I find it difficult to see why someone would wish to wear rape almost as a badge of honour.