Category Archives: Literature

Literature, Reviews

‘The Restless Analyst’

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LITERARY REVIEW (April 1, 2025) by Peter Rose:

In 1904, Henry James decided to return to America. He was feeling isolated at Lamb House in Rye. In a letter to Grace Norton, he wrote: ‘The days depart and pass, laden somehow like processional camels – across the desert of one’s solitude.’ Since the flop of Guy Domville, his dreams of success as a dramatist had been dashed. The Wings of the Dove had been published in 1902, followed by The Ambassadors in 1903, in serial form. The Golden Bowl – written in little more than a year and, for many, his sovereign achievement – was almost finished. Now, after this awesome outpouring, he was ready to review his homeland, last visited in 1882.

James’s reasons for returning were complex, some obvious and professional, others psychological and obscure. Family drew him back, just as it had subtly hurried him on his way in 1875, when he left America, first for Paris, then for London. Planning his itinerary, James wrote to his nephew Harry: ‘I can’t tell you how I thank you for offering me your manly breast to hurl myself upon in the event of my alighting on the New York dock, four or five weeks hence, in abject and craven terror.’ (One can only imagine the tremulations this caused in young Harry’s manly breast.)

He also began work on what he pointedly called the New York Edition of his preferred writings. The commercial failure of this work, with its ruminative prefaces and startling omissions, led to years of clinical depression. In a letter to Morton Fullerton, one of his late passions, James wrote: ‘The port from which I set out was, I think, that of the essential loneliness of my life … This loneliness (since I mention it!) – what is it still but the deepest thing about one?’ For this noblest of modernists, it was the saddest confession.

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Essays, Literature

The Unbearable Weight Of The Literary Canon

THE NEW STATESMAN MAGAZINE (March 19, 2025):

Nick Guest, from Alan Hollinghurst’s The Line of Beauty, is a consummate English protagonist: both an insider and an outsider, embarrassed by his provincial past, unsteady on his feet among the upper echelons of society, open in his distaste for the elite while desperate to be one of them. He has just graduated from Oxford with a first in English literature, and finds himself in the private library of Lord Kessler for a glittering moment of mid-bourgeois insecurity. Feeling “disqualified by his complete ignorance of money and aesthetic prejudice” Nick muses on his literary horizons: “Sometimes his memory of books he pretended to have read became almost as vivid as that of books he had read and half-forgotten.”

I haven’t pretended to have read something since I got caught out at college by a teacher over Aristotle’s Physics, Volume II. (Extraordinarily hard to blag your way through that one.) Still, I am sympathetic to Nick’s instincts. He is well read, and mildly anxious to admit to Kessler that he doesn’t know so much about the Victorian novelist Anthony Trollope. In the centuries-deep Western literary canon, Trollope might be a defensible blind spot for a 21-year-old. But in a universe in which Nick cannot signal aristocratic insideriness (he is from a run-of-the-mill market town) nor impress with wealth (his father is an antiques salesman), the literary realm has to suffice as his key-card to the British elite. The sound you hear is me cracking the spine of The Way We Live Now with studied determination.

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 But there are more antagonists than ever to contend with: the internet, performative anti-intellectualism, suspicion of intellectual ambition. I suspect the solution is to accept these forces exist and to carry on anyway, as though the ghost of Harold Bloom is haunting me: come on, young lady, Ulysses will not read itself!  

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Finn McRedmond is a commissioning editor and writer at the New Statesman.

Book Reviews, Essays, Literature, Travel

Literature & Travel: ‘The Light And The Poverty’

LOS ANGELES REVIEW OF BOOKS (LARB):

ONE DAY IN SUMMER, I took in the washing from the balcony of my flat in Central Athens. Wildfires had been raging on the outskirts of the city and I didn’t want my sheets to smell like smoke. All day, I’d been receiving messages from the government urging me to stay inside—messages, too, from visitors in town on their way to or from the islands, friends and friends-of, urging me out for a drink or a meal.

I paused to take in the view: an abandoned lot and a litter of inbred, cross-eyed cats, a street devoid of people, save for tourists and the unhoused, and that gauzy, yellow sky which I have grown to associate with summer in Greece. I went back inside, shut the windows, and returned to work on this essay, which began with a question I posed a few months prior, in the WhatsApp group for Salad Days, a reading series I run with my wife and a Greek writer and translator: “In the last 10 years, have more Greek novels been translated into English, or have there been more novels written by foreigners but set in Greece?”

Over the course of a few hours, we traded titles back and forth, before tallying up the results (dated here by their appearance in English):

Greeks: Amanda Michalopolou’s God’s Wife (2019) and Why I Killed My Best Friend (2014); Christos Chrissopoulos’s The Parthenon Bomber (2017); and Christos Ikonomou’s Good Will Come from the Sea (2019) and Something Will Happen, You’ll See (2016) (short stories but close enough).

Foreigners: Rachel Cusk’s Outline (2014), Katie Kitamura’s A Separation (2017), Cara Hoffman’s Running (2017), Andrew Durbin’s Skyland (2020), Hanna Johansson’s Antiquity (2024).

Partial Credit: Deborah Levy’s August Blue (2023), Megan Nolan’s Acts of Desperation (2021), Emmanuel Carrère’s Yoga (2022), Andrew Lipstein’s Last Resort (2022), all of which are written by foreigners but contain key sections set in Greece.

We were surprised by the results of our admittedly inexhaustive survey: we knew few contemporary Greeks had made it into English, the linguistic coin of the realm (here and in the writing world more generally), but we’d been only dimly aware of quite how many foreigners had made it in into Greece.

There’s some graffiti near my house that reads, “Tourists Enjoy Your Stay in the Cemetery of Europe.” I think the next great Greek novel will be about tourism, the lifeblood of the country, which is making it very sick, about the “ugly human being[s]” who descend every year to watch the country burn. Us, in other words. And when it comes, I hope the world will take notice.

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Dominic Amerena is an Australian writer living in Greece. His debut novel I Want Everything will be published this summer.

Book Reviews, Essays, Literature

Book Reviews: ‘Silent Catastrophes – Essays In Austrian Literature’

LONDON REVIEW OF BOOKS (February 21, 2025): Since the deplorably premature death of W G Sebald in a road accident in 2001, Jo Catling, a former colleague of his at the University of East Anglia, has been among the most dedicated keepers of his flame. Her latest tribute to Sebald is a translation in a single volume of his two collections of essays on Austrian literature, Die Beschreibung des Unglücks (‘The Description of Misfortune’) and Unheimliche Heimat (‘Strange Homeland’). Written mostly in the 1980s, these essays preceded the semi-fictional works, culminating in Austerlitz (2001), that made Sebald internationally known. They represent something rare in German but common in English: literary criticism, occupying the space between academic study and journalistic discussion. And they say more, and say it more searchingly, profoundly and pithily, than a cartload of academic monographs.

Sebald rapidly became alienated from the old-fashioned Germanistik he encountered at the University of Freiburg in the early 1960s. The professors, he felt, had culpably failed to reflect on the relations between literature and the recent German past. He found intellectual and ethical stimulus in the thinkers of the Frankfurt School, particularly Theodor Adorno and the idiosyncratic, always marginal genius Walter Benjamin. References to Benjamin and a range of psychologists and sociologists pepper these texts, reinforcing Sebald’s own insights.

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Book Reviews, Literature, Reviews

‘In Praise Of Artistic Experimentation In Literature’ (Review)

LITERARY HUB (February 14, 2025): I first read Laurence Sterne’s The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy as a teenager. I was hungry to assert maturity through my reading habits, to bypass YA fiction in favor of books for adults, and so initially its playful visuals made me frown; I associated illustrations with children’s books. Soon, however, I realized how sophisticated and delightful they were.

The squiggle representing the emphatic twirling of Corporal Trim’s cane. A blank page where the reader is invited to imagine how Widow Wadman might look—”paint her to your own mind.” A marbled block which the reader can gaze into and contemplate the mysteries of life. And—my favorite—the iconic black page that represents the death of Parson Yorick.

Whilst Sterne was certainly an innovative writer ahead of his time, it is worth noting that this was not anarchic at the time of publication; other texts published in his era, such as funeral publications, also included black pages as a symbol of death. However, the image was unusual for a novel, and is a perfect visual representation of grief, inviting multiple interpretations—a dark tombstone, funeral attire, a bleak starless night, a black hole of grief.These books felt idiosyncratic, shaped by authorial intent, as if harking back to those medieval manuscripts where monks wrote in calligraphy and included beautiful pictures in colors bright as stained glass.

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