Wife Overboard: Thackeray

John Sutherland, 20 January 2000

All Thackeray biographers should feel a pang of guilt. Disgusted by Victorian whitewash memorials, he instructed his daughters: ‘Mind, no biography ... consider it my last testament and...

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Blair-Speak: Gish Jen’s Jokes

Gabriele Annan, 6 January 2000

Ever since her first novel Typical American appeared in 1991, the Chinese American writer Gish Jen has been acclaimed as the new Amy Tan. Amy Tan herself acclaims her on the cover of Mona in the...

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Poem: ‘From a Mexican Archive’

Simon Carnell, 6 January 2000

A downtown storefront window containing only a single giant plastic ear. * In a San Ángel garden: the four-inch-long orange potato bug called face of a child. * Ancient evil in a...

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In 1857, eight years before Kipling was born, Indian soldiers in the north of the country rebelled against the representatives of the East India Company. The uprising was known as the Sepoy...

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Two Poems

Mark Ford, 6 January 2000

One Figures in his plans, but briefly, as a cupped hand holds water, or as private and public spheres collide and blur, overlap within his fragile, omnivorous stare. Barely awake, dazed and...

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You get off the boat and they call you Paddy – Paddy or Mick of course it’s the same thing and sometimes that nick- name’ll stick as it stuck to me – clamped – mine...

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Uplifting Lust: Mills and Boon

E.S. Turner, 6 January 2000

When the Berlin Wall came down ten years ago the publishers Mills and Boon moved swiftly into the breach. In a single day, we are told, their West German office gave away 750,000 copies of...

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Phwoar! Amanda Platell

Suzanne Moore, 6 January 2000

These days swearing occasionally or having a glass of wine at lunchtime is enough to qualify you as a bit of a character. As newspapers become less important, however, journalists become more self-important,...

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Poem: ‘Roads’

John Burnside, 9 December 1999

But oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go. Lennon-McCartney I Driving to Mirtiotissa We learned to avoid the village to drive through the olive groves...

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Be flippant: Noël Coward’s Return

David Edgar, 9 December 1999

In the film about Noël Coward that Adam Low made for Arena in 1998, there is a shot of Arnold Wesker watching a recording of a Royal Court fundraising gala in which Coward is marvellous but...

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Glittering Fiend: John Berryman

Ian Hamilton, 9 December 1999

In one of John Berryman’s more lucid dream songs (No. 364), there is amusing reference to the reading habits of Henry, the song sequence’s screwed up protagonist: O Henry in his...

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Writing about Shakespeare

Frank Kermode, 9 December 1999

Fifty-odd years ago I was asked to review a book about Shakespeare by an aged professor who claimed that a career spent largely in teaching Shakespeare gave him a right to have his final say on...

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E. Annie Proulx was 56 years old when her first novel, Postcards, was published in 1991. Since then, she has made up for lost time. The Shipping News appeared in 1993, and snatched up the...

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Attending Poppy: David Grand

Christopher Tayler, 9 December 1999

In its fifties heyday 7000 Romaine was the operations centre of Howard Hughes’s organisation, and lent its name to an unusual document known as the ‘Romaine Street Procedures...

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In the great quilted cento that is Moby-Dick, there is a passage which might be interpreted as Melville’s response to James Barry’s 1776 engraving The Phoenix or the Resurrection of...

Read more about O brambles, chain me too: Life and Vowels of Andrew Marvell

Two Poems

Neil Rollinson, 25 November 1999

EntropyYour coffee grows cold on the kitchen table,which means the universe is dying.Your dress on the carpet is just a dress,it has lost all sense of you now.I open the window, the sky is darkand...

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Translation is often thought to be impossible, an ideal, hopeless task. What we get in its name is a pale substitute, a distant echo of a lost original. ‘A poem,’ Don Paterson says in...

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‘I thirst for his blood’: Henry James

Ruth Bernard Yeazell, 25 November 1999

Henry James was a generous correspondent in more senses than one, but his fellow writers may have found some of the Master’s letters rather exasperating. ‘I read your current novel...

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