I had gone to Dublin with the express intention of understanding a city that to me has always seemed incoherent – and even a little minatory.
What should you pack for the summer holiday?
This is a book is stuffed with such wonderful stories, recounted by the people who were there at every level of music-making: players, producers, writers, comedians, friends and fans.
The critics’ verdicts on Linda Grant, Will Hodgkinson and Helen McCarthy.
Jonathan Holloway’s adaptation rightly cherished many things that the film ultimately minimised, in particular the novel’s mourning of the extinction of various animal species.
One has the impression that the war was a prolonged drama for which she was a critic sitting in the audience. She certainly doesn’t seem to understand what part she was expected to play in it.
Storm, despite being a spy at the forefront of western intelligence efforts, was primarily driven by a desperate need to belong.
Three critics attempt to make make sense of the slippery lifespan of the realist novel, with occasionally illuminating and often chaotic results.
From almost the opening shot, the Great War has been fought over by historians wishing to interpret and understand what happened and why. Their conflict is not over yet.
Despite the “cosmopolitan sympathies” of the poets, memorial events in the UK today are dominated by British writers. But there are many other literary voices from the battle for the trenches.
Two poems by the First World War poets both appeared in the pages of the New Statesman – the first in June 1918, the second March 1919.
The centenary of the outbreak of hostilities has mobilised both historians and publishers.
Sassoon (or “Sashûn”, as he signed himself here) was one of only a handful of Great War poets who survived the fighting. This poem was first published in the New Statesman of 22 May 1926.
The critics’ verdicts on Tristram Hunt, Gruff Rhys and Leslie Jamison.
The scene is set in 1984 but it could be any time between 1934 and 2014 in this backwater of the East Sussex coastline far from Thatcher’s Britain.
With their backcombed hair, dreads, tutus, ripped tights and Doc Martens, the Slits were the most anarchic and badly behaved band on the “White Riot” tour.
The star of Nighty Night, The Thick of It and Lewis on literary competitiveness, the cameraderie of the make-up truck and learning to cope with lifts.
“I realised: as well as my wallet and keys and hundreds of dollars, as well as my bank details and personal photographs – he had my book. My second, cherished, unborn novel – lovely plotted and crafted, and for some mad, forgotten reason not backed up.”
San Paolo, published posthumously in 1977 and presented here for the first time in English as St Paul, is Pasolini’s screenplay for the life of the apostle.
Wicomb was born in South Africa but has lived in Britain since the 1970s. Like previous work, her latest book revisits themes of homemaking, exile, return and race.
Solnit’s lead essay became a viral sensation because many women recognised the experience of having their expertise instantly dismissed because of the lady-shaped package it came in.
A One Direction fan’s writings have earned her a huge publishing deal – and kicked off a whole new round of missing the point about fan fiction.
Will Hillary run for president in 2016? Her memoir is more interested in the fine art of diplomacy.
Attlee had an image. A wise man, he made his image rather like the real thing – quiet, cricket-loving, terse, a suburban bank manager – and it resonated with the times.
At the heart of this book is a tense fireside tale, in which a storyteller is invited to entertain five orphans at an adults’ birthday party.
The setting is suburban posh – we are in Richmond – and the teenagers that stroll and sometimes strut across its pages are privileged types who attend smart private schools.
The Forbidden Game uses golf – a game that most in the country probably still know nothing about – to gain a rare insight into ordinary Chinese lives.
These two city books are linked by an inquiry into the mysterious ways in which the spaces of our early lives come to structure imagination, creativity and the self.
There are many echoes of the literary lineage to which these books must belong. Owen’s old lie is in all of them, as is Whitman’s precious blood.
Cuckoo’s Calling sold just a few hundred copies when thought to be by “Robert Galbraith”, then millions when its true author was revealed. But should the mask have stayed on longer?