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Review
'Clive James is the finest living essayist and many of us have long admired both his supple prose and the bracing wit'
--Belfast Telegraph
'An enjoyable and opinionated compilation of works that are perfect to dip into.' --Daily Express
'At the back of every essay is a sensitivity to words, which has a moral aspect for James . . . any essayist who is as smoothly proficient as James should permit themselves a degree of satisfaction.'
--Sunday Herald
'When a collection of James's essays slides out of the Jiffy bag, other books can wait for a while, for James's is the one I want to read first, even if I've read half the pieces before...Even now there are few who can turn a sentence like him; there may be even fewer than when he started. I'm looking forward to the next collection already.' --Nicholas Lezard's Paperback Choice, Guardian --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
--Belfast Telegraph
'An enjoyable and opinionated compilation of works that are perfect to dip into.' --Daily Express
'At the back of every essay is a sensitivity to words, which has a moral aspect for James . . . any essayist who is as smoothly proficient as James should permit themselves a degree of satisfaction.'
--Sunday Herald
'When a collection of James's essays slides out of the Jiffy bag, other books can wait for a while, for James's is the one I want to read first, even if I've read half the pieces before...Even now there are few who can turn a sentence like him; there may be even fewer than when he started. I'm looking forward to the next collection already.' --Nicholas Lezard's Paperback Choice, Guardian --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
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The further thoughts of Clive James.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
8 of 12 people found the following review helpful
Format:Hardcover
Another brilliant collection of essays, similar to The Meaning of Recognition etc. If you've liked his previous collections, you'll like this one as well.
Early on, there's a couple of side-splitting, must-read looks at the degeneration of the English language - all the usual po-faced, holier-than-thou people who go on about this subject leave me cold (they're right, but usually come across as far too smug and self-satisfied), whereas James puts across his indignation at falling standards so amusingly that he had me literally slipping off the sofa and curling up on the carpet, something I remember doing a lot the first time I ever read Unreliable Memoirs.
Also, as we've come to expect, there are drier essays on some quite obscure people (I'll openly admit I'd never heard of Canetti, among several others) along with some not half as obscure (e.g. Kingsley Amis and Tommy Cooper - where else but in a James collection would you find articles on those two together in the same book?). There's a section on famous Australians (including art critic Robert Hughes, and a very amusing look at a bus-hopping and frightening-sounding Sydney vagrant called Bea Miles) and, at the very end of the book, a wonderful couple of essays that'll take you back to the suburbs of Sydney, circa the '50s, really bringing back the feel of Unreliable Memoirs and from which you can learn all about Clive's early cinema-going and reading habits. There's a nice essay on detective fiction, a few on the movie business and, a real highlight for me, an interesting article called The Velvet Shackles of a Reputation, in which James takes a look at himself and analyses how the TV-media-celebrity part of his persona interacts with what he considers his most serious work (i.e. the poetry). Excellent.
So why only 4 stars? Well, like James, I'm a big motorsports fan. I was overjoyed to see that this collection includes two F1-themed essays, one on Niki Lauda and the other on Damon Hill. Both make me aware that the general quality of motorsports journalism (and sports journalism in general, really) in the 'papers and magazines is mediocre at best - if only Clive would do a whole book just on motorsport. BUT there are, very unusually, a few sloppy mistakes in these two essays that nobody who closely follows F1 will miss. First, the typos. In one essay Nelson Piquet's name is spelt correctly, but inexplicably it's spelt wrongly throughout the other (Picquet, with a 'c' in there). Whereas Lauda's forename is spelled Niki in one and Nikki in the other... Second, Clive seems to think that both Lauda and Piquet won the World Championship twice, when in fact they both won it three times (Lauda in 75, 77 and 84, Piquet in 81, 83 and 87). Third, in the first paragraph of the Hill essay James seems to be saying he thinks Damon spent his final season with Arrows, when in fact he spent his final two seasons (98 and 99) at the Jordan team - he was at Arrows in 97, the year immediately after becoming World Champion. But it is pedantic to quibble - I really only mention these things because almost everything James writes, and I've read almost everything, is written to such a meticulously high standard. I would love to see many more of these essays (did I mention that earlier?) - how about Alan Jones and Jack Brabham for a start, two of Australia's finest, followed by Mansell, Senna and the rest? Maybe they'll be appearing in volume 2 of Cultural Amnesia...
My verdict on the book? GREAT. BUY IT. It's worth the price just for the two 'bad English' essays alone.
Early on, there's a couple of side-splitting, must-read looks at the degeneration of the English language - all the usual po-faced, holier-than-thou people who go on about this subject leave me cold (they're right, but usually come across as far too smug and self-satisfied), whereas James puts across his indignation at falling standards so amusingly that he had me literally slipping off the sofa and curling up on the carpet, something I remember doing a lot the first time I ever read Unreliable Memoirs.
Also, as we've come to expect, there are drier essays on some quite obscure people (I'll openly admit I'd never heard of Canetti, among several others) along with some not half as obscure (e.g. Kingsley Amis and Tommy Cooper - where else but in a James collection would you find articles on those two together in the same book?). There's a section on famous Australians (including art critic Robert Hughes, and a very amusing look at a bus-hopping and frightening-sounding Sydney vagrant called Bea Miles) and, at the very end of the book, a wonderful couple of essays that'll take you back to the suburbs of Sydney, circa the '50s, really bringing back the feel of Unreliable Memoirs and from which you can learn all about Clive's early cinema-going and reading habits. There's a nice essay on detective fiction, a few on the movie business and, a real highlight for me, an interesting article called The Velvet Shackles of a Reputation, in which James takes a look at himself and analyses how the TV-media-celebrity part of his persona interacts with what he considers his most serious work (i.e. the poetry). Excellent.
So why only 4 stars? Well, like James, I'm a big motorsports fan. I was overjoyed to see that this collection includes two F1-themed essays, one on Niki Lauda and the other on Damon Hill. Both make me aware that the general quality of motorsports journalism (and sports journalism in general, really) in the 'papers and magazines is mediocre at best - if only Clive would do a whole book just on motorsport. BUT there are, very unusually, a few sloppy mistakes in these two essays that nobody who closely follows F1 will miss. First, the typos. In one essay Nelson Piquet's name is spelt correctly, but inexplicably it's spelt wrongly throughout the other (Picquet, with a 'c' in there). Whereas Lauda's forename is spelled Niki in one and Nikki in the other... Second, Clive seems to think that both Lauda and Piquet won the World Championship twice, when in fact they both won it three times (Lauda in 75, 77 and 84, Piquet in 81, 83 and 87). Third, in the first paragraph of the Hill essay James seems to be saying he thinks Damon spent his final season with Arrows, when in fact he spent his final two seasons (98 and 99) at the Jordan team - he was at Arrows in 97, the year immediately after becoming World Champion. But it is pedantic to quibble - I really only mention these things because almost everything James writes, and I've read almost everything, is written to such a meticulously high standard. I would love to see many more of these essays (did I mention that earlier?) - how about Alan Jones and Jack Brabham for a start, two of Australia's finest, followed by Mansell, Senna and the rest? Maybe they'll be appearing in volume 2 of Cultural Amnesia...
My verdict on the book? GREAT. BUY IT. It's worth the price just for the two 'bad English' essays alone.
1 of 2 people found the following review helpful
Format:Paperback|Amazon Verified Purchase
This is Clive James' first collection of essays since his hefty Cultural Amnesia, a monumental work which will probably form a large part of his literary legacy. Compared to that, the present book is more diffuse, drawing together pieces on people which range from Tommy Cooper and Niki Lauda to Camille Paglia and Karl Kraus. Along the way, the author shares his thoughts on bad grammar, Nicole Kidman's stalker, lyric writing, detective fiction and the films of Leni Riefenstahl. If - like me - you've read his other essay collections (such as The Meaning of Recognition or Snakecharmers in Texas), you'll know what to expect here. Alongside his breadth of reference and impressive erudition, all of his stylistic tricks are present and correct, and I found myself wanting to highlight some of his particularly apposite turns of phrase; my current favourite is on p191, where he scolds an academic author for missing some details: "if it was Dr McCulloch [...] who mistook it, then one would have thought that her spontaneity of response was in no danger of being inhibited by her erudition".
To a large extent, you either like this sort of thing or you don't, but - if you're wondering which category you might fit into - it's perhaps worth pointing out that just about all the pieces in this collection can be read in their entirety on the author's website, along with most of his recent poems (including those from Angels Over Elsinore, his most recent selection) and a large number of pieces salvaged from his older books that are now out of print. In fact, the setting up and maintenance of his site is another topic which is discussed at some length in the present book; he memorably describes it (p273) as "a transparent space vehicle that we have been building as it flies", and views it as a "gateway to infinity" that he (perhaps misguidedly) hopes will persist for longer than his books, or their author.
To a large extent, you either like this sort of thing or you don't, but - if you're wondering which category you might fit into - it's perhaps worth pointing out that just about all the pieces in this collection can be read in their entirety on the author's website, along with most of his recent poems (including those from Angels Over Elsinore, his most recent selection) and a large number of pieces salvaged from his older books that are now out of print. In fact, the setting up and maintenance of his site is another topic which is discussed at some length in the present book; he memorably describes it (p273) as "a transparent space vehicle that we have been building as it flies", and views it as a "gateway to infinity" that he (perhaps misguidedly) hopes will persist for longer than his books, or their author.
4 of 7 people found the following review helpful
Format:Hardcover
Ok first a declaration of interest. Clive James comes from the same area as my father - the St. George area of Sydney - well he comes from Kogarah as I recall, not far from Sans Souci where my father went to school and where my grandmother and cousin lived for many years. My father crossed the George's River so my ancestral home is in the Sutherland Shire.
I suppose I first came across James via one of his early memoirs and I found a life which I could relate to - at least in terms of aspirations and interests. Moreover I found an often excruciatingly funny author who is very dangerous to read in public transport due the frequent involuntary LOL moments.
But if he was merely funny I possibly would not collect his works so compulsively. It's his extraordinary erudition, his ability to recall huge tracts of his favourite authors by memory, his ability to read in most of the main European languages in addition to Japanese, his encyclopedic knowledge of popular and obscure writers, especially Jewish, his unique insights, his funny humility and compulsive exhibitionism, his love of the popular genre as well as the elitist, his catholic appreciation of the arts.
But it is above all his ability to write with stylish English in an effortless manner I could never hope to emulate. The only thing I don't relate to is the poetry. Where does a St. George boy get a love of poetry? Not in St. George I can tell you. Well everyone has their faults I guess. Writing lyrics for songs I can understand but poetry? I don't read his poety.
Like me too James is an expat. A lifelong expat. He's been living in old Blighty longer than I have been living in China. And that's saying something.
Every new book is a gem. His mighty tome, Cultural Amnesia, I ploughed through, oops, glided through in less than two weeks. Devouring every word and planning to read them all again as soon as possible. But in the meantime he has published another volume of his memoirs, now this collection of essays from 2005-2008. I just finished it last night.
Book, film, music, poetry reviews, reviews of reviews, comments on motor racing drivers, essays on Australian literature, obituaries, political comment - as an earlier reviewer stated - Clive James is a brilliant bunch of guys. For me he's a polymath for our times. An antidote to cultural cringe.
I suppose I first came across James via one of his early memoirs and I found a life which I could relate to - at least in terms of aspirations and interests. Moreover I found an often excruciatingly funny author who is very dangerous to read in public transport due the frequent involuntary LOL moments.
But if he was merely funny I possibly would not collect his works so compulsively. It's his extraordinary erudition, his ability to recall huge tracts of his favourite authors by memory, his ability to read in most of the main European languages in addition to Japanese, his encyclopedic knowledge of popular and obscure writers, especially Jewish, his unique insights, his funny humility and compulsive exhibitionism, his love of the popular genre as well as the elitist, his catholic appreciation of the arts.
But it is above all his ability to write with stylish English in an effortless manner I could never hope to emulate. The only thing I don't relate to is the poetry. Where does a St. George boy get a love of poetry? Not in St. George I can tell you. Well everyone has their faults I guess. Writing lyrics for songs I can understand but poetry? I don't read his poety.
Like me too James is an expat. A lifelong expat. He's been living in old Blighty longer than I have been living in China. And that's saying something.
Every new book is a gem. His mighty tome, Cultural Amnesia, I ploughed through, oops, glided through in less than two weeks. Devouring every word and planning to read them all again as soon as possible. But in the meantime he has published another volume of his memoirs, now this collection of essays from 2005-2008. I just finished it last night.
Book, film, music, poetry reviews, reviews of reviews, comments on motor racing drivers, essays on Australian literature, obituaries, political comment - as an earlier reviewer stated - Clive James is a brilliant bunch of guys. For me he's a polymath for our times. An antidote to cultural cringe.
Most Recent Customer Reviews
Wide ranging and stimulating
As we have come to expect of Clive James, these essays cover an astonishing range. The essays in areas where James has particularly relevant practical experience are particularly... Read more
Published 23 months ago by Michael Jones
Whoops, he did it again....
GREAT writing from Clive James. He showed, yet again, that he has the wit to write for those of us who are lesser mortals. A must for anyone who is serious about words.
Published on 17 July 2009 by Hyacinth Fleur
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