Sir: Last year the late Professor Brogan ' wrote such
a wretched non-review of Arthur Schlesinger's Making Presidents that I was moved to pen some words of protest; and I was forced to ask the question (which it is the reviewer's business to answer anyway) — was it a good book or not (Letters, June 9)? My ego was inflated briefly when I saw my letter printed, without a single mistake, but I needn't have bothered. For last week (March 2) dear old Clive Jenkins was playing exactly the same kind of non-reviewing game: in less than five lines he dismisses Innes Macbeath's Cloth Cap and After before sailing onward, head in cloud, to fill three columns -columns, mark you — with an essay of his own on unions. It was all good clean and articulate stuff and I read every word. But surely nobody, not Clive Jenkins himself, certainly not Mr Macbeath, nor (dare I say it?) The Spectator's editor, could possibly claim that it was a review. Yet the heading at the top of the page is plain enough, though I am bound to wonder what 'Review of Books' in big fat black caps means to Mr Jenkins. Personally I thought he was irresponsible; once again I felt like asking kit my 15p back; and maybe (again) you ought to ask for your fee back, too or tell him to write an assessment based on the book rather than on the fact that it infuriated him, just as he infuriated me. This is getting to be a habit.
So I'm back to square one: was it a good book nor not? Is it worth £3.50, is it informative / interesting / soporific • brilliant / deep / shallow or what? Or should Messrs Schlesinger and Macbeath form their own union to protect themselves against the non-reviewers of whatever status? I'll gladly offer them my services as Hon Sec. Kiril Gray 117 Belmont Road, Uxbridge
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