Category Archives: Books

Take five

January passed in a blur of protests, marches, outrage, petitions and emails. Time to regroup for five bars’ rest, before returning to the fray. Here are five things I’m going to do in February to keep me fresh.

  1. Plant some vegetable seeds. Nothing says “hope” like tomato seedlings growing on the windowsill.P1040212.JPG
  2. Go book-shopping, in an independent book shop. I’m working my way through the excellent long-list for the Wellcome Book Prize, always stuffed with thought-provoking literature.G Heywood Hill window
  3. Explore the vibrant art of the belle of Bloomsbury. Dulwich Picture Gallery hosts the first major retrospective of Vanessa Bell, a pioneer in life and in art. Starts 8 February.
  4. Bake some cake. I’ve had the builders in, re-making the kitchen, since the middle of December, and I’m craving the warm, delicious smell of a cake baking in the oven. Which one? I think I’ll see which page falls open first in my well-used copy of Pam Corbin’s River Cottage Handbook: Cakes.img_02135: Walk by the sea. For a clear head, wide horizon and lungful of breathable air, I’m heading out of polluted old London and down to the Kent coast.
    Dunes

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Hero tips from inspiring publishers

zero-to-heroWhat do you get when you take 11 publishing pioneers and put them in a room full of people who want to know how they did it? The Literary Platform‘s event From Zero To Hero was packed full of hard-won insights, tales of bravery and belief, and innovative ideas.

Held in the hip Rich Mix cultural centre in Shoreditch, the day featured three panel sessions with Q&As afterwards. The first focused on print start-ups, with Miranda West of Do Books, Martin Usborne of Hoxton Mini Press, Kirsty Allison of zine Cold Lips and Valerie Brandes of Jacaranda Books. They represent four completely different businesses, united by masses of passion from their start-up founders.These were my take-home tips:

  • Write (and publish) with one person in mind (MW)
  • It’s about building a community, via social media, events, festivals…(MW)
  • If you’re not sure who your audience is, know yourself – what you enjoy, what you want to read or buy – and have faith that others will love it too (MU)
  • Offer something unique to an under-served audience (VB, KA)
  • Get the production values right for your audience/price point – a punk DIY look is spot on for zines , but high production values establish you as a publisher to be reckoned with.(VB, KA)
  • It’s not cheap and finance is hard to come by. You may need to self-fund or crowd-source funding. Print costs for 3000 copies can be £4000 – and then you have 3000 copies to sell or store. (MU, MW)
  • Cover and title are what sells, so don’t skimp on those.(MU)
  • If you believe in your idea, go for it! (MU)

Finding the right model is crucial, and the “commission book, print 3000 copies, sell book” model is no longer the only game in town. Michael Bhaskar of Canelo talked us through how to “do digital publishing properly,” with lots of love for the mid-list authors so apparently unpopular with the traditional publishers. Anna Jean Hughes of The Pigeonhole talked about moving from publishing new content to providing a service to existing publishers, via their “fitbit for your book” app; and David Cadji-Newby of Lost My Name explained the appeal of the print-on-demand personalised book (stressing that you have to ‘do personalisation properly’).

The final post-lunch session was a dizzying whirl through the world beyond words, with sessions from Anna Gerber and Britt Iversen of Visual Editions, whose work stretches from books in boxes to radio stories; Dorothea Martin from oolipo giving us tantalising glimpses of their yet-to-be-published smartphone projects, and Crystal Mahey-Morgan of Own It! stretching the boundaries of what a story can be – a teeshirt message, animated film, song, a book packaged with all of the above. After all that, it was a relief to hear her tell us: “Don’t let the tech get in the way of the story”.

Stories are the one thing guaranteed to take us all from zeros to heroes, after all.

Image: Charlotte Aston, @cjmaston.

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Desert island books

Bookshelf

Desert Island Shelf

Like many people, I spend way too long contemplating what records I’d pick if I was inexplicably chosen as a guest on Desert Island Discs. But I’ve always thought they had it wrong – eight records and only one book?

There’s no way I could pick just one book to last me from here to eternity. Poetry? A novel? A book of short stories? Or should you just ask for Boat-building for Beginners? And anyway, beach reading is one of the great pleasures in life. How better to while away my time as a castaway?

So I decided to invert the format and choose the books that have built my life in literature. It’s quite a conventional list, but then I’ve had quite a conventional life.

I’d love to hear other people’s choices, too – do make suggestions for your Desert Island Books in the comments section.

Book 1: Five on a Treasure Island, Enid Blyton. The adventures of the five were probably the first books I read for pure pleasure, rather than while learning to read. I’d been given a stack of them by an older cousin. Red linen covers, chunky paper, and a world where adults barely existed, camping was de rigour and girls could call themselves George. I waited anxiously for my ninth birthday, having noted that Ann (the youngest) was nine when they had their first adventure. I firmly expected the same to happen to me.

Book 2: Little Women, Louisa May Alcott. Another tomboy heroine – and one who wrote. Jo March was my first prompt to pick up a pencil and start writing my own stories. My copy was my mother’s, bound in blue leather with gold lettering.  It had such a distinctive smell that I took it away on holiday, instead of a teddy bear, to remind me of home. Little Women is my first memory of weeping over a book – I cried so hard over poor angelic Beth that my father said I should stop reading it. I’ve been over-identifying with literature ever since.

Book 3: The Canterbury Tales, Geoffrey Chaucer. A level English, and what seemed at first to be a completely impenetrable book written in a foreign language. Fortunately, our teacher selected The Wife of Bath’s prologue and The Millers’ Tale for our introduction. Once I’d figured out that speaking the words aloud can unlock the language (especially if you have some schoolgirl German), I was away, revelling in the bawdy, energetic life of the Middle Ages, fart gags and all. Many years later, the Canterbury Tales set me on the path to writing my own first novel.

Book 4: Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, William Blake. These little books of little poems had a profound impact on me at university. The simplicity of the language and the complexity of the dualistic world view they convey means I return to them time and again. Each word, each rhyme and repetition, is there for a purpose. They’re packed full of contradictions, evocations. The Songs were an introduction to the wilder woods of Blake’s prophetic books, in which I wandered and wondered for a while, before returning with relief to these gems.

Book 5: The Color Purple, Alice Walker. It took a while, after university, to find my own taste, after the blitzkrieg survey of English literature I’d been through. Then I found Alice Walker’s searing novel of the American south. It was a lot of things I thought I didn’t like (epistolary, dialect, American). The strength of the voice, the restraint in what you are or are not told, showed me that different stories need different storytelling.

Book 6: Cold Comfort Farm, Stella Gibbons. Comic novels have been a comfort to me on many a long, dark night, so I’ll need one for my desert island. I could have picked Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love, or Kingsley Amis’ Lucky Jim, or any of the Jeeves and Wooster novels, to buck up my spirits while wild beasts circled. But Cold Comfort Farm would reassure me that, no matter what the challenges, a girl with her wits about her can soon make everything neat and comfortable.

Book 7: Our Mutual Friend, Charles Dickens. Dickens is the quintessential London novelist of the Victorian period, conjuring up the fogs swirling the riverside like no-one else. A few years ago I began re-reading Dickens and filling in the gaps of those I’d missed, and found myself utterly absorbed in this menacing thriller. Dickens’ vivid characters and deep knowledge of the city would have me treading London streets in my mind, while the desert island waters lapped at my bare feet.

Book 8: Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel. Every so often, a new book comes along that changes everything. I found Wolf Hall astonishing. The complete evocation of an unfamiliar world, the up-ending of everything you thought you know about the Tudors, the steely focus on one, utterly-believable point of view. Mantel’s book makes every historical novel before it seem about as authentic as a costumed re-enactment at a National Trust castle.

Record: Iestyn Davies singing Henry Purcell’s Sound The Trumpet.

Luxury: Radio 4. Told you I was conventional.

 

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Flaneurserie at the London Review Bookshop

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Flaneuse in Cecil Court. Does it count if you’re playing Pokemon Go?

I’ve yet to meet a writer who doesn’t appreciate the pleasures of a leisurely stroll through a city. Overheard snatches of conversation, relationships being negotiated, the press of a rush hour crowd, hidden courtyards and quiet parks, provide rich fodder for the imagination.

I’ve long aspired to the status of flâneur, the observer who sets himself (usually) aside from the crowd to take pleasure in watching. Exploring cities on foot is a favourite pasttime, from the Manchester of my student years, to Paris, New York, Florence, Madrid – and of course my home town, London. So I was intrigued to find out more about the female experience, from Lauren Elkin, author of Flâneuse: Women Walk the City, in conversation with Brian Dillon at the London Review Bookshop in Bloomsbury.

A flâneuse, Elkin tells us, is ‘a determined resourceful woman keenly attuned to the creative potential of the city, and the liberating possibilities of a good walk’. I’ll take that.

Paris spawned the notion of the flâneur. Self-consciously dressing up their wanderings in a frock-coat of literary intent, writers like Baudelaire and Walter Benjamin claimed the streets and cafès as their own. It’s always been harder for women. Writer Georges Sands famously borrowed her brother’s boots and breeches for her own perambulations through Paris, delighting in being able to disappear into the crowd.

The difficulty comes, as Elkin said, with the male gaze. Much as women might like to go unnoticed while walking alone in the city, ‘it’s the gaze of the flâneur that makes us so conspicuous.’ There’s an queasy connection between a woman walking the streets, and a street-walker. Why has this woman left her home to go gadding about the city, if not for business or pleasure, or the business of pleasure?

The problem has by no means disappeared. I was threatened with sexual violence as a student walking home through Manchester late at night. When I wanted to stroll in Madrid, where I lived in my early 30s, I’d choose a nondescript outfit that would not result in the hisses and shouts of ‘Rubia!’ (Blondie) that followed me if I dared to wear a short skirt. Now that I’m older, I can walk London with impunity. It’s a relief, but I feel sad that I had to look dull. Why shouldn’t the flâneuse adopt her own flamboyant, dandy style? It’s not about being invisible, I realise, just about being comfortable.

Bloomsbury seemed a good place to consider the flâneuse. It’s a fine place to wander, through the squares and gardens. Bloomsbury doyenne Virginia Woolf wrote one of the finest novels of walking the city, in Mrs Dalloway, whose footsteps you can trace around town. Clarissa Dalloway, of course, wasn’t merely wandering, but out to buy the flowers. Shopping is an acceptable excuse for women walking alone. Only Peter Walsh, her former admirer, is able to be ‘completely free’ in his wanderings, to the extent of following a woman through the streets, wondering whether she is ‘respectable’.

Respectability seems a great hindrance for a flâneuse. Some of my favourite writing comes in the novels of Sarah Waters, who gives us transgressive women – feminists, lesbians, cross-dressers, thieves – walking the streets for pleasure or profit, or simply for something to do. Her description in The Night Watch of walking the bombed streets of the city during the black-out has a particularly hallucinatory power.

I’m looking forward to learning more about artistic flâneuse through Elkin’s book, including the film-maker Agnes Varda and photographer Sophie Calle. Both did interesting things with the female gaze, not least turning it on men. Neither of them sound in the least bit respectable, and I’m delighted to make their acquaintance.

Flâneuse is published by Penguin.

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This Orient Isle

9780241004029Who did Shakespeare have in mind when he wrote about Othello, the “noble Moor” of Venice? It’s entirely possible he was thinking of the dashing Muhammad al-Annuri, Moroccan Ambassador to London, who arrived in London in 1600 to propose an audacious alliance between Morocco and England, in opposition to the Catholic European powers of Spain and France.

The ambassador’s arrival must have created quite a stir. His portrait shows a tall, dark-bearded man with intense eyes, a white turban and robe, black cloak and ornate scimitar. He and his 16-strong entourage spent six months in London, attending jousts at the Accession Day Tilts in Whitehall, meeting Queen Elizabeth in Nonsuch Palace and staying on The Strand. And Morocco was not the only Arabic country courting Elizabethan England. The sultan of the Ottoman Empire engaged in a 17-year correspondence with Elizabeth, negotiating trade deals, prisoner releases, exchanges of gifts and discussing possible military action against Spain.

The story of these years, when Elizabethan England – severed from Europe by religious dispute – turned to Turks and Moors for alliance, is told in This Orient Isle, a fascinating book by Jerry Brotton, professor of Renaissance studies at Queen Mary University of London. To anyone who thinks they know the plays of Shakespeare and Marlowe, the book does a marvellous job of filling in the gaps, putting into context their references to Turks, Moors and others. It even explains some of the jokes in Twelfth Night, not to mention the state of Queen Elizabeth’s teeth.

Reading This Orient Isle today, as conflict rages in the Middle East, Britain votes to (again) sever itself from Europe, Islamophobia rampages and Turkey gets dragged into a dispute about the European Union, does help give a longer view of the topic. Self-interest was clearly the strongest motivator in these diplomatic moves, with Elizabeth and her advisors glossing over their religious differences in pursuit of commercial and imperial advantage.

I bought the book on impulse, stopped in my tracks by a striking window display in Hatchards, featuring that most English of Turkish artefacts – a Turkish carpet. I’m so glad I did.

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