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Keep The Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell

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I’ve been reading D.J. Taylor’s enormous overview of 20th-century English literature on and off for four or five years. It’s called The Prose Factory, which isn’t a great title for a book that also covers poetry, but it’s certainly been interesting. Like anybody with a private interest, some things loom larger than perhaps they ought – and with Taylor it is George Orwell. He’s obviously a significant figure of the 30s and 40s, but it’s astonishing how often Taylor manages to mention him.

I’m actually thirty years further forward in The Prose Factory, but picking it up reminded me of its Orwell-dominance, which in turn reminded me that I wanted to read more Orwell. I’ve read the big-hitters – Nineteen Eighty-Four and Animal Farm – and I’ve read Homage to Catalonia. I thought all of them were brilliant, and have had several others for many years. Simply because it’s been on my shelves the longest, seventeen years, I took down Keep The Aspidistra Flying (1936) recently.

I think Orwell might fall in that category of author you don’t see mentioned that much in the blogosphere, simply because we all read him long before we started book blogs. I don’t remember seeing a review of this one, or any of the lesser-known novels, and it’s a pity because it’s rather brilliant. I’d love it for the opening scene alone.

Gordon Comstock is the ‘hero’ of the novel, and as it opens he is working in a secondhand bookshop that also functions as a library for twopenny books. He is working on his own poetry, and has had a volume published that the Times Literary Supplement said showed promise. The extended scene in the bookshop/library is effectively to set up Gordon’s position on a scale of intellectual snobbery. I’m glad I read it now rather than seventeen years ago, because I think most of the names in the passage below would have meant nothing to me then – whereas now I can understand them as Orwell intended the reader to: as a barometer of the reading taste Gordon is setting himself against.

Eight hundred strong, the novels lined the room on three sides ceiling-high, row upon row of gaudy oblong backs, as though the walls had been built of many-coloured bricks laid upright. They were ranged alphabetically. Arlen, Burroughs, Deeping, Dell, Frankau, Galsworthy, Gibbs, Priestley, Sapper, Walpole. Gordon eyes them with inert hatred. At this moment he hated all books, and novels most of all. Horrible to think of all that soggy, half-baked trash massed together in one place. Pudding, suet pudding.

Some of these names might only be familiar if you’ve studied popular culture of the period – does anybody read Warwick Deeping now? – but others have lingered. It’s a mix of the middle-class and the lower-middle-class, all with pretensions above their stations. Those who read Galsworthy thought themselves intellectuals; those who read Ethel M. Dell probably thought themselves above those who read westerns. All of it makes bitter Comstock feel angry and repelled – and bitterness is the keynote of his personality.

He lives in poverty – or, at least, poverty for someone of his education and intelligence. The only people he sees are a rich friend called Ravenstock, who tries to help get his poetry published and offers (and is refused) to lend him money, his girlfriend Rosemary, and an aunt Julia who is ever poorer than him, but from whom he still borrows money. It fits his code of pride that he cannot borrow from a rich friend, but will from a poor relative.

Pride is the other keynote, alongside bitterness. His stubbornness is infuriating. He won’t let Rosemary pay for dinner when they go out, because the man must pay for the woman – even if it means he can’t pay his rent or can’t afford to eat for the rest of the week. Rosemary puts up with an awful lot, and sticks with him despite all his moroseness.

Iterated through the novel, either in Gordon’s dialogue or in his internal dialogue, is that everything comes down to money. He can’t marry Rosemary because he doesn’t have money. She won’t sleep with him – so Gordon argues – because he doesn’t have money. He can’t work as a poet because he doesn’t have money. And he doesn’t have money because he left a relatively well-paying job in advertising in order to get out of the capitalist machine.

What’s so impressive about Keep the Aspidistra Flying is that Orwell has a mouthpiece for a point of view with which he evidently has substantial sympathy – and bravely chooses to make that mouthpiece objectionable. As well as bitter and proud, Gordon is stubborn, selfish, and often unkind to the long-suffering Rosemary. But there is also enough good in him to make the reader (this reader, at least) not hate him. He loves the beautiful and noble. He partly cares so much what people think of him because of his own low self-esteem, and his recognition that others have achieved much more. On the whole, he falls down on the side of being unpleasant. But it is so well-judged a portrait that he does not become a villain – rather, he is a friend that we are frustrated by and beginning to be sick of, even if we agree with him in essentials.

Orwell apparently thought little of the novel, and didn’t want it reprinted. I don’t agree with him. It doesn’t have the sophistication of Nineteen Eighty-Four but it does have the same brilliant prose. He is the best writer I’ve read for writing that is entirely unshowy and is yet superlatively good. The plot is simple but perfectly judged, and I’m all the keener to read those other Orwells I’ve got on the shelves. In some ways, it’s a shame that his dystopian novels are the only ones that are widely remembered, because he so strikingly observed the real world too.

The Green Overcoat by Hilaire Belloc

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Like many of us, I suspect, the name ‘Hilaire Belloc’ was always associated in my head with characters like Matilda, who lied and burned to death, and Jim, who ran away from his nurse and got eaten by a lion. These spoofs of moralistic stories for children have outlasted the things they were spoofing, and I remember enjoying a cartoon of it as a child. It’s also where most people hear about Arthur Wing Pinero and his very-interesting-play nowadays.

Incidentally, in one group of friends we use ‘belloc’ as shorthand for ‘hilarious’.

Well, nine years ago I bought The Green Overcoat (1912), to find out a bit more about Belloc’s other writing, and now I’ve finally read it. The main character is Professor Higginson, a psychologist described thus:

He was a tall, thin man, exceedingly shy and nervous, with weary, print-worn eyes, which nearly always looked a little pained, and were generally turned uneasily towards the ground. He did not dress carefully. He was not young. He had a trick of keeping both hands in his trouser pockets. He stopped somewhat at the shoulders, and wore a long, grey beard. He was a bachelor, naturally affectionate by disposition, but capable of savagery when provoked by terror. His feet were exceedingly large, and his mind nearly always occupied by the subject which he professed.

He is leaving an event when he discovers it is pouring with rain and he hasn’t brought a coat. He decides to borrow another coat on the rack, intending to return it the next day – it is a very distinctive green overcoat, and he doesn’t know its owner. What’s the worst that can happen?

Well, as it turns out, he gets kidnapped! The overcoat had misidentified him.

This is only the beginning of the bizarre chain of events that happen because Professor Higginson borrowed the coat. All of them follow relatively convincingly after the first, only slightly heightening probability. Truth be told, I expected them to be a little more surreal than they are, and there are periods of the novel where Belloc seems almost deliberately to be avoiding the more extreme things that could have happened.

In terms of tone, it’s a comic novel but with a much lighter touch than I’d expected. That is, Higginson’s distress at being kidnapped is real rather than written for laughs – the humour comes from the absurdity of the situation. And Professor Higginson is a likeable main character, having the right mix of nervousness and ultimate determination to make him empathetic. These sorts of things rely on the reader thinking they might have made the same choices, and there is no cruelty at his expense from the novelist, in the way that Waugh does when his affable characters experience misfortune.

Ultimately, I think I’d have liked the novel more if it had been a bit more heightened – closer to Saki, perhaps. As it is, it’s a fun read that doesn’t quite live up to its potential, but good to know more about Belloc than I did before.

Proud Citadel by Dorothy Evelyn Smith

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When I reviewed Dorothy Evelyn Smith’s brilliant, brilliant novel O, The Brave Music – which is being reprinted by the British Library in the autumn, hurrah! – Sarah wrote in the comments that I should try her 1947 novel Proud Citadel. I was very much looking out for my next D.E.S, so I ordered a copy – and it came with this lovely, atmospheric dustjacket.

Like O, The Brave Music, the novel starts with a young girl – but we follow her for about 25 years, rather than to the edge of adulthood. Jess has just lost her mother and is moving to a distant relative in Yorkshire.

Out of the turmoil and hardships and deep devotion of her eleven years had emerged three salient precepts: you must never lie or break a promise, you must never get into debt, and you must never love anybody too much.

Jess has been through an awful lot for her age, and takes this journey anxiously and uncertainly. At every stop, she asks the train guard if they have yet reached Sunday Halt – until he gets exasperated and three young boys start teasing her. One is clearly the ringleader whom the others follow – and Jess wonders at his unkindness but also his charm and magnetism.

She gets out at Sunday Halt and is given unclear directions through the town, out to the moor, and to the cottage where Mary is waiting for her. She is guided by that dominant, cruelly charming boy, whom she learns is Randy – to Jess, he shows kindness. And as she is crossing the moor and catches her first sight of the sea, we get one of the many wonderful passages in the novel that describe the landscape and its effect on the observer:

Jess stood and stared in silent astonishment. In all her wildest dreams of the sea that Mother had talked about she had never imagined such a fierce and turbulent loveliness as met her sight. The lines of white she had glimpsed from the train now revealed themselves as the edges of deep, curling, grey-green waves that rose in incredible majesty and stood poised for a breath-taking instant before hurling themselves with a shout on the sharp black teeth of rock that thrust out from the sandy foot of the cliffs. And then what a boiling and a surging of brownish, foam-flecked water! What a flat, shining floor of sand as the waves retreated, gathering audible breath for the next attack! What a sharp thrill of expectancy as each wave swung slowly up and up and over…

I’m not usually one for landscape descriptions in books, my eye just glides over them unintentionally – but Smith wrote so wonderfully about the moor in O, The Brave Music and writes equally wonderfully about moor AND sea in Proud Citadel. It’s always stunning while also being descriptive – nothing fanciful, but prose from someone who knows and loves the sea and the moor and is able to convey why.

When Jess arrives with Mary, she finds her first loving home. Mary is a delight – wise, kind, mildly witchy, and able to encourage good sense and adventure in Jess. As she grows older, her life becomes tangled with so many members of the community – and especially the three boys from the train and, from them, even more especially Randy.

It took me a while to finish Proud Citadel, which no doubt partly because of coronavirus anxiety. But it was also because of the one major flaw in the novel, in my eyes – there are so many characters, and we spend scenes with so many of them. You eventually realise that all of them are pretty much necessary to Jess’s central story, even though it often doesn’t seem like it at the time, but I found it hard to juggle so many households in my mind and in my sympathies. There are about five characters I’d have cut from being the major focus of scenes – they could still be there, but without interrupting Jess’s story so much.

Because Jess is a fascinating character. She is adventurous and can be as wild as the sea, but she has a deep core of morality – and, having been let down so often in her youth, cannot bear people who break a promise. The novel is in the third person, but I felt like I was let into Jess’s world entirely.

And, while I flagged at times in reading it, I still raced through the final third of the novel and felt bereft once I’d finished it. There’s nobody like Smith for making you fall in love with a community, a landscape, and feel adrift once you are no longer with them. I’m sure I’ll re-read this one, as I have already re-read O, The Brave Music, and perhaps next time it will feel like coming home to the village – and the large cast of characters will be familiar faces to whom I am returning.

Three very brief reviews

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A trio of books that I don’t have an enormous amount to write about… but more than nothing?

The Powers That Be – Beverley Nichols

When I bought this, I thought it was a novel. When I explored a bit further, I realised it was non-fiction – an account of meeting various people who claim to be able to do supernatural things. ‘What fun,’ thought I. I had assumed it would be Nichols travelling around and meeting Madame Arcati types, being gently witty at their expense, but with good-heartedness behind the barbs.

Well, there are no barbs; there is no wit. Nichols is entirely straight-faced in this book, meeting people who purport to be able to read minds, sense coal or oil by looking at a map, heal by putting a drop of blood in a black box etc. Nichols is agape and unquestioning throughout. The people he meets are portrayed affectionately, and perhaps they all believe that can do their wonders – but the book felt like an article that had got out of hand, and with none of the writing strengths that make Nichols the author he is.

The Electricity of Every Living Thing – Katherine May

Another non-fiction – about a woman coming to terms with her adult diagnosis of autism while walking the south coast of England. It was a really interesting premise, and I did enjoy reading this – May is very open, not only about her diagnosis but about the arguments and tension in her marriage, and her feelings as a mother.

The thing that was missing for me was perhaps more of an attempt to explain what she means by living with a sense of electricity all the time, and perhaps more abstract discussions alongside the angst about the rain and lost pathways. Or perhaps it just that there’s been so much brilliant memoir recently that this one is more ordinary than some of the others? But definitely still worth a read if the premise interest you.

Once Again to Zelda – Marlene Wagman-Geller

My brother got me this ages ago, and it was one of the final Project Names titles I finished last year – so you can see how long it’s been waiting in my to-review pile. The idea is quite clever – she uses the dedications of famous novels to tell the story behind them. Some of them I was very familiar with, like Emma; others were books I hadn’t even heard of. A staggering amount of research has gone into this, and it’s a fun stocking-filler type of book – if you remember this in December. A good one to leaf through, finding interesting facts and stories in, if not one to read through in one go.

More often than not, the story is about the book and the dedication is an incidental way in, rather than particularly bizarre or intriguing dedications – though there are a handful of those too. Probably the book of these three that I enjoyed most, and if you enjoy reading about books and literary history, I can certainly recommend.

All the Dogs of My Life by Elizabeth von Arnim

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Elizabeth von Arnim didn’t write a proper autobiography and All the Dogs of My Life (1936) is not – as she repeatedly states – an autobiography. But it’s the nearest she wrote, and I found it an interesting insight into her life. Perhaps most usefully if you already know the outline of her life.

The book is structured exactly as the title would have you imagine – she traces her life through the fourteen dogs she has had during her life, two of which were still with her at the time of publishing. She almost lost me in the first few pages, where she badmouths cats and says they’re not up to much because they won’t come when you call. I’ve always put that in the ‘pro’ column for pets that feel like friends – I don’t expect my friends to obey me. Anyway. Later on she does mention a cat had, but called her/him ‘it’ and doesn’t give his/her name. I guess not everybody can be right about cats.

I am not particularly fussed one way or the other about dogs, but I did enjoy reading the way von Arnim wrote about them. The ones she has loved most are written about with an affection and poignancy that few romances could equal, and I will admit to crying at the death of one particularly special one.

On the other hand, von Arnim does seem to have been a shockingly bad dog owner – by today’s standards, at least. She has one that chases deer and another that kills sheep, and doesn’t seem to have done much to deter them. She has another dog put down, aged three, because he is fat and lazy. She is forever moving country and leaving dogs behind. Maybe all these things were more acceptable a hundred years ago…

But the real reason All the Dogs of My Life is such an interesting books isn’t the dogs – though the photographs of them are a welcome addition. It’s what we learn about von Arnim’s life – particularly her marriages. She doesn’t say much about the husbands, except that ‘perhaps husbands have never agreed with me very much’, and she draws a veil over her miserable second marriage, purportedly because there were no dogs present and thus is doesn’t fit into the schema of the book. But we can see enough in her dry wit throughout to understand what motivated and hurt her.

Don’t expect much information about her life as a writer. Only one of her books gets a brief mention – Fraulein Schmidt and Mr Anstruther, which is very good – but otherwise she could equally have had any other profession. Only the quality of her writing in All the Dogs of My Life would clue a reader into her successes elsewhere.

It’s a short, intriguing book, filled with the range of emotions from joy to melancholy. As a window on her life, it is the most glazed sort of glass – but if you stand close and peer carefully, you can find whatever von Arnim was willing to let on.

Stuck in a Book’s Weekend Miscellany

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We’re having some lovely weather in the UK this weekend, and the roses in my garden are in full bloom, so I can temporarily forget about the world out there with a book and a cuppa. I hope your weekend is going well – let me help it along with a book, a blog post, and a link.

1.) The link – the Hay Festival kicks off in a couple of days! Obviously it’s not happening in real life, but lots of events are happening online – and, even better, the tickets are free. I’ve signed up to see James Shapiro and Jon Sopel. I’m not sure what tickets are left, but check them out!

2.) The book – my friend Matthew recommended The Mystery of Henri Pick by David Foenkinos – or, rather, heard about it and thought I’d like it. Someone unearths an amazing novel in a library of rejected manuscripts, which starts a publicity hunt for the author. Sounds very up my street – read more.

3.) The blog post – I loved the book recommendations – and the paintings – in the latest round-up over at Eiger, Mönch, and Jungfrau.

The Scapegoat by Daphne du Maurier

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We’re in the last few days of Daphne du Maurier Reading Week, run by Ali, and I am glad I managed to sneak in under the line with The Scapegoat from 1957. I did a poll on Twitter to see whether I should read this, short stories, The Parasites, or I’ll Never Be Young Again, which account for all the unread books I have by her – and I’m glad that this one topped the poll, because it’s rather brilliant. Truth be told, it tied with the short stories – but the people cheering on The Scapegoat were very convincing.

I didn’t know anything at all about it when I started, which was quite an exciting way to read the novel. But I can’t just stop writing then – so read on to have the premise of the novel spoiled. And it really does happen in the first handful of pages.

John is the first-person narrator – he is a university history lecturer from England, visiting France. In Le Mans, he happens upon his doppelgänger. Not just somebody who looks a bit like him, but somebody exactly like him. They even have the same voice, and John’s French is so good that this other man – Jean de Gué – didn’t realise John was English. They start drinking together… and eventually so drunk, or perhaps drugged, that John passes out in Jean’s hotel room.

When John wakes up – Jean has taken all of John’s possessions and gone. He is left with Jean’s clothes, luggage, identity documents – and none of his own. Left with little option, he decides to go to Jean’s house.

If you swallow the far-fetched concept of doppelgängers so identical that nobody at all can tell them apart, then this is a premise rife with possibility. And, look, it isn’t possible. I speak as someone with a literal clone, and very few people would think we were the same person. No matter – let’s go on with the show.

John-as-Jean arrives at his chateau. His earlier attempts to explain what has happened are taken as poor joke, and he takes the path of least resistance. It’s rather an ingenious way to introduce the new cast to us – because John, narrating, is as clueless as the reader as to who they are. There are several women, a child, an older woman, a man. Gradually, he works out how Jean relates to all of them – sussing out the histories and relationships without being able to ask outright. Why does he have bad blood with one of the woman, and apparently secrets with another? Which is his wife??

In their brief encounter, it was clear that Jean was a more ruthless, less pleasant man that John. As he stays there, it becomes increasingly obvious how this had affected things – and how Jean has set John up to be the scapegoat of the title. John is no saint himself – though motivated by much purer morals than his doppelgänger, he is weak and often foolish. And blindingly naive at times. For all that, he is very sympathetic, and du Maurier does a great job of making us feel his frustrations, fear, and dawning attempts to make the best of it.

If Daphne du Maurier had written this twenty years earlier, around the time she was writing Rebecca, this would be a brilliant set-up for something gothic, something in the mould of a thriller. Well, The Scapegoat is not that. It is a much more sophisticated take on the genre, if I can use the word ‘sophisticated’ as a value-free term: I still adore Rebecca; it’s still my favourite of her novels. But The Scapegoat is more of a character piece – after the fantastic premise, everything is believable and even likely. It’s a poignant unfurling of one man’s psyche, while he is similarly on the track of Jean’s. There are dramatic moments, but this isn’t really a dramatic novel. It’s all about personality and relationships and family, and gentle attempts to change things.

It’s also beautifully written. I’ve never seen du Maurier better at the incidental metaphor, descriptions of people and places, and above all subtle and precise descriptions of how John feels and responds.

As I say, Rebecca is still in a league of its own as a complete tour de force – but this is a clever, engaging, and unexpectedly nuance competitor.

Down the Kitchen Sink by Beverley Nichols

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The official author of my quarantine has been Beverley Nichols. Some have been great and others not-so-great – and then there’s Down the Kitchen Sink (1974), which combines high highs and – well, no lows, but definitely things I had less interest in. Its title is an homage to his famous book Down the Garden Path – and it is subtitled ‘a memoir’, but it is really only half that.

The opening is a typically Beverley concoction of nostalgia, dry wit, and whimsy:

It was an evening in early spring and underneath the Eros statue the steps were piled high with the gold of primroses and the purple of violets, which the flower-girls were selling at tuppence a bunch. In and out of the traffic, like figures in a ballet, darted the newspaper boys. selling sheets which have long since fluttered into oblivion – the Westminster Gazette, which printed on green paper and The Globe which was printed on pink; and The Star, whose pages needed no colour, for they sparkled and crackled with the brilliance of its prose. All at a penny a piece.

[…]

I strolled thoughtfully across Piccadilly Circus – (in those days, the early twenties, one could still wander about London like a gentleman, without courting the risk of instant death) – counting my blessings. They were many. I was twenty-five, and almost aggressively healthy. I was wearing a new suit in the latest fashion, with very wide trousers, which were flatteringly reflected in the plate glass windows. I was glowing with the fires of the latest thing in cocktails – the ‘Sidecar’. I had consumed it in the long bar of the Trocadero – an enchanting grotto of delight, all gold mosaics and nouveau art, which should have been painted by Sickert, but never was. And only that morning I had corrected the proofs of my first entry in Who’s Who. Not a very long entry, merely a couple of lines. But something inside me, probably the ‘Sidecar’, which was made of equal quantities of brandy, Cointreau and lemon juice, persuaded me that as the year went by, it would grow considerably longer. Which it did.

Yes, I should have been very happy, but I was not. For at home somebody was waiting for me whom I dreaded to meet.

The person whom Nichols was waiting to meet was Gaskin – the man-servant that Nichols had just installed into his small house in a backstreet of central London, which he almost convinces us was not a sign of affluence at the time. Gaskin was only a few years younger than Nichols, and recently removed from his upbringing in Norfolk to this situation. But he is entirely at ease, in a way that Nichols is not – or professes not to be, at several decades’ distance. Gaskin seems to know what is expected in the master/servant relationship, and gives subtle approval when Nichols gets it right (and censure when he gets it wrong). He is preparing the first meal – having rejected the fish at Fortnum and Mason, he has found a good fish shop down the road. The proprietor came from Norfolk. Nichols quickly learns that, wherever they go, Gaskin will find a network of people who are from Norfolk, and trusts them.

This first half of the book was lovely. Nichols talks about the wonderful meals that Gaskin has produced at different times, and writes about them with a dizzying rapture. I enjoy that when it was about paradise-like desserts, say, but there was rather too much about meat and fish for this vegetarian to enjoy reading it. No, what makes the first half of Down the Kitchen Sink so wonderful is the portrait of Gaskin. As Nichols and Gaskin spent several decades together, their relationship was one of the most long-lasting in Nichols’ life. Gaskin emerges from these pages as a wonder in the kitchen, but also a delightful mixture of competence and wonder. The way in which he inveigles a kitten into the house filled my heart with joy.

The portrait ends, alas, with Gaskin’s death. And the pages where Beverley Nichols describes discovering that Gaskin has long hidden his alcoholism are beautifully, thoughtfully written. It’s wonderfully done, and I have seldom been as moved by the testament to a friendship – which was never an equal friendship but, in Nichols’ eyes at least, no less to be treasured for that.

The second half of Down the Kitchen Sink is less enjoyable, for me. It purports to be Nichols learning to cook for himself – and I thought it might be the sort of funny, self-deprecating narrative that Nichols is so good at. There are moments of that, and understandably, because Nichols is shockingly ignorant about everything in the kitchen. But before long it becomes more of a collection of recipes. Perhaps that is what Nichols had been commissioned to do, and he twisted it away from that commission into something more enjoyable. But by the final sections, it’s just him describing recipes – with a little context, but not much more.

If I wanted to recreate any of these dishes, then it would perhaps be a delight – but the 1970s are not renowned for their culinary excellence in the UK, and Beverley Nichols doesn’t seem to have opted for vegetarian dishes for very long. I wanted humour or poignancy, not instruction.

So, very much a book of two halves. And I shan’t re-read the second half. But I feel like I may well go back to that funny, touching delight of a first half.

Isolarion by James Attlee

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I joined my village book club at exactly the wrong time. I did make it for their annual meal (which was a slightly odd way to meet those I’d not previously met) but the next meeting came after the pandemic hit and we decided not to go ahead. A few days later, we were in lockdown. I still haven’t written about The Citadel by AJ Cronin that we read for that, but I loved it.

This was before libraries shut, so we were able to get our next book: Isolarion: A Different Oxford Journey by James Attlee, published in 2007. As you find out in an epigraph – isolarion is ‘the term for 15th-century maps that describe specific areas in detail, but that do not provide a clarifying overview of how these places are related to each other’. It’s a pretty self-indulgent title, since nobody will know what it means without opening it, but authors often seem to lose their heads when it comes to a title. The ‘specific area in detail’ in question is Cowley Road, Oxford. It’s a long road that goes straight through East Oxford – the less affluent area of Oxford. (It’s an intriguing phenomenon that you will hear people talk about North Oxford and East Oxford, but never about South or West.)

From the events mentioned, Attlee was researching this around 2002-2004. I moved to Oxford in 2004 – to a big, ugly student accommodation block next to the Plain Roundabout, which divides East Oxford from Central Oxford. I could see Cowley Road from the kitchen window. I lived in Oxford for 15 years, and before I finally managed to move out to a little village, I lived in East Oxford again for a few years. I never lived on Cowley Road itself – this country boy could not have coped with living on a busy road – but I lived around it off and on for quite a while. So I definitely had a personal interest in seeing what Attlee would make of it – I don’t know if it would have the same appeal for people who’ve never been there. Who knows.

The beginning of this book starts a trend that was also my favourite element of Isolarion – going into the different shops, pubs, restaurants etc of the street, and learning about them from their owners. Learning what it was like to have a business there, and how the proprietors ended up there. Because East Oxford is easily the most multicultural part of the city, and that’s reflected in the range of shops there: Brazilian art gallery, Chinese medicine, Polish food, Lebanese food, Indian food… there are a lot of food shops there. My favourite to walk past, though I never went in, was a robemakers – because the mannequins in the window wore clerical robes that reminded me of life in a vicarage. Some of the places Attlee mentioned had disappeared before I moved a little while later – some are still in situ, though you’ll also find Sainsbury’s, Costa, and other signs of gentrification there now.

All of this was wonderful – building up the sense of recent history and community, talking to people who’ve been there all of their lives. It certainly isn’t romanticised – he also talks about the churchyard where people get drunk, the levels of homelessness, the mentally unwell people who pace the street (I recognised the people he spoke about). He talks about the porn shop – that, no, I have never been in. It’s called ‘Private Shop’ – when Attlee wrote about it, and when I moved to the area, it was a blue shop with a discreet sign. Now it’s still called ‘Private Shop’ but the ‘A’ is silhouette of a naked woman… some discretion has been lost.

Alongside this, Attlee documents his attempts to guide the local planning committee about how best to celebrate the area – he is very anti having a gateway arch at the beginning of the street. It was a little off-putting how certain he was that he was right and other locals were wrong, but it was an enjoyably immersive sense of living in the community.

So, there were the makings of a book I really loved. I could even forgive his casual dismissing of students as being part of East Oxford life, though I’d point out that they (we) spent a lot more time there each week than people like Attlee, who commute to London. But he rather lost me when he got abstract.

Increasingly, Isolarion turns to philosophical tangents. He gives overviews of various religions, and has some platitudes to share about them. The concrete gives way to his musings about them, and I didn’t find his musings particularly exciting. He quotes Robert Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy a bizarre amount that an editor should have cut down on – it reminded me of another book about Oxford that kept going on about Isaiah Berlin. Stick to the topic on the table, folks, and don’t let your personal obsessions take over!

So, if this was edited down to the concrete – and if Attlee had interviewed more people – it would have been a truly wonderful book. As it was, I still loved reading it – paradoxically, I enjoyed it more than the sum of its parts. But I do wish he’d been stricter with himself about what made Isolarion great and what was interesting just to him.