Reviews round-up

The critics' verdicts on Amos Oz, Charles Emmerson and Michael Burleigh.

Between Friends by Amos Oz

 

In a collection of eight stories, Amos Oz uses his own experience of living on an Israeli kibbutz to explore the difficulties in striving for equality in communal living.

For Lucy Popescu of the Independent, “Oz brilliantly conveys the harsher side of kibbutz life”. Whilst Oz suggests no easy answers to the questions he raises, “he builds an evocative portrait of a 1950s kibbutz, the hopes and dreams of its inhabitants, and the successes and failures of communal living, using beautiful, spare prose”.

Similarly, for Alberto Manguel in the Guardian, the novel is a “lucid and heartbreaking chronicle of [a] well-intentioned and hard-working community of lonely souls”. Manguel argues that the novel makes salient points about the "Middle East conundrum”, as well as “the impossibility of utopia [as] ongoing proof of our determination to keep on trying.”

Although acknowledging that Oz “may have written more dazzling books”, Ben Lawrence in the Telegraph praises this "deeply affecting chamber piece”, suggesting it “draws on… the contradictory urges that lie at the heart of Israel’s psyche”.

All three reviewers praise Sondra Silverstein’s “deft” translation. 

 

1913: The World Before the Great War by Charles Emmerson

 

Charles Emmerson’s account paints a strikingly different picture of 1913 to more conventional tales of extravagant social endeavours undertaken in anticipation of looming destruction.

According to Kathryn Hughes writing in  the Guardian, Emmerson wants readers to experience what it felt like to be alive in 1913, “unaware of the coming rip in history”. She sees his work as an “ambitious, subtle account," noting that "Emmerson tries hard not to play the hindsight game. Still, he's honest enough to acknowledge the cheap pleasure that comes from knowing what happens next”.

David Crane, in the Spectator, is even more forthcoming in praise: “this is an immensely impressive book”. Emmerson turns 1913’s lack of headline events into a strength and “gives us a masterful, comprehensive portrait of the world at that last moment in its history when Europe was incontrovertibly ‘the centre of the universe’ and, within it, London ‘the centre of the world’”.

In contrast, Mark Damazer, reviewing the book for the New Statesman, feels Emmerson’s attempt at discussing painting, literature and architecture is “a bit half-hearted”. For Damazer, there are too many long quotations and too many important events that go untouched, although “occasionally, the world of 1913 throws up something satisfyingly contemporary”.

 

Small Wars, Far Away Places by Michael Burleigh

 

The historian Michael Burleigh's Small Wars, Far Away Places, is a document of the national liberation movements which sprang up in the two decades after the Second World War.

Although praising Burleigh’s ability to compose “pungent and pithy prose” and “bring history to life”, David Herman in the New Statesman is critical of some “puzzling absences” in the book, such as the Portugese colonial project. The reliance on Anglophone sources is also criticised, rendering the book “out of date and parochial”.

Historian John Lewis-Stempel, writing in the Express, sees Burleigh as “the don of elegant, historical writing and every vignette in this book is arresting”. However Lewis-Stempel similarly laments the gaps in knowledge and occasional errors, to him a product of Burleigh’s inability to remain a “dispassionate” historian.

Ben Shepard in the Guardian is more positive, arguing that the historical narratives Burleigh composes are “small masterpieces of lucidity and concision with complex political backcloths effortlessly painted in”. Nevertheless, Shepard argues that the “book never quite hangs together and the serial narrative method it uses gradually exhausts both writer and reader”.

The new work by Amos Oz has been praised as "a lucid and heartbreaking chronicle."
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Edinburgh in the time of Harry Potter - growing up in a city that became famous for a book

At first, JK Rowling was considered a local author done good, rather than fiction’s future megastar. 

In an Edinburgh playground, circa 1998, I found myself excluded from one of the world’s first Harry Potter cliques. My best friend Sophie had a copy of a book with a title which seemed indecipherable to me, but she insisted it was so good she couldn’t possibly let me read it. Instead, she and the other owner of a book huddled together in corners of our concrete, high-walled playground. I was not invited.

Exclusion worked. Somehow I procured a copy of this book, rather sceptically read the praise on the cover, and spent the next day avoiding all company in order to finish it. After my initiation into the small-but-growing clique, I read the second book, still in hardback.

Edinburgh at that time was something of a backwater. Although it still had the same atmospheric skyline, with the castle dominating the city, the Scottish Parliament was yet to open, and the Scottish banks were still hatching their global domination plans. The most famous author of the moment was Irvine Welsh, whose book Trainspotting chronicled a heroin epidemic.

In this city, JK Rowling was still considered to be a local author done good, rather than fiction’s future megastar. She gave talks in the Edinburgh Book Festival, a string of tents in the posh West End Charlotte Square. By the time I saw her (Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, hardback edition, 1999), she had graduated from the tepee to the big tent reserved for authors like Jacqueline Wilson and Michael Rosen. At the end we queued up for the book signing, and she told me she liked my purple dungarees.

At that time, there were no films, and what the characters should look and sound like was a constant playground debate. Another member of the Harry Potter clique I spoke to, Sally*, remembers how excited she was that “she did the same voice for Hagrid that my mum did when she was reading it to me”.

About the same time, a rumour spread around school so incredible it took a while to establish it was true. JK Rowling was moving to the street where some of our Harry Potter clique lived. We started taking detours for the privilege of scurrying past the grand Victorian house on the corner, with its mail box and security keypad. The mail box in particular became a focus of our imagination. Sophie and I laboured away on a Harry Potter board game which – we fervently believed – would one day be ready to post.

Gradually, though, it was not just ten-year-olds peeping through the gate. The adults had read Harry Potter by now. Journalists were caught raking through the bins.

Sally recalls the change. “It was exciting [after she first moved in], but as it was just after the first book it wasn’t as much of a big deal as it soon became,” she recalls. “Then it just felt a little bizarre that people would go on tours to try and get a glimpse of her house.

“It just felt like an ordinary area of town with ordinary people and it made me realise the price that comes with fame.”

Edinburgh, too, began to change. As teenagers (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, 2003) we liked to gather at the Elephant House cafe, on the bohemian George IV Bridge. We knew it was one of the cafes JK Rowling had written in, but we also liked its round wooden tables, and its bagels, and the fact you got one of the hundreds of miniature elephants that decorated the café if your bagel was late. It became harder and harder to get a seat.

We scoffed at the tourists. Still, we were proud that Harry Potter had put our city on the map. “As I grew older, it was fun to think of her writing the books in local cafes and just being an ordinary person living in Edinburgh with a great imagination,” Sally says. As for me, it was my trump card during long summers spent with bored Canadian teenagers, who had not heard and did not care about anything else relating to my teenage life in Scotland.

The last in the series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, was published in July 2007, a month after I left high school. Not long after that, I left Edinburgh as well. The financial crash the following year stunned the city, and exiled graduates like me. I fell out the habit of reading fiction for fun. JK Rowling moved to a house on the outskirts of Edinburgh, ringed by 50 foot hedges. The Scottish independence referendum divided my friends and family. On Twitter, Rowling, firmly pro-union, was a target for cybernats.

Then, two years ago, I discovered there is another Harry Potter city – Porto. As in Edinburgh, medieval passageways wind past stacked old houses, and the sea is never far away. JK Rowling lived here between 1991 and 1993, during her short-lived marriage, and drafted the first three chapters of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. In the university district, students wear black, ragged gowns, and the fantastical wooden carvings of the Livraria Lello bookshop is tipped to be the inspiration for some of the aesthetic Rowling applies to the books.

I don’t know whether it did or not. But it made me realise that no city can possess an author, and not only because she could afford to any part of the globe at whim. Standing in the bookshop and watching the students drift by, I could imagine myself in some corner of the Harry Potter world. And simultaneously, perhaps, some tourists queueing for a table at the Elephant House were doing the same.

*Name has been changed

Now read the other articles included in the New Statesman’s Harry Potter Week.

Julia Rampen is the digital news editor of the New Statesman (previously editor of The Staggers, The New Statesman's online rolling politics blog). She has also been deputy editor at Mirror Money Online and has worked as a financial journalist for several trade magazines. 

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