COMPETITION

Damned by praise

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1737 you were in- vited to write a review of an imaginary book, whose enthusiasm is far more likely to turn the reader off than on.

Here are some nice plums pulled out of your critical puddings: 'No book of its kind has given me greater pleasure since the memoirs of John Major's tailor' (Charles Chadwick); 'A conscientiously minuted account of the philosophical musings of the manager of an amusement arcade' (Diana Phillips); 'It is a world where stiff upper lips disguise the absence of emotion' (M. E. Ault); 'It is to the credit of the author that he wisely resisted the tempta- tion to add even a hint of levity where none was appropriate' (Suzan Randle); 'If ever there was poetry which can be appreciated before being understood, this is it, in spades redoubled' (Watson Weeks). The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Aberlour Single Malt whisky goes to Fergus Porter.

If, like me, you hope for the best, but fear the worst of the next book froni a favourite scribe, then, in the case of the new Edmund Badham, let me say that the Master has excelled himself in Fletcher's Green. Once more he has his readers a-tingle with anticipation as we detrain at Munday Junction (hands off, Dr Beeching!) and enter his (and our) beloved Momingshire. All the old faces are here — the Vicar, Mrs Parslow

still with his tea reproachfully on the table prompt at four, Hodge the gardener, and Prue the daily woman. Turning the pages and savour- ing the incomparable illustrations — the inspired work once more of 'Kestrel' — we can almost hear cheerful voices and the lively tread of footsteps in the High Street. After Coney Terrace, I said that we should not look upon its like again. I hoped I would be wrong and, to quote Captain Fellows RN (back again too), by thunder I was. Badham's in cracking form again. (Fergus Porter) Professor Dumbrill, whose masterly recension of the 1757 version of The Pleasures of Imagina- don will not soon be ousted from the primacy which it rightly holds amongst Akenside scho- lars, has now given us his long-awaited biogra- phy of the author. The Swan of Newcastle will warm the hearts of all who have vainly deplored the capricious irreverence of a Strachey, the spurious sociological criteria of a Leavis, and

yearn for a return to the more gracious, indeed spacious, manners of Q.

Broad though the canvas is — there are telling analogies with those other butchers' sons, Wolsey and the Bard himself — Dumbrill nevertheless ands space for stimulating con- troversy. His final chapter, 'A Time for Reas- sessment', and its positive assertion that Aken- side now deserves to be ranked head and shoulders above Dobell — nay, equal, perhaps, with Aurelian Townshend — will set tongues wagging at many a High Table for, we venture to say, some months yet to come.

(John E. Cunningham) The ladies have their 'sex and shopping' novels, but what of the beleaguered male? Well, this week testosterone fights back in the shape of Cry the Man by Dwight X. Kronfeld (Gonad Press). A group of impotent, overmortgaged Wallstreeters take to the backwoods and a life without women. Primal screams, nakedness and mud-smearing are de rigueur in this invigorating romp through the male psyche: the honesty, the tears, the hugging and the sobbing of these spiritual castrati is at once engaging and harrow- ing. An almost religious fervour attaches itself to the felling of trees, as the open fire becomes a symbol of renewed consciousness. The flames are as icons in a burgeoning passion for the primitive. Maleness flourishes unchallenged, and the denouement, involving a charabanc of wives and lawyers, I shall not spoil for you. The 'sect and chopping' novel is here to stay.

(Tim Hopkins)

The Peat Harvest, by William Williams Messrs Bluff & Bkiw are to be congratulated on their insight and courage in publishing this massive volume and bucking the overwhelming trend towards the sex/violence/psychological school of writing. This is a beautifully written plain tale of the simple unspectacular lives of the people who harvest peat in Northern Scotland. However fascinating the lives of the peat harves- ters may be, and however brilliantly they may be portrayed, the real hero of the book is peat itself. Peat covers large parts of Northern Europe and the variety of uses to which it is put is quite astonishing. Most readers will know of its use as a gardening aid and a fuel, but how many associate it with cytology, whisky, and antisepsis? And how many will realise that the pollen analysis of peat is indispensable to scientists in the interpretation of post-glacial climatic records? The thousand pages of this delightful book will amply repay close study.

(J. Hennigan)

The publication of this previously unknown manuscript has excited all Lowry enthusiasts. However, many others previously unacquainted with his work will surely discover him through it. Under the Volcano, great novel as it is, is weakened by a false note of cheery optimism. In particular, the release and redemption of the Consul's — albeit brutal — death divert from the true and unalloyed quality of alcohOlic despair which is the book's central theme. The Shore of the Styx has no such weakness. Furth- ermore, the greater power of the writing in- volves us; it makes us feel the naked terror of living in a cold and futile world. It may not be that Lowry answers the questions that he poses — in all probability they are without answer but it is surely impossible to read this book and not be moved to feel and see as he felt and saw.

(Neil Datson)

No. 1740: Rhyme royal

You are invited to imagine that one of our queens was, like Emily Dickinson, a secret pciet, and that a poem (maximum 16 lines) about or to her husband has been disco- vered. Please write it in the style of the day. Entries to 'Conipetition No. 1740' by 7 August.