Fiona Hill

Fiona Hill first attracted widespread attention when she appeared as a witness at the first Trump impeachment. Here was this calm, controlled women, clearly intelligent and principled, testifying to Trump’s perversion of power - in a clear Wearside accent.

Her story is remarkable, and now she’s told it, in a magnificent book. “There is nothing for you here” is not a piece of despondent gloom. It’s part memoir, taking as its title what her father said about her future. She took him at his word, went to the States, became a Russian expert, and ended up a senior adviser at the White House. So, a success story about a brilliant solo climb. But it wasn’t, as she’s well aware. It was helped by a number of crucial factors - good luck, personal will power, contacts, smart advice…a complex set of circumstances, which no longer apply.

In Bishop Auckland, the US and Russia she sees the same pattern - the collapse of industry and jobs, the opportunity for populist politicians to exploit the anger and despair of people left behind - even though the promised solutions don’t actually meet the need. Better still, she has a series of proposals about practical steps a range of people could take, depending on their position and circumstances. Analysing carefully, and working together, we could actually change how things look, not just for a lucky few, but for all kids hoping to find a future. Not the sort of book you read every day.

Foreign Policy

Some time back, I really enjoyed George Packer’s “The Unwinding”, a gripping, depressing story about the collapse of America. So I thought I’d give “Our Man” a try. It’s a massive biography of Richard Holbrooke, an official involved in Vietnam, Bosnia and Afghanistan. Yup, that’s quite a stretch, in time and global ambition. And it doesn’t help that Holbrooke, though talented and dynamic, is a combative, unlikable character.

But what it does do, in totally convincing detail, is spell out the difficulty of making anything happen at all. The world of American foreign policy is huge and complicated, full of factions and personal rivalries, so that it’s amazing that anything actually gets decided at all.

Which is depressing, for those of us looking at Ukraine and wondering why the West always has to be on the back foot, always leaves the initiative to Putin with his bluffs and blackmail. Wouldn’t it be great, just once in a while, for us to do something daring and decisive, which really sets him back and makes him think again? But then you look at the two systems, at his freedom to act on impulse and our need to wait until everybody’s on board, and you realise there isn’t a chance.

Poems for Ukraine

During March and April I’ve been busy - writing poems about Ukraine. There is a lot there to write about, and it’s gradually grown into my sort of project - twelve different categories, each with a manilla file in my filing cabinet, so that the growing piles of Guardian cuttings (yes - actual paper! actual scissors!) can each find a home. It doesn’t alter the horrendous natures of the situation, but it’s certainly helped me to cope with it, marking out bits of territory to tackle, one at a time, rather than being swamped by the overpowering gloom.

And then, by a happy accident, I get offered a (last minute - replacing performer who’s ill) substantial slot at a local poetry reading in Ironbridge. Too good to miss. With the co-operation of my excellent local printing firm, I accelerate the printing of my pamphlet (most pomes, I find, end up snugly fitted into a 36-page A5 booklet) and I am good to go.

Judging by response, reaction and sales, I am not alone. One lovely man came up to say “I feel you’ve been looking right in here” (tapping his head). This is a horrendous time, but being together, sharing how it seems and feels, can actually help us to cope. Part of my research has involved listening to the BBC podcast Ukrainecast. It’s certainly not perfect, and there are days when it drives me mad, but no question, it’s created an international community of listeners who are positive and concerned, and wiser for being members of this group. (If you’re interested, there are further details about the poetry booklet on the BOOKS section of this website).

Manual for Survival

I’ve previously mentioned the Ezra Klein show, and his delightful habit of asking his interviewees to recommend books they’ve enjoyed. I’m now following that up, and finding it a total treat. I’d never heard of Kate Brown’s “Manual for Survival”, a study of Chernobyl, but I now have it from the library and can hardly put it down.

She’s patient and careful, wary of all kinds of simplification - from politicians, east and west, and any number of self-important blokes with an axe to grind. She goes remorselessly though the paperwork, digging out ancient files which nobody else has looked at, but she’s also keen to talk to the people. That’s the people involved the people who got radiation, not just the people in charge.

Why am I not amazed that many of these are women, whose story has not been told before because it wasn’t deemed important or reliable? As I read, all kinds of rumour and self-justification drop away, leaving a heartbreaking, complex story unfolding, page by page. I don’t know why there hasn’t been more fuss about this book, or why I’d never heard of it before, but I’m so relieved to have caught up with it now.

Art That Made Us

With the news daily reminding us that we are ruled by idiots, it’s good to get a regular reminder that our there are intelligent, creative people who can enrich our lives. The series Art That Made Us, in BBC iplayer, eight one-hour episodes isn’t a blockbuster or accompanied by rave reviews, but I think it’s brilliant. It works through the history of British art, obviously selecting and leaving whole chunks out, but what they give us is fascinating. Not the traditional genius offering their overview, but a battery of varied experts, from all kinds of angles, but always interesting. It’s brilliantly edited, so the pieces fit together, but in addition to the academics we get a battery of current art practitioners, responding to what’s going on with the enthusiasm of people who actually share that passion - “Man, can he paint!” one fan gasps in admiration. I’ve tackled it slowly, a bite at a time, but every time I watch an episode I feel better equipped to cope with the madness that surrounds us.

The Playmaker

Seeing “Our Country’s Good” remains one of my outstanding theatre memories, at a time when I’m really not sure if I’ll ever go into a theatre again - their seating and my knees aren’t a good fit. But over the past couple of weeks I’ve run out of library books, so I’ve gone back to my “golden oldie” shelf, hardback copies of favourite novels I know I’ll want to re-read.

And faithfully waiting for me there is “The Playmaker”, by Thomas Kenneally. It’s the source for Wertenbaker’s play, and the main reason why any of us know anything about the performance of “The Recruiting Officer” in an early Australian convict settlement. Kenneally didn’t make it up. He drew on detailed sources, and almost all of his characters have real historical counterparts. It’s not an electrifying read, in terms of especially vivid language or originality of novelistic technique. But it is a warm, sensitive portrait of a group of people in tough conditions, against the odds, working together to produce a moving, unifying result. And in these gloomy, fractured times, that’s worth a lot.

The Suspension of Disbelief

Russia/Ukraine is scary, we have the least competent government anyone can remember, and our lying Prime Minister seems determined and able to cling to power regardless of what comes to light - but I’m still feeling OK. How can that be? I have two really good books on the go, one upstairs, one downstairs, and that makes all the difference.

They’re both fiction, and completely different. By my bed is Jonathan Franzen’s “Crossroads”, a bulky saga set in the nineteen seventies, tracing the complexity and interconnections of a large American family, moving between their various viewpoints. Colm Toibin’s “The Magician” is calmer and more classical, a careful recreation of the life of the novelist Thomas Mann, his family and his writing, and his response to the growing nightmare of nineteen thirties’ Germany. Totally different in style and approach, but with both I am utterly convinced. I become part of these very different worlds, one in the morning, one last thing at night. Libraries are a beautiful thing, and we should treasure them before we lose them.

Sally Rooney

Sally Rooney doesn’t make it easy for herself. She’s already got the obligatory trail of trolls picking ludicrous fights - like the allegation that one of her characters is racist. He is, and he’s picked up on it by another of her characters. Are we now at the point where racism can’t be mentioned? Rooney also uses a translation of an obscure German lyric as her title - “Beautiful World, where are You?” And then, worst of all, one of her characters is a novelist who moans about having to keep picking up awards. Mmm. Must be a real drag, that.

So for jealous writers who are less successful (that’s all writers) Rooney might be irritating, but for readers she remains a delight. I just don’t know any other writer it’s so easy to read - and that’s not because it’s superficial or unadventurous. She does sex and friendship like no-one else, with dialogue that mixes irony and affection that feels to me very much like Jane Austen.

But her characters also do interesting thoughts - on the collapse of civilisation, on plastic, on the state of world politics and - of course - on sex and friendship. With this novel, though, I also notice more moments of thoughtful observation, little epiphanies of description which I don’t remember from the previous two. Having skimmed a couple of hostile reviews, I came to this one prepared to be disappointed, but I’ve loved it.

They

As a book title, that sounds a bit bleak and clumsy. But it’s totally appropriate, and the book it describes is just brilliant. I’d enjoyed Sarfraz Manzor’s journalism, and his memoir about growing up in Luton and having his life redeemed by Bruce Springsteen, later filmed as Blinded by the Light. So I was going to read this anyway, but I’m rapidly thinking it’s the best book I’ve read this year.

The subtitle is “What Muslims and Non-Muslims Get Wrong About Each Other”, and it does bring clarity to a range of misunderstanding, but not in a superior, condescending way. He talks to a wide range of witnesses, working hard to understand them and present their views sympathetically, but he’s also deeply honest about his own misunderstandings and mistakes, and his own journey as a son and lover, husband and father. He doesn’t shy away from grim facts or difficult issues, but he does confront them in a fresh, constructive manner, and for me the overall impact of reading this book was encouraging and inspirational.

Golden Oldies

I have a shelf of novels in the dining-rom that I call Golden Oldies, substantial books that I’ve really enjoyed, where I’ve deliberately sought out hard-back copies so that I can enjoy re-reading them. One of the side-effects of Covid has been to drive me back to this, to see if what I once thought was terrific still grabs me in the same way. The results have been very mixed.

There was a time when I really thought Martin Amis’ Money was terrific. So witty, so smart. Yes, the central character is repulsive, but we don’t have to like everything, and so long as the writing is good…Not any more. There are moments when he really turns on the pyrotechnics, bravura paragraphs where I can see what all the fuss was about, but overall I lost interest, and ended up just not going to the end - which hardly ever happens.

Jay McInerney’s Brightness Falls, on the other hand, was sheer joy all over again. Another fast-talking, witty young man with an American slant, but tackling a serious theme (money, as it happens, and the image of success) and serious, complex view of a marriage over time. After the Amis disappointment, I feared that I might have been carried away by juvenile excitement, but if that’s the case then the symptoms remain identical - I loved it all over again. There’snowt so queer as folk.

Kate Clanchy

The saddest story this week for me has been the Kate Clanchy controversy. I’ve followed her for a long time - always liked her poems, went on a workshop she ran years ago, and more recently I’ve followed her career as a stunningly successful teacher of poetry to Oxford schoolkids from a variety of backgrounds. Her book about that is entitled “Some kids I taught and what they taught me” , and that fairly represents her approach - positive, altruistic, willing to learn. But she’s not perfect, and critics of her book have highlighted passages where she describes individual children with whom she’s worked - sometimes in a clumsy or patronising way, sometimes borderline racist. She made things worse by reacting to initial criticisms that they were “out of context” when in fact they were accurately quoting extracts from the book. Clanchy’s supporters - including Philip Pullman - weigh in with tough ripostes, including comparing the critics with ISIS - and that’s not borderline racist. Poetry Wales, who’d run an interview with Clanchy in their previous edition, went out of their way to apologise, distancing themselves from the harm and damage she’d caused - and presumably forgetting entirely about the qualities of this book that they’d been keen to publicise. It’s a can of worms, and a brilliant illustration of how the Twittersphere exaggerates and intensifies differences of opinion. Clanchy admits that she got things wrong, and sets down to rewrite parts of the book, but that is dismissed as insufficient. Nothing will do, it seems, short of total condemnation. And this is for specific phrases which are problematic, but never amount to more than 3% of the book.

A Promised Land

If you were a Martian who wanted filling in on what the earthlings had been up to recently, this would be the ideal book. On Syria, for instance, Obama traces the historical background, which led up the the crisis which exploded when he was president. He lists the various options for action, the advice he received, and what looked like the possible repercussions. He’s honest about how things worked out, and the whole thing is beautifully written - fluent, thoughtful, sometimes witty. It has none of the self-regarding vanity of Blair or Cameron, which would blur the lens through which everything is seen. Obama knows he’s not perfect, and that this stuff is complicated, so he tries to spell out as fully as possible exactly what’s going on. But it does take time, and every time a key adviser’s involved in a decision, we get a detailed, affectionate portrait of this person, their background and their character. And boy, does it fill up the pages.

But reading this underlines dramatically the transition through which America has passed - from someone this careful, intelligent and smart, to Trump. Even more amazing, there are people who voted for both of them - first for Obama, then for Trump. But on reflection that’s not totally amazing. Firstly, Obama knows, from the start, that the image of the bright young hero who will be a force for change is oversimplified, and that expectations are being raised he won’t be able to meet - and in some cases doesn’t even want to meet. Secondly, as this book powerfully charts, America is undergoing change. He records the incredulity as Sarah Palin arrives on the scene, not just as an eccentric character, but as vice-Presidential candidate. And then there’s the Tea Party, and Republican obstruction in Congress, and the new sense that this is all-out war and any kind of collaboration will be seen as weakness. This goes right against Obama’s experience and his inclination, but it has become an increasingly bleak feature of political life, here as well as there.

Black Lives Matter

Last year I submitted some poems for a new poetry anthology - “Black Lives Matter: Poems for a New World.” It was edited by Ambrose Musiyiwa, a writer and activist based in Leicester, who’d been impressed with the size and energy of a Black Lives Matter protest there, in response to the killing of George Floyd. He put out an international call for poems on this theme, and was deluged with hundreds. The book was published in June 2020, with over a hundred poems filling 150 pages. Ambrose was keen to promote it, but although I was sympathetic I didn’t see myself as central to this movement. I told him that I was a member of two writing groups, both all white, mainly comprising writers over fifty in rural areas. “That’s fine,” he said. “You get the audience, I’ll supply the writers.” And that’s what happened, with substantial help from Steve Pottinger and Colin Wells. . Last night, for an hour over zoom, we ran a reading which included nine contributors to this collection, each of whom read their poem from the anthology. Six black, three white. Six women, three men (but not the same). In an hour a varied audience got a taste of very different voices and angles, and also the chance to hear from the poets about how they viewed their work, and its impact on this issue. As Hannibal used to say when I watched the A-team with my kids., “I love it when a plan comes together.”

White Teeth

More time to read and less access to library resources mean I keep going back to my shelves, revisiting the greatest hits. And this time it’s a joy. I always knew Zadie Smith was a marvel, but it’s astonishing to rediscover how ambitious she was, right from the start. White Teeth is enjoyable, witty, fast-moving. It’s also long, very clever and skilful, and exhibits so many different ways of being a good writer. Simple routine description: “the bus did one of those arching corners where it feels the merest breath will topple it over.” Witty dialogue - “the whole plan’s so high on the cheese factor it’s practically Stilton.” But beyond that there’s a range of sympathy, an ability to get inside the skins and head of a huge cast of characters, whatever their age, background and racial origin. History is important, but so are ideas, and so is her huge affection for the Willesden area where she grew up. she has a long, sustained riff about the local comp attended by one of her characters, but within these two pages of lively evocation there’s a sly little dig - “Better to have an utterly forgettable face, better to be able to cadge a fag and come back five minutes after for another without being remembered. Better to cultivate a cipher-like persona, be a featureless little squib called Mart, Jules, Ian.” That couldn’t - could it? - be a cheeky little reference to Martin Amis, Julian Barnes, Ian McEwan?

The Mackintosh flat

We’ve just come back from holiday. Yes, I know. Sounds radical, almost provocative, and we were really lucky with the timing. We’d booked a four night stay at a Landmark property in Comrie, just north of Dunblane, but a fortnight before we were due to go we weren’t sure if regulations would allow it. We were self-catering, and had only the most minimal contact with other people - occasional visits to shops - so most of the time was either exploring the area, or staying in the flat. But what a flat! It’s on the first floor, above a shop, and was designed by Rennie Mackintosh after a fire had destroyed the previous flat. From the outside it looks interesting, a corner building with white walls and a striking tower at the point of the corner. Inside, you can sit at a beautiful hexagonal table, looking out through one of three windows at the village street below, or reading through one of the many beautifully illustrated books charting the Mackintosh career - painstaking, visionary, frequently misunderstood. At times it’s a heart-breaking story, but we were so lucky to be able to explore it in that setting.

Poetry Launch

As an obsessive, prolific self-publishing poet I’ve organised a number of poetry launches in my time, many of them enjoyable and memorable. But yesterday’s was something special. Yes, it was remote, on zoom, but with none of the impersonality which that might imply. First of all, it wasn’t just me pushing myself. It was organised by Nadia Kingsley, of Fair Acre press - and publishing my collection “Rescue from the Dark” was very much her idea. And she put together a varied bill of voices and talents - Stella Wulf, John Mills, Emma Purshouse and me - which guaranteed variety within an hour. From the sound of it, people got their money’s worth - though it was actually free - and we all enjoyed being involved. There were fifty of so people there, and it had quite as much sense of occasion as any launch I’ve attended - a special event. Obviously we’d have sold more copies at a live event, and I don’t know what the future promotion pattern will look like, but in these tough times (and much tougher for professional poets rather than leisurely amateurs like me) I was very happy to settle for this.

A Visit from the Goon Squad

I am in awe of the different things that good writers can do. Jennifer Egan, for instance, has for twenty years anticipated what digital connection will do to us with prophetic insight, while also producing smart, witty dialogue worthy of Bogart and Bacall. “A Visit from the Goon Squad” is a perfectly calibrated piece of machinery, moving effortlessly between different characters in various times and places. The receptionist who is a marginal character in one scene is the central protagonist of another as a rebellious teenager, but then reappears elsewhere as a middle-aged mum. It’s like a blend of Cloud Atlas with Middlemarch. But then, at the level of the sentence she can also work magic with a powerful image. On page 217 she writes “he had taken the passion he felt for Susan, and folded it in half…” and then proceeds to develop that for a sustained paragraph, as if it were a poem. Just astonishing.

Go Went Gone

One of the advantages of this lockdown compared with the first one is that there’s more access to the library service. It was good, and salutary, to have to explore what I already had on my shelves, but on the other hand a functioning library service gives me contact with recent books - particularly fiction - that I hate to do without. This week I’ve been totally bowled over by Jenny Erpenbeck’s “Go Went Gone”, which is actually five years old but still worthy making a special effort to catch. She is an East German whose whole life has been dominated by re-unification, and in this book her central character is a retired academic for whom that’s also true. He’s a bit dull, a bit lost, in no way charismatic. The book charts his growing interest in, sympathy for and relationship with a group of refugees. In different hands this could be sentimental or preachy, but this book never comes near either. It’s careful, thoughtful, totally involving, rooted in thorough research but never dull or over the top. Each time I went back to reading it I was immediately relieved to be back in its world, and now it’s finished I immediately want it back.

Look at Me

More raiding the back catalogue, this time from my fiction shelves. Jennifer Egan’s novel “Look at Me” was first published in 2001, and it’s amazingly prescient. It’s about a model who’s appearance has been drastically altered in an accident - which occasions an exploration into identity appearance and gender - but also social media, honesty, capitalism, all kinds of stuff which sounds boring but isn’t. there’s a varied cast, all of them interesting and capable of surprises, and an endearing interest in the obscure details of the history of Rockford, Illinois…It sounds like a mess, but it’s such a treat to read.

It’s full of jokes and human observation, and simply on the level of the individual sentence it’s full of treats. “Scott’s head lay on her chest like a meteorite…But Moose’s eyes were dull, as if he were asleep behind them…”Can I help you?” A girl roughly the size of an American refrigerator.” It’s sat on my shelves for nearly twenty years, and - but for lockdown - I might never have looked at it again.

Utopia Avenue

Last month, I raved about the joy of re-reading David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas. This month, I have the pleasure of catching up on his latest, Utopia Avenue. It’s a sort of benign rewrite of Fleetwood Mac, detailing the rise of a rock/folk group that’s mixed in many ways - gender, musical roots, the styles of the songs they compose. It’s done with huge affection and enthusiasm, and it’s not hard to see the links with other middle-aged writers who dream of being rock stars - Kazuo Ishiguro, Salman Rushdie. I’ve really enjoyed dreading it, and returned it to the library, but I shan’t rush to re-read it with the same enthusiasm that brought me back to Cloud Atlas.

There’s two strands of self-indulgence which are getting in the way. One is Mitchell’s delight in binding all his work together is one, rich parcel, so that characters from previous novels drift in and out, sometimes barely recognisable, so you can see he’s getting a lot of fun out of this - but is he also baffling new readers? The other downside is his delight in trailing in real people - Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix - for bit parts in this creative roller coaster ride, so the shellshocked reader sits back and asks, really? No, not really, and it would have been so much simpler to have left them out.