Nicholas Hoare Books
Nicholas Hoare reviews Circle Game by Joni Mitchell
updated
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Music courtesy of Tony Banks: "Five" (Arr. N. Ingman): 11. Reveille c.2018
Take a look at our property with Sotheby's:
sothebysrealty.com/eng/sales/detail/180-l-2813055-sll3d4/3746-highway-1-annapolis-royal-ns-b0s-1s0
OUR PROPERTY IS EXEMPT FROM THE CANADIAN BAN ON FOREIGN BUYERS
The phoenix riseth. After three long years of silence, two in lockdown, your correspondent emerges, bloodied, but unbowed, hundreds of PBS videos and a brutal pandemic having taken their long-term toll.
There is, however, life in the old dog yet. We have been dormant, not dead; and in the difficult interregnum, there have been books to catch up with, decisions to take, and changes afoot that prompt this brief report.
In deference to distance, age and offspring flying the coop, we have reached the sad conclusion, eighteen years in, that our much-loved manse in Nova Scotia, the site of all our videos, should be put up for sale (q.v. below), and that we return to the mainland.
It is, however, our intent to resume our missives, if not our videos, in the interim. We have a rich crop of potential reviews in the hopper that will bear fruit in the fullness of time.
Until then, those of you who have stayed the course are thanked for their astonishing patience. Those who have not are welcome to drop us a line, and their names will be promptly removed.
As to the house, those still interested are referred to the video above (for once not ours) and the listing link below:
sothebysrealty.ca/en/property/nova-scotia/region-northern-nova-scotia/annapolis-royal-real-estate/1093110
or send enquiries directly to:
thisoldhoarehouse@gmail.com
In the meantime, stay tuned. We shall return!
Nicholas Hoare
bookreviewsandvideos.com
As a result, ongoing salvos will be driven by enthusiasm, rather than deadlines, and will only appear if/as/when news and reviews warrant sharing.
Until then, by way of a parting shot, please enjoy Google's own view of our efforts (in which we have had no hand): a pastiche of videos past and present, somehow patched together - bloopers and all - by their all-seeing, and distinctly spooky, "algorithms".
In the meantime, on behalf of the Hoare house in general, and your correspondent in particular, a singularly happy new year and decade to come. It's been a delight to have you aboard, and we look forward to resuming our efforts when the occasion demands.
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For those of us of a certain age, who grew up with him, he became such a fixture of Lord Beaverbrook's flagship newspaper, The Daily Express, that many a reader, not least both the Queen and Prince Philip, subscribed to it largely on his account, collecting his original drawings whenever he was willing to part with them (which he wasn't always: Prince Philip even wrote the forward to his memorial tribute, The Ultimate Giles, of which more anon).
But he was best known for his Giles Annuals, as much a Christmas tradition for grown-ups as Rupert was for children, and equally voraciously collected. The familiar, elongated, floppy format, which featured his output from the year before, was a bastion of British bookselling - as recognisable a shape under the tree as panettone or Christmas pud - selling by the hundreds of thousands right across the country.
Lord Beaverbrook's son, Sir Maxwell Aitken the second, was a close friend of your correspondent's family, and had a handsome house just outside Ipswich in Suffolk ("Swippich" to both our houses), itself Giles' hometown, close to where we lived ourselves. He and Carl became fast friends, as indeed did his beloved wife, Joan. On one occasion, having lunched with him at the Hyde Park Hotel (also part of the Beaverbrook empire), Max took him for one of his traditional walks - a Beaverbrook tradition - along Piccadilly, past the legendary Jack Barclay's emporium - in those days, the pre-eminent London dealer in Bentleys and Rolls-Royces. Knowing Carl's affection for motorcars, he entered the premises, and asked him which car was his own favourite. Carl immediately pointed out a Bentley Continental. "Have you got a return ticket to Ipswich? Give it to me." He did. "Right. I'll keep this and you go home in that," and Max walked out.
The charm of Giles' cartoons, despite their vintage, is their timelessness. His wartime output, in particular, might seem dated at this point; but even now very little is obsolete when put in context by his famous explanatory placards and side-swipes.
His legacy, at least in book form, is the work of a friend and colleague at The Daily Express by the name of Peter Tory. In three books, entitled Giles at War; "Giles: a Life in Cartoons"; and the posthumous "The Ultimate Giles: an Illustrated Tribute to the Legendary Cartoonist" (the latter including 300 of Giles' favourite cartoons), the life and legend of this warm and merry man is fully and affectionately portrayed for successive generations.
All we need now is a biography proper!
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Under such prefatory essays as "authors", "stage set", "players", and "the theatre", one is then guided to the body proper: an astonishing and colourful account of how this enormous, sadly neglected estate, in which Edward James hadn't lived for years (though he lies buried in his arboretum), was not only brought back to life over the quarter of a century the authors were in charge, but to full self-sufficiency, deploying an enormous vegetable garden, meticulously maintained glasshouses (fuelled by a biomass boiler), a sophisticated system of prunings (a profession in itself), more than a hundred varieties of heirloom apples, a pergola 300 feet long, borders galore, and a landscape filled to the brim with flora and fauna alike (sheep being the principal mowers).
West Dean offers degrees and diplomas for full-timers, and a rich array of courses and workshops for transients, at very reasonable rates by British standards. To accommodate an endless procession of guests (the gardens are among the most visited in Britain), it owns and lets over 150 cottages on and around the estate; but nothing and no one is allowed to detract from its overriding vision: that of executing "horticultural rigour and contemporary efficiencies, set against a Victorian backdrop".
What a place of learning!
This is not a book for horticultural neophytes; but as an adrenalin-generating, eye-popping example of one of the top ten such properties in Britain, where both house and garden are maintained to exacting standards (the specialist horticultural photographer, Andrea Jones, took the shots), this noble book reflects, through both photographs and text, a truly stupendous achievement.
Well worth the indulgence, for those so inclined - and a highly appropriate legacy from its creators, who should be given a 12-gun salute for their efforts.
Photos courtesy of Andrea Jones and Ian Watt
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Born into the lap of Edwardian luxury in 1907, James grew up, as the only boy amid three sisters, in a quite extraordinary setting. West Dean Park, a palatial house originally built for a son of the Duke of Norfolk in 1603, lies just outside Chichester, in Sussex. It is surrounded by 6,000 acres of lush, and very beautiful, parkland and gardens, all of which, with no heirs apparent, was left (hugely successfully, of which more anon) to the Edward James Foundation, along with a rich endowment.
In between, however, James lived a life that was as "capricious, undisciplined and eccentric as his wayward character." Neither a collector nor a writer, and at best a second-rate poet, he was nonetheless socially connected at the highest levels and could get away with murder. He supported the arts in general, patronising the equally capricious Salvador Dali, and other surrealists such as Magritte; and published the first collection of John Betjeman's poems through one of his many indulgences, the James Press. His main claim to fame, however, was to have given 100,000 pounds (at least 2,000,000 in today's terms) to Georges Balanchine, which effectively launched the latter's career and proved transformative.
After a brief, nightmarish marriage to the gold-digging dancer, Tilly Losch, which ended in a lurid divorce that made international headlines, he effectively abandoned England and became progressively more eccentric, leading a peripatetic existence abroad, with extended stints in France, Italy, the homosexual demi-monde of Hollywood, and finally Mexico, where he built a spectacular garden across a mountainside in the middle of nowhere, six hours from Mexico City.
Meanwhile, his unfortunate biographer, faced with having to cull trunkloads of disorganised records, diaries and letters (many vituperative and mercifully unmailed, often running 50 to 130 pages long), drawn from all over the globe, acknowledges his book could have easily run to 1,000 pages. Nonetheless, his self-indulgent subject, who grew up under the iron grasp of a fiercely controlling mother, only to thumb his nose at her for the rest of his life, shines through the pages we do have as the last British eccentric on the grand scale.
West Dean itself is next up. Stay tuned.
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A cursory inspection might tend to suggest the book is a prime example of self-promotion, pitched solely at the well-heeled. Not so. A deeper look reveals the art and science, as much as the thought processes, behind each undertaking, the latter distinctive, no two alike, and all scaleable-downable.
To the lay reader, such a tome may appear daunting - it is, after all, 300 pages long - but that would belie its usefulness. Replete with tips and caveats (her bold-face inserts are particularly a propos), this is not only an easy, but graceful read; and if, as your correspondent so often retorts to friends baffled by an entire wall of such books, a tome of this type yields a single, original idea to act on, it pays for the entire purchase.
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Sebastian Faulks, improbably, led the charge in 2013, with a pastiche entitled Jeeves and the Wedding Bells; but five years later, the inimitable Ben Schott, of Schott's Miscellanies fame, has bested him. In a bravura performance, of positively Wodehousian stature, this wicked author has created a cocktail of such distinction that even your faithful correspondent would be hard pressed to differentiate it from the Real McCoy.
In this particularly ridiculous conceit, our hero, Jeeves, has been pressed into service yet again, this time for British Intelligence. Not only does he become a spy, but he becomes sufficiently embroiled in the machinations of war that even he becomes confused. Enter airhead Bertie, who springs to both his defence and that of the nation, but not before fixing auctions, backing horses, and blackballing social rogues and vagabonds.
Vintage PGW from someone who clearly knows him well.
"Jeeves and Wooster" credits:
- photos Picture Partnership & Granada Television
- theme song Anne Dudley/WMG
- graphics Derek W. Hayes
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Priests de la Resistance! (which is, inevitably, sub-titled Loose Canons Who Fought Fascism...) is, perhaps surprisingly, every bit as entertaining as its predecessor, requiring as much of a sense of humour, but no more of a religious predisposition, than its precursor. Singling out fifteen men and women of the cloth from World War II, of singular bravery and eccentricity, distinguished as much for their character as their courage, the inimitable Rev'd. Fergus has spun a distinctively odd, highly entertaining, and ineffably British memorial to them, which joins the Field Guide as a minor classic of its kind.
From the ever tipsy Father Kir, immortalised through his Kir Royale, by way of such luminaries as The Forger-Priest of the Esquiline Hill, The Feisty Nicotine Nun, and the immortal Archbishop Damaskinos, who, facing the firing squad, calmly protested: "Please respect our traditions! In Greece, we hang our Archbishops!", the anecdotes in this priceless little tome are as funny as they are fascinating, depicting, as they do, the indefatigable courage, humour and leadership of these truly heroic souls.
As to the irrepressible Rev'd. Fergus himself, one can but hope for more. Endowed as he is with not merely an astonishing facility for the pen, but degrees from both Oxford and Cambridge, behold a polymath with a sense of humour!
"The Scarlet and the Black" film clip courtesy of ITC Entertainment
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With no wish to cannibalise our video, which may, superficially, appear to bear little relation to books (not so: try Nick Morris's "Stowe House: an Architectural Masterpiece" for size), this fully documented tale of a young man's sobering encounter with a spectre on Midsummer's Eve remains a family treasure, as does Stowe itself; and regardless of the video's significance, for those of our viewers with any interest whatever in British horticultural and architectural design, this astonishing property remains one of the most distinguished, and fully restored, in the country.
As an aside, at the risk of yet more name-dropping, my father was one of the boys who opened the school in 1923. He not only shared a study with David Niven, but they, as prefects, shared in turn a rather portly "fag" (read "runner") by the name of Prince Rainier!
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Present day intelligence boasts illustrious antecedents; and in this consistently fascinating magnum opus, Christopher Andrew, who is internationally acknowledged as an expert on the topic (his history of MI5, as an insider, remains the one to beat), has excelled himself, not only covering three millennia of intelligence, but doing so in the most revealing and readable fashion.
Do not be put off by the book's girth, still less by the prodigious extent of its sources. Making light of a dense topic is never easy, but in the 700-plus pages of riveting text, Professor Andrew's tone is never less than engaging, gripping and comprehensive, covering the full gamut of political skulduggery from antiquity to the present day.
Our vignette has singled out the infamous Zimmermann telegram for special treatment, but we might well have alighted anywhere.
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Whereas Sir Hugh Casson and, to a lesser extent, Graham Byfield, rely on a loose and feathery approach to their characteristic watercolours, Eleanor Crow deploys the same medium, but in warmer and richer tones. More particularly, she singles out the long-established, but largely unknown, shopfronts of neighbourhoods such as Hackney, Battersea and Shoreditch, which remain frequently - and lamentably - ignored.
May they no longer be. Dalston, Bethnal Green and Walthamstow (The East London Sausage Co., anyone?) remain hopelessly overlooked in the overall scheme of things; and this delicious little book sets us straight.
Your correspondent recognises more than a few of the author's selections (not least John Sandoe's remarkable bookshop on Blacklands Terrace), but is the first to acknowledge his shameful ignorance of others. Having already earmarked a shop or three to patronise on his next visit, however, this delectable little tome has whetted an ageing appetite for such things as little else of its type has in ages.
Hats off to Eleanor Crow. More, please! (Marylebone, perhaps?)
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In its wake, dozens of our trees took a severe haircut, but comparatively few were lost. Not so neighbouring apple orchards and vineyards, which suffered either major setbacks or total write-offs; and it remains to be seen just how much fruit can be salvaged at this point.
In the meantime, we resurface for another season, bloodied but unbowed. And it bodes well so far. There have been discoveries and rediscoveries in almost equal measure over the summer, and advance copies from far and wide indicate a sterling season ahead.
Our regular Saturday release resumes this weekend. Until then, we sincerely apologise for our deafening silence and hope you will once again join us.
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Unlike its splendid predecessors, however (What's It All About? and The Elephant to Hollywood, both a delight in their fashion), Blowing the Bloody Doors Off is much more anecdotal. Ruminative and reflective, a hundred films in, but as indulgent and humorous as ever, this frothy tome is precisely the sort of thing with which one would expect a grand old man of the movies to crown his career. Indeed, his wry and benevolent look at a bygone era (not ghostwritten, either!) matches any of its kind.
From poverty in darkest Camberwell, as the son of a fish porter, to Oscars, a knighthood and one of the most successful marriages in the canon, this colourful character regales us with an insider's account of what it's like to be still at the top, all these years later.
Not to be misconstrued as literature, this is nonetheless old-fashioned fun from a richly recognisable voice. It is also a revealing bonanza for film buffs and foodies alike. And as to the latter, the next time you visit London, don't miss Langan's, the legendary restaurant started by Michael Caine and Peter Langan, just off Piccadilly: a destination in itself, of which much is written, and which is still going strong.
"The Italian Job" film clip, courtesy Paramount Pictures
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Far from being a technical tract, written by some humourless professor, this is the work of a distinguished journalist, seasoned in his research, written by and for the layman. In chapters notable for their concision, each a topic within a topic, we are treated - if that be the word - to such issues as Cascades, Heat Death, Hunger, Drowning, Wildfire, Freshwater Drain, Dying Oceans, Unbreathable Air and Plagues of Warming; to which the author appends his own response: Storytelling, Crisis Capitalism, The Church of Technology, The Politics of Consumption, History After Progress, and Ethics at the End of the World.
In less than 300 pages, a vast array of climatic science has been compacted into a grippingly readable, sobering tale of global abuse that has not only come back to haunt the present generation, but will positively undo the next.
Greta Thunberg, meet your match. A monument of its kind, this is a wake-up call if ever there were one.
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Those few are London's cabbies, as famed for their fertile brains as their Cockney humour. The Knowledge is their extraordinary story. Written by the delightful driver of a black cab himself, we are informed that, in a marathon 30-odd "appearances" before an examiner, spread over a minimum of 4 years in the aptly named Corridor of Fear, with a 70% drop-out rate, an applicant is required to memorise not only the 25 thousand streets within a 6-mile radius of Charing Cross ("the epicentre), but their layouts, including "housing estates, parks and open spaces; government offices and departments; financial and commercial centres; diplomatic premises and town halls; registry offices, hospitals and places of worship; sports stadiums and leisure centres; airline offices, stations, hotels and clubs; theatres, cinemas and museums; art galleries, schools and universities; police stations; criminal and coroners' courts; prisons; and places of interest to tourists. In fact, anywhere a taxi passenger might ask to be taken."
Short of a photographic memory, who on earth can cope? The answer lies in this fascinating book. A creative combination of mnemonics, the alphabet, acronyms, capital letters, keywords, history, personal knowledge, and similar triggers, train the cabbie's brain as little else can.
Accompanied by a handsome collection of David Gentleman-styled drawings of individual routes, and "a glossary of Knowledge terms and cabbie slang", this astonishing tome is one of those minor classics of British publishing that warm the cockles of my ageing heart.
To all who read it, a ride in a black cab will never be the same again. Enjoy it. Cheap at the price.
"Taxi" by Bryan Ferry, courtesy Virgin Records, 1993
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Despite a curious, and continuing, insistence on not attaching quotation marks to the dialogue for which she is known, two years later she's done it again. Normal People, also set in and around Dublin, with equally young protagonists, is every bit as good as its predecessor, and off to an even more stellar start. #1 in her homeland, and headed that way here, it concerns the ups and downs of two otherwise smart young people, Marianne Sheridan and Connell Waldron - she well off, from a good family; he impoverished from a poor one - whose natural shyness and different backgrounds belie their devotion to each other, and prevents them from letting down their defenses and declaring themselves.
Spread over four years, and building to an intense finale, the result is a succession of social setbacks that would normally ruin a relationship. The fact that they don't is our author's hallmark, which makes for a highly satisfying romance that appeals, once again, as much to the male of the species as the female.
Warmly recommended.
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Motown.
Those of our viewers who have come to expect a certain standard will be somewhat startled to note that, underneath your correspondent's deceptively elegant veneer, there beats the heart of an ageing rocker, given to wearing wigs (not!).
Nowhere is that more apparent than with Motown, whose peerless and prodigious musical output accounts for a large slice of the 8,000-odd LPs lurking in these precincts, many of them first editions, exported to Britain perforce (by the indispensable Sam Goody) when such things were only selectively issued there.
Thanks largely to Billboard, not a single issue of which has been missed in 50 years, the Hoare house collection is almost definitive. But so, too, is this book, which covers the rich history of the Tamla-Motown-Gordy group as a whole. Written by enlightened insiders - Adam White, Billboard's stellar editor at the time; the ineffable Barney Ales, who ran all three labels with the President, Berry Gordy; and Andrew Loog Oldham, The Rolling Stones' highly astute manager - Motown: The Sound of Young America is the book on the topic we've been awaiting for, lo! these many years.
In addition, until January 2020, the LBJ Presidential Library in Austin, Texas, has mounted a parallel exhibit in tandem with this handsome book. Deploying the same title, it claims to be "the first major museum exhibition to embrace all facets - music, culture and politics - of the 1960s' biggest sounds in soul."
Comprehensive, smoothly written, pictorially perfect and consistently fascinating, this splendid tome is long overdue. Published, improbably, by the august house of Thames & Hudson in London, it is a musical sight for sore eyes; and the music, the history and the evocative context come roaring back as in a flood.
A timeless memorial to an indelible era when some of us still had hair!
While your correspondent's affection for classics and jazz remains happily unabated (6,000 recordings at last count and climbing), Motown's R&B holds a hallowed place by comparison to contemporary pop, little of which will has legs and much of which is atrocious.
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Unlike contemporary humour, which ebbs and flows with the vicissitudes of fashion - and often seems sadly dated - Wodehouseian humour is as durable as the day is long, and indelibly funny.
The Code of the Woosters, in which the redoubtable Jeeves joins forces with his hapless employer in a misguided imbroglio, involving his beloved Aunt Dahlia, Gussie Fink-Nottle, Sir Watkyn Bassett, and Aunt Dahlia's indispensable Chef, Anatole, who is about to be swapped for an 18th-Century cow-creamer, is the purest of froth, the likes of which has never been emulated.
Wodehouse's oeuvre, which tots up to 80-odd volumes - most of which, amazingly, is still in print - remains vintage fare of classic stature and consistent delight. This particular volume is a notable example.
British humour at its best.
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Its sequel, More Letters of Note, is equally intriguing, but covers a different range altogether; and while it doesn't include the authors cited here, handsomely complements its predecessor.
In our continuing series of vignettes devoted to letters, certain authors are standouts. Not only are they consistently readable (not always the case in a full-length book), but the letters themselves are varied, encompassing a vast range of topics.
One such writer is Nancy Mitford, whose Letters of Nancy Mitford remains an emblem of her literary career. Addressing the likes of her lover, Gaston Palewski, Cyril Connolly, Evelyn Waugh, Anthony Powell and her innumerable, demanding sisters, this lovely, gossipy book, runs the gamut from humour to bathos with seemingly effortless ease.
So, too, the exchanges between one of her sisters, the Duchess of Devonshire, and her devoted, lifelong friend, Patrick Leigh Fermor, written across half a century and multiple continents. In Tearing Haste, handsomely edited by Charlotte Mosley (who is married to Nancy Mitford's nephew), is a humorous delight from start to finish.
Darling Monster - Diana Cooper's letters to her son, John Julius Norwich, in his youth - is equally inimitable; while the Americans, far from being outdone, are admirably represented by the peerless S.J. Perelman, whose Don't Tread On Me is a peerless anthology of some of the funniest letters ever written.
All in all, a handsome cross-section of the literary treasure trove that is the world of letters.
Video clip courtesy of Letters Live
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Very much a Sloane Ranger - she was actually born on Sloane Street, and her shop has been at the same address, round the corner on Walton Street, for nearly 50 years - she has lived, from her birth, in a succession of elegant homes within walking distance, as has her daughter, Rita Konig, herself very much in the trade (she writes for House & Garden).
Nina Campbell's 3-year apprenticeship to her mentor, John Fowler, led to independence and almost instant success while she was still in her 20s. Her early partnership with Mark Birley in his 1963 revamping of Annabel's - London's louche and rather more elegant counterpart to New York's Studio 54 - proved both the litmus test and turning point in her fledgling career, which thereupon promptly took off. Deploying classic British style in true Colefax, floral fashion, but adding a distinctive layer of flair of her own, she soon branched out into fabrics, wallpapers and accessories, partnering with Peter Osborne and Anthony Little in their own, fledgling firm, now itself a legend.
Endowed with biting wit and an innate gift for repartee, Nina was, even then, a character. In a memorable encounter with Elena Bowes on November 18th, 2018, regarding the impending sale of the contents of 44 Berkeley Street (Annabel's has since moved next door), she engagingly recalled the following:
I remember when I had just been taken on by Mark to do the club…. I was about 19. I had never been to a urinal. I mean, why would you? And I was also trying desperately to sound intelligent. So we go into the men’s room which is beautiful because there’s this wonderful onyx on the wall and there’s a ticker tape in the corner with all the Reuters news coming in. And then there’s this wall of white porcelain urinals.
I really do find them quite unattractive… Everyone’s there. Mark’s there. The picture hanger’s there because we were thinking of hanging up pictures. I was struggling, thinking what could I add to this? I see that there’s no loo paper holder. And I say, “Oh, you don’t have a loo paper holder here.” … I had no idea that men just peed and shook themselves dry. And of course, the whole place collapsed in hysteria. I had clearly made the most unbelievably stupid remark. I’m quite amused that the urinal is being sold. I think if I had a huge house I might just buy one for memory’s sake.
Courtesy Elena Bowes - Nov 18, 2018
Connected to high society, internationally and in all its forms, but a highly astute businesswoman withal, Nina Campbell has now met her Boswell in Giles Kime, whose own experience as Executive Editor of Country Life, with a particular affection for interior design, stands him here in good stead. Colourful, expansive and thorough, his book is an ideal account of Nina Campbell's meteoric rise, and singular achievements, to date.
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Toe-toe, our six-toed tabby, is taunted by the spring blue jays and robins residing in our Nova Scotia garden.
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Over the 40-plus years they've owned it, Thenford House and its formerly tatty gardens have been systematically restored. Redesigning almost from scratch (the parterres were inspired by the Chateau de Villandry), and with a further 30 acres of farmland added over the years as neighbouring properties became available, the Heseltines have steadily designed and built a first-class, fully-fledged, 70-acre arboretum of both rarity and distinction.
Lanning Roper, whom they seconded in 1977; and developing it through Sir Harold Hillier, the Chairman of Hillier's Nurseries (which still houses the largest collection of woody plants in the world: over 12,000 at last count), this determined couple, despite Lord Heseltine's demanding ascendancy through the corridors of power in the Thatcher government (he rose to become Deputy Prime Minister), proceeded to exact both horticultural and arboreal miracles, amassing en route some 5,000 species of trees, shrubs and plants, including 400 different roses, almost as many oaks, 350 cotoneasters, and no less than 350 varieties of snowdrops (His Lordship's personal passion, not altogether shared by his wife).
Under Darren Webster, their amiable head gardener of long standing, this noble arboretum continues to develop unabated (it even sports its own nursery and a complex of greenhouses); and despite disasters both predictable and unforeseen - not least the influx of an undislodgeable flock of Canada Geese, with which your correspondent sympathises - Thenford has become the object of intense - and international - horticultural interest.
While it remains a private garden (the Heseltines plan to pass it on to one of their children), it is nonetheless open to the public, on a contained, ticketed basis, 4 times a year.
For those sufficiently interested in, but unwilling to indulge, the extravagance of the book itself (which Lord and Lady Heseltine wrote, personally and revealingly, in pleasantly adjoining chapters), you are referred to that bastion of bucolic living, Country Life, whose issue of April 3rd, 2019, features a most excellent article by the horticultural journalist, Charles Quest-Ritson.
Altogether a highly unusual garden, with a suitably handsome book to match.
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Taking a leaf from Sean Usher's surprise hit, Letters of Note: Correspondence Deserving of a Wider Audience, published in 2013, Letters Live became a critical and cultural smash. Drawing both letters and listeners from all walks of life, these literary evenings became rapid sellouts from the start, frequently doing so in 90 minutes flat. So successful did they become, in fact, that their audiences overflowed the church's banks, soon to include the much more distinguished, and very much larger, Royal Albert Hall. Luminaries such as Ben Kingsley, Olivia Colman, Gillian Anderson and Ian McKellen have joined such originals as Juliet Stevenson, Thom Yorke and Cumberbatch himself, forming a phalanx of distinguished readers, who now perform, over a dozen a time, as far afield as Edinburgh, New York, Los Angeles and Venice.
Letters do, indeed, live - and read remarkably well live. As Mr. Cumberbatch himself has memorably noted, "Letters are grenades!"
In the first of a series (the next being diaries), your correspondent now embarks on a literary mission of his own: that of slowly, but steadily, salvaging and reviving a largely lost art. The writing, reading and sharing of letters - highly personal at the time, but openly public now - is an underrated passion that deserves the fullest literary indulgence, covering as it does a vast array of topics, styles and moods, involving writers of all ages, origins and eras.
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As clients of old will recall, Nicholas Hoare Ltd was both a wholesaler and retailer of books, with our beloved libraries accounting for the bulk of the family business. Over four decades of mutual support, our order department amassed a colourful collection of library typos, many of which are classics of their kind.
In the spirit of both affection and humour, we hope you enjoy them as much as we do.
No fooling!
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As usual, Boyd's 15th novel, Love Is Blind, differs totally from its predecessors, but is equally enjoyable. Set in the 1890's, its hero is one Brodie Moncur, a tall, good-looking Scotsman, whose firebrand of a father occasions him to leave house and home at an early age for Edinburgh, where he joins a firm of piano manufacturers and trains to become a piano tuner.
Channon pianos are the Steinways of Scotland. Soon recognised for his extraordinary talent in tailoring instruments to their players, and not above doctoring their keys, Brodie is soon brought to Paris and poached by a professional performer, an Irishman by the name of John Kilbarron, who promptly takes him on a concert tour across the continent.
The plot thickens, however, when Brodie poaches in turn Kilbarron's spectacular Russian mistress, Lydia - Lika, for short - who falls as hard for him as he for her. Unlike his paramour, however, Brodie under-estimates the extent of Kilbarron's vengeful, vindictive and altogether nasty appendage, his brother, Malachi, whose relentless pursuit of the two lovers propels this suspenseful tale.
Ranging from Paris, where Brodie is diagnosed with consumption, to St, Petersburg, Nice, Biarritz and Trieste, this elaborate, evocative tale is vintage Boyd and thoroughly commended. (And if you have neither read nor seen Any Human Heart, an enormous treat awaits.)
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The Literary Review was founded in 1979 by an Edinburgh academic. Directed at a tiny audience of similarly sophisticated readers hungry for intelligent book reviews in the face of ever declining newspaper coverage, it went through a succession of worthy editors until an improbable encounter between its subsequent owner, a sophisticated Palestinian emigre, named Naim Attallah, whose day job was that of Managing Director of Asprey's, a Bond Street landmark, and Evelyn Waugh's son, Auberon, as a result of which the magazine became a landmark itself.
The two men became fast friends; subscriptions doubled and doubled again; and for the last 15 years of his life, after a much respected career as both author and journalist, Auberon Waugh became an editor himself. He succeeded brilliantly. On his humorous, benevolent and indulgent watch, his magazine became a monthly treat, not merely for the quality of its reviews, but for the quality of the reviewers themselves. Peer reviewing peer, expert reviewing expert, most endowed with a very British sense of humour, has become the hallmark of an increasingly respected paper, whose present editor, Nancy Sladek, more than lives up to her illustrious predecessors.
It is this remarkable organ that spawns so many of our own vignettes, and deservedly so. British-based, but cosmopolitan to the core, it appeals to an international base of loyal readers, whose affection for it is as reliable as the excellent books it selects.
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A lady of decorative parts, her botanical antennae were so acute that she also designed for her friends, including JFK, who wisely dragooned her into overhauling two White House favourites, the Rose Garden and the East Garden. In conjunction with her principal couturier, Hubert de Givenchy, to whom she was devoted (he even designed her gardening smocks), she also supervised the restoration of Louis XIV's Potager du Roi at Versailles.
In this distinguished tome - the first such to focus on both her public and private designs - her personal drawings, plans and watercolours, together with archival records, are coupled with a stunning array of snapshots specifically taken for the book. The result is horticultural lust: aspiration vs. reality personified, but sheer inspiration throughout.
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Written by an acknowledged expert, from a refreshingly global, as opposed to Wall Street, perspective, and complete with a dramatis personae drawn from a vast international canvas, this riveting tome holds the reader from the very first page and never lets go. Written for laymen - colloquially and well - it addresses the labyrinthine twists and turns of contemporary politics and finance in measured, chronological tones, leaving readers to draw their own conclusions.
A fascinating, if sobering, pre-mortem on an ongoing crisis that will not be helped by either BREXIT or Brussels, and is as slippery as mercury, this makes a gripping counterpart to Michael Lewis' immortal The Big Short, clips of which are teasingly appended.
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This spooky, gothicky tale, written by the author of The Essex Serpent (separately reviewed), concerns a malevolent, ghostly woman, clad in flowing black with bleeding feet, who is condemned to walk the Earth for all eternity in search of souls similarly tormented by guilt or despair, to whom she clings like a leech until their inevitable demise.
One such prospective victim is an expat British translator, in her thirties, who flees from England to the cobblestoned city of Prague under a cloud, having committed what she feels is a totally unforgivable sin. Donning the equivalent of a hair-shirt, and living like a pauper by way of self-flagellation, she accidentally befriends a local named Karel, himself the unwitting inheritor of Melmoth's curse. The evocative, if sinister, tale that ensues, which is fashioned refreshingly around a female anti-heroine, is what sets this remarkable tale apart.
Inspired by Robert Charles Maturin's 1820 novel, Melmoth the Wanderer, this is nonetheless highly original gothic fiction - of such a standard, in fact, that it prompted Susan Hill, of The Woman in Black fame, to inform the author that she had had to move the book physically from her bedside table in order to be able to sleep at all. It involves mysterious letters, a confession, a manuscript, an unwanted legacy, and the constant presence of a ghostly figure lurking in the background, endlessly waiting and watching for her next opportunity to pounce.
Sarah Perry has done it again. As contemporary ghost stories go, one of the best.
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He writes for The Sunday Times.
His hilarious newspaper columns, which run once a week, to national acclaim, are periodically compiled, forming first-rate collections of brief and pithy essays, on a battery of topics, that have consistently captivated Britain and sold in the millions; and it is these that bear discovery over here.
Beginning with The World According to Clarkson, and progressing through such gems as How Hard Can It Be?, Round the Bend and Driven to Distraction, his latest is If You'd Just Let Me Finish, but any one of them is a dabbler's delight.
British humour at its brightest and best.
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And her selection is exemplary.
In pocket biographies, a page apiece, led by her personal favourite, Albert Hadley (whose concept for Brooke Astor's memorable library was shamelessly poached by your correspondent, three houses ago, to resounding success at the time), famous names such as Billy Baldwin, David Hicks and Cecil Beaton are joined by relative newcomers like Alexa Hampton and Michael Smith. There are inevitable omissions - Tom Parr springs instantly to mind - but if the author's task was unenviable, the results are quite the reverse.
In such chapters as "The Big Six", "A Century of Women", "The Influencers", and "The English Masters", we have as elegant a parade of professionals as ever graced the pages of the glossies. We also have one of the more handsome examples of the genre, splendidly printed and bound (and designed).
In the meantime, for those who have yet to explore it, Ms. Boles' blog, The Peak of Chic, which is now well into its 13th year, remains an indispensable source of inspiration, design and decorative history, some of it visible in the house where these lines are written; and for those whose appetite is whetted by this book, the individual designers included can be explored in much greater detail therein, along with many another.
In the meantime, hats off to Ms. Bowles. A notable achievement by any standards. And hers are high.
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A century later, openly poaching the same technique, the young historian, Andrew Roberts, published Eminent Churchillians, poking an equally revisionist hole in several pretenders to the prime ministerial throne, all of whom had hitched their coattails to Churchill's wagon, for largely selfish reasons, and gone along for the ride (including the late unlamented Lord Mountbatten, the case for whose impeachment your correspondent most heartily agrees with).
25 years after that, Mr. Roberts has now gone one better, by tackling the man himself. In so doing, he has written a veritable masterwork that not only crowns his own career, but neatly supplants its legion of predecessors in one fell stroke. Of these, the late Roy Jenkins, whose own study, "Churchill: a Biography", met with similar accolades in 2001, becoming a classic itself at the time, did not have access to the rich trove of additional data released over the intervening 17 years, to which the author had privileged access.
It is this material that differentiates Andrew Roberts' biography from the pack. Diaries, letters, transcripts and even some unpublished memoirs of Churchill's contemporaries, all only lately released, have greatly enriched a tale of such stature that it bodes well to becoming definitive.
Churchill's lasting monument is, of course, his consummate handling of World War II, without which the entire world would have taken a nasty turn. Here, too, Andrew Roberts rises to the occasion; and in "What Might Have Been", his anthology of "alternate histories", written by the likes of Amanda Foreman and Antonia Fraser, published in 2004, one such essay covered a German-Japanese victory, most recently (and brilliantly) addressed in a TV series called The Man in the Castle (q.v. below, and warmly recommended).
Lengthy, but brilliantly written and remarkably smooth to read, behold a classic in the making.
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With rings on his fingers and bells on his toes, to paraphrase the nursery rhyme (let alone full-length fur coats, which he sported regardless of season), his sartorial eccentricities alone rendered this mythical character unique. Yet his shy benevolence and sheer amiability made him a very close friend, within a narrow circle, of male and female alike. Imperturbably asexual, surrounded by his beloved cats, his inimitable drawings, latched to a perennially dry and very Harvard humour, he led a monastic life, yet created a prodigious archive of books and illustrations that live on long after his death (some have still to be published).
T.S. Eliot's "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats", and John Bellairs' many books for children, all sport Gorey jackets. But his own works, anthologised in such wonderful works as "Amphigorey" and "Amphigorey Too", remain the touchstones by which his art is judged.
An excellent biography, long overdue, of a great and lasting character.
Video thumbnail © The Avedon Foundation
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Fourteen years later, to equal acclaim, a sister publication has arrived, this time in the form of an encyclopaedia. Featuring the same editor, Bob Mankoff - a celebrated cartoonist himself - one can now enjoy an anthology, well over twice the length of its predecessor, sans CDs, laid out by topic as a 2-volume set; and highly amusing it is. Including hundreds of period classics from the likes of Peter Arno, Chas. Addams, Price and the inimitable Booth, it also sports such later luminaries as Chast, Sempe and Koren, 150 in all.
While this is not the sort of thing to take to bed with you - it weighs 14 pounds and runs a full 1500 pages in length - as a compendium of hilarity, it can hardly be beat. A notably humorous celebration of an incomparable institution that will soon be a hundred years old (and a bit of a bargain to boot: the book, that is).
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As a handsome assortment of books will attest, several reviewed here, she was a member of a famous family, which included her theatrical father, Sir Gerald, and grandfather George, both of whom left an indelible mark on their own times. But the touchstone by which she herself was judged was her lifelong love for Cornwall, which radiates and illuminates her fiction.
Of the latter, her classic remains Rebecca, closely followed by My Cousin Rachel, Frenchman's Creek, and your correspondent's personal favourite, Hungry Hill. But when it comes to film, it is Rebecca that dominates. After no less than three versions to date, beginning with Alfred Hitchcock's, yet a fourth is being cast even as this is written, featuring Lily James, of Downton Abbey fame, as the second Mrs de Winter, and Armie Hammer as Max (the dreaded Mrs Danvers has yet to be cast). It already bodes well to becoming the one to beat.
But through it all, Daphne du Maurier lives durably on, and the story of her life remains as fascinating as her fiction. In that regard, a few handsome suggestions herewith.
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Learning to count backwards might seem counter-productive, but not if it's all in fun and you learn along the way. This simplest of simple bedtime tales, first published in 1981 and reissued in multiple formats since, remains a rhythmic, timeless delight for tinies and parents alike.
But stick to the board book: it will be used to the point of collapse.
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Usually, our reviews arrive in your inbox on Saturdays. Not so this time. In shameless obeisance to the CBC's much respected 3-hour programme, "The Sunday Edition", which prompts this particular "post", your correspondent has finally composed an overdue paean to the beloved feline of the species: one which dominates the Hoare house and, to a lesser extent, this website.
In the wake of a particular "essay" in a particular episode of this remarkable programme (q.v. the January 6th, 2019 edition, available online at CBC.ca/radio/thesundayedition, or on SIRIUS XM), entitled "What Happened When the Cat Died," the bereaved owner of Sir Hamish, her beloved orange tabby, delivers a humorous, yet rueful requiem to a feisty, recently deceased beast of considerable character and charm, whose demise at the ripe old age of twenty prompted an outpouring of community sympathy and support at a level that simply floored her.
As the devoted owner of multiple cats over four decades myself, dotted about both domestically and in our four retail stores, said essay was a show-stopper, prompting me to ruminate on cats both past and present, and to dig out some favourite tomes on the topic.
Some (but not all) of these feature in the accompanying video (or, as our friends at PBS would term it, vignette): a mess of literary pottage that comes to you with no apologies (most of the titles concerned are out of print, but readily available second-hand), having secured the feline equivalent of the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval from the paws of the Hoare house's present pair of incumbents, to wit:
PIPPIN: Maine Coon, female, photogenic, age 10; and
TOETOE (she of the six toes, Hemingway-style: not to be confused with a certain pop group): "rescue" cat, somewhat portly, origins indeterminate, age 9
As to "The Sunday Edition" itself, all 1,000-plus episodes of which are assiduously archived for online delving, this delightful, durable and consistently refreshing institution has been a Sunday morning tradition at the Hoare house for lo! these many years, and is warmly recommended to listeners both north and south of the border. Indeed, as Michael Enright, its distinguished and amiable host of long standing, records at strategic intervals, "Don't go away!"
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Their only son, the late lamented John Julius Norwich - a consummate writer like themselves - was born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. Endowed with no less than seventeen godparents, including the likes of Lord Beaverbrook and the Aga Khan, this redoubtable author, who left a string of first rate histories behind him, bequeathed one last work for publication after his death.
Known as A History of France in its American edition, this warm and affectionate book is a charmer. Covering two millennia of history of a frequently exasperating country in 400-odd pages would seem a daunting task (the witty footnotes warrant a review of their own), but Lord Norwich addresses it with typical flair, urbanity and humour.
As the crowning touch to a stellar career, this is popular history at its best.
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A delightfully unorthodox stocking-stuffer. Anglican follies at their finest, most enthusiastically recommended.
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The famous "Yorkshire Vet", James Herriot, who was lionised in a hugely successful PBS series, based on his book, "All Creatures Great and Small", and various sequels, left some mighty big shoes to fill. But filled they have been - improbably, by a benevolent, humorous and wildly popular Yorkshire school inspector, named Gervase Phinn, whose hilarious encounters with small children, bemused teachers and tiny country schools during his peregrinations have been immortalised in a series of very funny (and very successful) books.
One of these is the memorable A Wayne in a Manger, in which our hero records some highly amusing, improvised performances of Nativity plays that bear little resemblance to the original, but are all the funnier for it.
A Christmasy classic. Sheer delight from start to finish - and a brilliant stocking-stuffer.
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Wealthy Mr. Willowby orders a Christmas tree so tall it can't even fit under his lofty ceiling. Enter butler, who simply lops the top off and discards it. Enter bear, in turn, who makes off with the latter, only to discover it's too tall for him, too. More loppings; more latters; until, several increasingly small creatures later, a family of mice purloins the very tippy-top - right under Mr. Willowby's own floorboards.
A rhyming tale with a recycling message that is as valid today as it was when it was first published - almost seventy years ago.
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for more book recommendations.
Happy Christmas and Happy Chanukah!
At the ripe old age of eighteen, Juliet Armstrong is an attractive, highly educated, but impecunious young woman, who latches upon a lowly job, at the outset of war, as a paper-pusher in the Secret Services. Here she is "spotted" by MI5 and unwittingly groomed for stardom to infiltrate the British Union of Fascists, Sir Oswald Mosley's infamous league of Nazi sympathisers. The ensuing tale of avengers and avengees forms the basis of the tale.
A lighter version of John Le Carre, with a much more feminine twist, this is nonetheless robust and textured Atkinsonian fare, involving double agents, derring do, obscure Czechs, and flashbacks (the book begins with our heroine's demise), the whole anchored by a foggily evocative London setting, during and after the Blitz.
Slow to build, but steadily rewarding, this refreshingly clean spy novel, with its prodigious period detail (Baby Bellings, anyone?), is lightly infused with humour (an unusual amount of it in ruminative brackets), and is ideal for light, intelligent reading, involving a wartime plot, an engaging heroine, and plenty of period atmosphere.
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The hand-picked soldiers, veterans all, who compose said Guard, include one distinctive warder responsible for the royal, nay regal, ravens - seven in number - who, by purported decree of King Charles II, continue to preside over life at the Tower, to the delight and amusement of visitors and warders alike.
As ravenmaster, our hero not only lives in the Tower, but holds a unique office, involving the care and maintenance of his highly intelligent charges. Two-and-a-half feet long, with wingspans up to four feet wide, and three times the size of crows (who fly in colonies, not pairs), these imposing birds are patently dear to the heart of their host, whose peerless humour and ceaseless patience radiate the pages of this totally splendid work.
This is not to be confused with a book merely for for bird-lovers. As much a mixture of English history as avian behaviour, this is one of the best books of the year, with immense appeal to readers of all stripes, whether British or not. And through it all, the irrepressible Merlina, our hero's favourite, regal, raven presides: wickedly mischievous, wildly intelligent and improbably endearing.
Warmly recommended for children of all ages, particularly those who never grew up.
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One of the least moralistic tales of its type, and highly enjoyable in its own right, this remains an old favourite of the Hoare house.
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The background to this extraordinary book is almost as intriguing as its subjects. In 1956, James Pope-Hennessy, who stemmed from a famous family himself and was extremely well connected (his mother, Lady Una, was herself a successful author, while his brother, Sir John, was the Director of both the V&A and The British Museum), was retained, unusually, by the Crown to write an official biography of Queen Mary, who had died three years earlier. Three years later, the resulting thumper, entitled simply Queen Mary, was published to international acclaim, and became a biographical landmark, selling in the thousands.
But therein lies the rub. In the three years it had taken to conduct his aristocratic interviews and write the book, the author had amassed a positive treasure trove of personal notes, as perceptive as they were indiscreet. Under strict instructions that they not be released for fifty years, for obvious reasons, it was only in 2009 that they finally saw the light of day, at which point Hugo Vickers, an acknowledged expert on royalty and a well known author himself, took over, editing them, interviewee by interviewee, and providing social background to each.
The result is royalty exposed: a rare inside glimpse of frequently comical everyday life in the aristocracy, observed by an insider himself. Each chapter is devoted to individual interviews, many one-on-one, ranging from Dukes and Duchesses to Grosvenors and Gloucesters; the disarmingly frank to the downright puerile; from comedy to farce. But throughout, a common thread emerges: genuine affection for a very German, singularly unmaternal, but rock-solid Queen, whose contribution to the reign of George V was undisputed, openly acknowledged and handsomely memorialised.
Great fun for gossips and royalists both.
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As founder of the much respected Doughty Street Chambers, which sports 150 lawyers and is the largest human rights practice in Britain, he oversees a hugely successful venture that prides itself on fairness, decency and humanity. As such, he has encountered an enormous range of cases, ranging from individuals to the State (e.g. Margaret Thatcher, whose typical intransigence over the Spycatcher case is here exposed for the first time).
He has also encountered a broad range of characters, many of whom have become personal friends. He courted Nigella Lawson and married Kathy Lette; befriended Jeremy Hutchinson (who himself pleaded such cases as Christine Keeler and the Great Train Robber); invited Kylie Minogue to dine with the British Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, in a misguided effort to loosen him up (an event that was noted with some amusement at the time, and even discussed in Parliament); and acted for the much maligned Salman Rushdie. But, perhaps most of all, he joined forces with Amal Alamuddin, a human rights barrister of great distinction herself, whose manifold talents were such that he was able to persuade her to join the firm, and whose later introduction to George Clooney was effected by a mutual friend.
This is an engaging, rewarding and sociable book, written with flair and humour, and is warmly recommended, as much for the general reader as the trade.
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