Reviews round-up

The critics’ verdicts on the latest books by Orlando Figes, Colm Tóibín and P D James.

Crimea: the Last Crusade by Orlando Figes

Angus Macqueen in the Observer praises "Figes's lucid account of three years of bloodletting in the Black Sea", whose chief merit resides in "attempting to place the Crimean war as the fulcrum of 19th-century Europe between Waterloo and the First World War". "With his deep understanding of Russia and its uncomfortable position in the world, Figes elegantly underlines how the cold war of the Soviet era froze over fundamental fault lines that had opened up in the 19th century."

For Mark Bostridge, writing in the FT, "The book's true originality lies in its unravelling of the Crimean war's religious origins." The rivalry between the Catholics and the Greeks, backed by France and Orthodox Russia respectively, "is represented as the vital spark igniting the conflagration that followed". The author of Florence Nightingale: the Woman and Her Legend (Penguin) finds less convincing other aspects of Figes's book, including his characterisation of Florence Nightingale, which "relies on tired old sexist taunts".

Oliver Bullough in the Independent acknowledges that he is not unbiased: Bullough's book Let Our Fame Be Great was the only one to be reviewed positively by Figes, who savaged all other rival accounts of the Russian Revolution in comments "unwisely" posted on Amazon. While recognising that "it is not a perfect book, and his sourcing can be erratic", he concludes that Figes's "lucid, well-written" account is "the only book on the Crimean war anyone could need".

"Crimea: the Last Crusade" will be reviewed in the next issue of the New Statesman.

The Empty Family by Colm Tóibín

For Hermione Lee in the Guardian, the "stories in The Empty Family – like the painful stories of family conflicts in his last collection, Mothers and Sons – are threaded through with regret and need". A few "soggy moments" set aside, Tóibín's "scenes of longing for lost family homes or missed landscapes" are admirable in their "dramatic economy". Lee sees the depiction of "women's interior lives" in particular as "one of Tóibín's great strengths".

Keith Miller in the Telegraph comments on "a certain autobiographical element: in the characters' age, sexuality, nationality and profession". "But from the particular crucible of his own life," she writes, "Tóibín has forged something of wider, if not quite general, interest: a schedule of the principal torments available to the educated, left-leaning, upwardly mobile, male baby boomer in middle age."

David Mattin in the Independent notes the "deep-running concern for modernity, and the spiritual deformations that it visits on us", underpinning the nine short stories in Tóibín's collection. "Running deep beneath the stories is a concern for our new, modern rootlessness, and the collapse of old certainties."

Talking About Detective Fiction by P D James

Edmund Gordon in the Observer, thinks that, "As a personal (and gleefully partial) survey of the highlights of English detective fiction over the past 200 years, her book offers much that will enlighten and entertain." He is less convinced by her claim that "the genre has been unfairly stigmatised by critics, and is as worthy of academic attention as any other kind of writing". But her "modesty", combined with "intellectual vigour . . . make it impossible not to take [her views] seriously".

For Amanda Craig in the Independent it is "P D James's longevity, as well as her serene intelligence, that makes this book especially noteworthy and enjoyable, for at 89 she has grown up with the Golden Age of detective fiction as well as made a substantial contribution to it".

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Listening to recordings from the Antarctic, I felt I could hear the earth groan

The Science Hour on the BBC World Service.

A weekend of listening to the radio news ­revealed nothing but sounds of the sucker-punched going through their pockets in a panic and repeating, “I thought you had the keys.” So, never was talk of “a perfectly flat area of just whiteness” more alluring. The oldest Antarctic ice yet recorded was recently found. “For millions of years,” the presenter Roland Pease assured listeners  (25 June, 9am), “snow has been falling, snow on snow, all the while trapping bubbles of air and other chemical traces of climate . . . insights into the ice ages and warm periods of the past.” How was this ice located? “The finding part is pretty easy – you just go there and start shovelling, and ice comes up,” the lead geologist, Jaakko Putkonen, said.

There it was, buried under a layer of dirt “in barren wastelands” high in the middle of Antarctica. An “incredibly mountainous and remote and . . . quite hideous region, really”, Pease said, though it was sounding pretty good to me. The world dissolved into a single, depthless tone. Then Pease mentioned the surprising fizzing of this ancient ice – trapped air bubbles whooshing as they melt. Which is perhaps the thing you least expect about ice regions and ice caps and glaciers: the cacophony. Thuds and moans. Air that folds and refolds like the waving of gigantic flags. Iced water sleeping-dragonishly slurping and turning.

On Friday Greenpeace posted a video of the pianist Ludovico Einaudi giving a haunting performance on a floating platform to mark an imminent meeting of the OSPAR Commission, as it decided on a proposal to safeguard 10 per cent of the Arctic Ocean. Einaudi looked occasionally stunned by the groaning around him. A passing glacier popped and boomed like the armies of Mordor, ice calving from its side, causing mini-tsunamis. When last year I spent some time at the remote Eqi Glacier in Greenland, close to the ice cap, local people certainly spoke of the ice as if it were living: “It’s quiet today,” delivered as though gazing at the fractious contents of a Moses basket.

“This huge cake of ice, basically flat”, Putkonen said, perhaps longing for a moment of deep-space silence, for peaceful detachment. He wasn’t the only one being forced to reappraise a landscape very differently.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 30 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit lies