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In 2010, Clive James was diagnosed with terminal leukemia. Deciding that “if you don’t know the exact moment when the lights will go out, you might as well read until they do,” James moved his library to his house in Cambridge, where he would “live, read, and perhaps even write.” James is the award-winning author of dozens of works of literary criticism, poetry, and history, and this volume contains his reflections on what may well be his last reading list. A look at some of James’s old favorites as well as some of his recent discoveries, this book also offers a revealing look at the author himself, sharing his evocative musings on literature and family, and on living and dying.
As thoughtful and erudite as the works of Alberto Manguel, and as moving and inspiring as Randy Pausch’s The Last Lecture and Will Schwalbe’s The End of Your Life Book Club, this valediction to James’s lifelong engagement with the written word is a captivating valentine from one of the great literary minds of our time.
As thoughtful and erudite as the works of Alberto Manguel, and as moving and inspiring as Randy Pausch’s The Last Lecture and Will Schwalbe’s The End of Your Life Book Club, this valediction to James’s lifelong engagement with the written word is a captivating valentine from one of the great literary minds of our time.
180 pages, Hardcover
First published August 25, 2015
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658 people want to read
About the author
Clive James
96 books290 followersLibrarian Note: There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name. See this thread for more information.
An expatriate Australian broadcast personality and author of cultural criticism, memoir, fiction, travelogue and poetry. Translator of Dante.
An expatriate Australian broadcast personality and author of cultural criticism, memoir, fiction, travelogue and poetry. Translator of Dante.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 128 reviews
August 31, 2015
Years ago, when I was still a student, I enjoyed Clives James volumes of memoirs and so I was happy to read his latest musings, “Latest Readings,” a book about his love of reading. After being diagnosed with leukaemia in 2010, understandably, James wondered whether it was even worth reading anything substantial again. Would he have time to tackle all those great reads? However, wisely deciding that, “if you don’t know the exact moment when the light will go out, you might as well read until they do,” he not only read more, but has kindly shared his insights into the books, interests and poetry he loves.
Although I do not share James humour, wit and intelligence (I have always loved the fact that you can hear the author ‘talking’ through his written words), I certainly do share his love of books. He freely admits to being, “book crazy” and “not rational” in his desire to collect more and I can freely admit to sharing these traits. Like the author I am desperately trying not to add to my collection – especially not in ‘book’ form, due to lack of space. However, when I read about James admiration of Osbert Lancaster I realised I had not read anything by him. A quick glance online and I knew the volumes I was interested in were not on kindle. Could I resist the temptation to buy them? Obviously not and I feel the author would be in totally sympathy with me here and likely (and wisely) to not even try to resist the impulse himself! One book addict knows another and this slim volume will certainly add to your collection, so be warned…
Clive James openly embraces his renewed wish to buy books and, in this bookish memoir, he discusses writers and poets he has loved for most of his life (Hemingway, Larking, Shakespeare, Johnson), those he goes back to (Conrad, Anthony Powell) and those he has newly discovered (the wonderful Olivia Manning for one). One of my joys was how many authors I also loved. Not only Manning but Waugh, Edward St Aubyn and others. Another joy was how many authors tempted me – like Lancaster – to just give them a try. From a love of books about WWII, through to memoirs about Hollywood, James is – as always – witty, perceptive, imaginative and beguiling. I wish him enjoyment in his reading, thanks for his writing and immense gratitude for sharing his love of books with his readers.
Although I do not share James humour, wit and intelligence (I have always loved the fact that you can hear the author ‘talking’ through his written words), I certainly do share his love of books. He freely admits to being, “book crazy” and “not rational” in his desire to collect more and I can freely admit to sharing these traits. Like the author I am desperately trying not to add to my collection – especially not in ‘book’ form, due to lack of space. However, when I read about James admiration of Osbert Lancaster I realised I had not read anything by him. A quick glance online and I knew the volumes I was interested in were not on kindle. Could I resist the temptation to buy them? Obviously not and I feel the author would be in totally sympathy with me here and likely (and wisely) to not even try to resist the impulse himself! One book addict knows another and this slim volume will certainly add to your collection, so be warned…
Clive James openly embraces his renewed wish to buy books and, in this bookish memoir, he discusses writers and poets he has loved for most of his life (Hemingway, Larking, Shakespeare, Johnson), those he goes back to (Conrad, Anthony Powell) and those he has newly discovered (the wonderful Olivia Manning for one). One of my joys was how many authors I also loved. Not only Manning but Waugh, Edward St Aubyn and others. Another joy was how many authors tempted me – like Lancaster – to just give them a try. From a love of books about WWII, through to memoirs about Hollywood, James is – as always – witty, perceptive, imaginative and beguiling. I wish him enjoyment in his reading, thanks for his writing and immense gratitude for sharing his love of books with his readers.
April 29, 2023
I love Clive James' pragmatic attitude, "If you don't know the exact moment when the lights will go out, you might as well read until they do."
I also loved his description of how his elder daughter got him hooked on Patrick O'Brian's Jack Aubrey novels. Once he had devoured the first one he was back for the next, and is on... "the excitement of reading" took his mind off his mortality and before he knew it he had read all twenty volumes.
For a book about books I came away remarkably unscathed, that is, my to-read list didn't expand overly much. Instead, I enjoyed James' writing about authors and their books very much and came away with a couple to follow up on.
Favorite quote: "Most writers who are credited with wit have not a trace of it, but St. Aubyn really can pack the meaning tight enough for it to crackle, and he can do so often enough to make you impatient when he doesn't."
I also loved his description of how his elder daughter got him hooked on Patrick O'Brian's Jack Aubrey novels. Once he had devoured the first one he was back for the next, and is on... "the excitement of reading" took his mind off his mortality and before he knew it he had read all twenty volumes.
For a book about books I came away remarkably unscathed, that is, my to-read list didn't expand overly much. Instead, I enjoyed James' writing about authors and their books very much and came away with a couple to follow up on.
Favorite quote: "Most writers who are credited with wit have not a trace of it, but St. Aubyn really can pack the meaning tight enough for it to crackle, and he can do so often enough to make you impatient when he doesn't."
December 12, 2015
Well, I tried to not gulp down this slender book of essays on reading but failed miserably at restraint. The first day I was almost good and only went a few essays over my intended allotment. The second day was a disaster of ill-discipline. Despite also reading several other books, two for work, I kept picking up Mr. James and reading just one more. And just one more. Like kisses, chocolate and otherwise, once you start it is impossible to stop.
James is, as is well known, dying from leukemia but continues to read and write. Indeed, he is ridiculously productive with at least five books published in the same number of years since his diagnosis of terminal leukemia. (A translation of Dante, two volumes of poetry, a volume of prose on poetry, and this collection.) Latest Readings is for book lovers and fans of James’s brilliant career as a critic. It is very much a continuation of a conversation he has had with readers about writing, film, and art in general. It may lack the depth of previous essay collections but none of the delight. There is the wit, the surprise, the simple elegance of line and thought that we expect from James on every page.
If the essays are brief and impressionistic they nonetheless benefit from the author’s deep reading and, besides, much, though not all, of the prodigious quantity of reading reported on here is not new reading but in fact re-reading, so the essays serve as a further thought (I resist final thought) on books and writers that have engaged James’s interest over a long career. There is, for small example, this observation about Conrad, he “was the writer who reached political adulthood before any of the other writers of his time, and when they did, they only reached his knee.” James sees Conrad as anticipating in his work much of the evil that would befall the 20th century well in advance of others. Note to self: read Under Western Eyes and Victory.
If you are also a book addict—a compulsive buyer and easily excited potential reader of books, someone who might buy a book one already owns because the edition in hand is new or old or has an interesting cover—the pleasure will be doubled. It is beyond charming and downright inspiring how James simply can’t help himself when confronted with the reality of a book (in a bookstall) or one in theory (conversation). After he borrows and reads all of Patrick O'Brian’s Aubrey novels from his daughter, a growing library of the volumes begin to accumulate on the surfaces (walls and walls of shelves already occupied) as he encounters them in used bookstalls in his town centre. Raise your hand if you understand this behavior.
He does discover new writers and reads them with enthusiasm. He even reports on the blog of one Dan Brown, an American poet whose poetry and prose he encountered on the internet and finds superb. He delights in the fact that Brown has not changed his name or altered his presentation of it. “In view of the fact that the perpetrator of best-selling thrillers of only semi-mental merit is already called Dan Brown, and that the name is therefore famous even in, say, Thailand, you would expect that Dan Brown the poet might at least call himself Dan M. Brown, if not Denzil Hercules Bairnsfeather III. But no, there he is, still writing exquisite metaphysical poetry under a name that might as well be Jerry Lewis.”
As per usual, James has added authors and books to my To Read list—Olivia Manning, Abba Eban, Osbert Lancaster, Katherine Graham’s autobiography, a book on the movie industry titled My Indecision Is Final, and others—and it is inspiring to observe him adding to his own as he writes. Isis makes an unnamed appearance (in an essay about Australian poet Stephen Edgar), as does the delayed fall from grace of Bill Cosby.
There is something profoundly intimate (or at least I imagine it so) about reading Latest Readings. It is the closest thing to actually encountering James as he browses in Hugh’s Bookstalls in Cambridge and beginning a conversation about the books you each have in your hand. Is this not a kind of art? I think it is. It is, in fact, the art of living. In his wonderful introduction, which has too many lines that are quotable, James writes, “Finally, you get to the age when a book’s power to make you think becomes the first thing you notice about it.” This fine, small book does that. About his library, he concludes the essay, “Piled up, the books they wrote are not a necropolis. They are an arcadian pavilion with an infinite set of glittering, mirrored doorways to the unknown: which seems dark to us only because we will not be in it. We won’t be taking our knowledge any further, but it brought us this far.” Amen.
James is, as is well known, dying from leukemia but continues to read and write. Indeed, he is ridiculously productive with at least five books published in the same number of years since his diagnosis of terminal leukemia. (A translation of Dante, two volumes of poetry, a volume of prose on poetry, and this collection.) Latest Readings is for book lovers and fans of James’s brilliant career as a critic. It is very much a continuation of a conversation he has had with readers about writing, film, and art in general. It may lack the depth of previous essay collections but none of the delight. There is the wit, the surprise, the simple elegance of line and thought that we expect from James on every page.
If the essays are brief and impressionistic they nonetheless benefit from the author’s deep reading and, besides, much, though not all, of the prodigious quantity of reading reported on here is not new reading but in fact re-reading, so the essays serve as a further thought (I resist final thought) on books and writers that have engaged James’s interest over a long career. There is, for small example, this observation about Conrad, he “was the writer who reached political adulthood before any of the other writers of his time, and when they did, they only reached his knee.” James sees Conrad as anticipating in his work much of the evil that would befall the 20th century well in advance of others. Note to self: read Under Western Eyes and Victory.
If you are also a book addict—a compulsive buyer and easily excited potential reader of books, someone who might buy a book one already owns because the edition in hand is new or old or has an interesting cover—the pleasure will be doubled. It is beyond charming and downright inspiring how James simply can’t help himself when confronted with the reality of a book (in a bookstall) or one in theory (conversation). After he borrows and reads all of Patrick O'Brian’s Aubrey novels from his daughter, a growing library of the volumes begin to accumulate on the surfaces (walls and walls of shelves already occupied) as he encounters them in used bookstalls in his town centre. Raise your hand if you understand this behavior.
He does discover new writers and reads them with enthusiasm. He even reports on the blog of one Dan Brown, an American poet whose poetry and prose he encountered on the internet and finds superb. He delights in the fact that Brown has not changed his name or altered his presentation of it. “In view of the fact that the perpetrator of best-selling thrillers of only semi-mental merit is already called Dan Brown, and that the name is therefore famous even in, say, Thailand, you would expect that Dan Brown the poet might at least call himself Dan M. Brown, if not Denzil Hercules Bairnsfeather III. But no, there he is, still writing exquisite metaphysical poetry under a name that might as well be Jerry Lewis.”
As per usual, James has added authors and books to my To Read list—Olivia Manning, Abba Eban, Osbert Lancaster, Katherine Graham’s autobiography, a book on the movie industry titled My Indecision Is Final, and others—and it is inspiring to observe him adding to his own as he writes. Isis makes an unnamed appearance (in an essay about Australian poet Stephen Edgar), as does the delayed fall from grace of Bill Cosby.
There is something profoundly intimate (or at least I imagine it so) about reading Latest Readings. It is the closest thing to actually encountering James as he browses in Hugh’s Bookstalls in Cambridge and beginning a conversation about the books you each have in your hand. Is this not a kind of art? I think it is. It is, in fact, the art of living. In his wonderful introduction, which has too many lines that are quotable, James writes, “Finally, you get to the age when a book’s power to make you think becomes the first thing you notice about it.” This fine, small book does that. About his library, he concludes the essay, “Piled up, the books they wrote are not a necropolis. They are an arcadian pavilion with an infinite set of glittering, mirrored doorways to the unknown: which seems dark to us only because we will not be in it. We won’t be taking our knowledge any further, but it brought us this far.” Amen.
March 17, 2016
Despite the choice of Clive’s reading matter (Conrad, WWII non-fiction, movie-world ditto, Edward St. Aubyn, Anthony Powell, etc.), his talent as a critic and writer kept me rapt in this short collection (perhaps his last, for now his ‘latest’). Clive’s talent as a polymath has been overshadowed in the UK through various fatuous TV programmes made in the late 90s, however, in his final two decades, a corpus of first-rate criticism has set about redressing that balance. Long might Clive thrive.
September 23, 2016
BBC interview
Description: In 2010, Clive James was diagnosed with terminal leukemia. Deciding that “if you don’t know the exact moment when the lights will go out, you might as well read until they do,” James moved his library to his house in Cambridge, where he would “live, read, and perhaps even write.” James is the award-winning author of dozens of works of literary criticism, poetry, and history, and this volume contains his reflections on what may well be his last reading list. A look at some of James’s old favorites as well as some of his recent discoveries, this book also offers a revealing look at the author himself, sharing his evocative musings on literature and family, and on living and dying.
As thoughtful and erudite as the works of Alberto Manguel, and as moving and inspiring as Randy Pausch’s The Last Lecture and Will Schwalbe’s The End of Your Life Book Club, this valediction to James’s lifelong engagement with the written word is a captivating valentine from one of the great literary minds of our time.
Hemingway in the Beginning
Revisiting Conrad
Novels in Sequence
Patrick O'Brian and His Salty Hero
War Leader
Sebald and the Battle in the Air
Phantom Flying Saucer
Under Western Eyes
Anthony Powell, Time Lord
Treasuring Osbert Lancaster
American Power
Kipling and the Widow-maker
Speer in Spandau
Shakespeare and Johnson
Naipaul's Nastiness
Movie Books
Women in Hollywood
Extra Shelves
Always Philip Larkin
Villa America
Angles on Hitler
Stephen Edgar, Austrailian Ace
John Howard Extends His Reign
Hemingway at the End
On Wit
Richard Wilbur's Precept
When Creation is Perverse
Conrad's Greatest Victory
Coda
James, and my appreciation of him, is a long-lived thing, so I was heart-broken to read that he felt he had to apologise for still being alive after leukemia was declared. His critiques here are no holds barred, and I feel as if he is reflecting so many of my own thoughts about Forester over O'Brian, autofic-fantasist Hemingway, and the almost criminal injustice of Olivia Manning not being more well-known today. ** kapow**
There is only one niggle: I began to seriously despise being coerced into the phrase "we, the enthralled readers".
Description: In 2010, Clive James was diagnosed with terminal leukemia. Deciding that “if you don’t know the exact moment when the lights will go out, you might as well read until they do,” James moved his library to his house in Cambridge, where he would “live, read, and perhaps even write.” James is the award-winning author of dozens of works of literary criticism, poetry, and history, and this volume contains his reflections on what may well be his last reading list. A look at some of James’s old favorites as well as some of his recent discoveries, this book also offers a revealing look at the author himself, sharing his evocative musings on literature and family, and on living and dying.
As thoughtful and erudite as the works of Alberto Manguel, and as moving and inspiring as Randy Pausch’s The Last Lecture and Will Schwalbe’s The End of Your Life Book Club, this valediction to James’s lifelong engagement with the written word is a captivating valentine from one of the great literary minds of our time.
Hemingway in the Beginning
Revisiting Conrad
Novels in Sequence
Patrick O'Brian and His Salty Hero
War Leader
Sebald and the Battle in the Air
Phantom Flying Saucer
Under Western Eyes
Anthony Powell, Time Lord
Treasuring Osbert Lancaster
American Power
Kipling and the Widow-maker
Speer in Spandau
Shakespeare and Johnson
Naipaul's Nastiness
Movie Books
Women in Hollywood
Extra Shelves
Always Philip Larkin
Villa America
Angles on Hitler
Stephen Edgar, Austrailian Ace
John Howard Extends His Reign
Hemingway at the End
On Wit
Richard Wilbur's Precept
When Creation is Perverse
Conrad's Greatest Victory
Coda
James, and my appreciation of him, is a long-lived thing, so I was heart-broken to read that he felt he had to apologise for still being alive after leukemia was declared. His critiques here are no holds barred, and I feel as if he is reflecting so many of my own thoughts about Forester over O'Brian, autofic-fantasist Hemingway, and the almost criminal injustice of Olivia Manning not being more well-known today. ** kapow**There is only one niggle: I began to seriously despise being coerced into the phrase "we, the enthralled readers".
February 1, 2016
Waffled between 3 and 4 stars for this. I suspect that if I were closer to the target audience, being 1) British and 2) better read in literary fiction than I am, I would give it a 4. Book talk is less fun when the authors under discussion are unfamiliar, but it's not James's fault that Edward St. Aubyn, Anthony Powell, and Stephen Edgar are unknown to me. Still, I finished this “book about books” without adding a single title to my TBR list, which is something I've never done with a “book-book” by Michael Dirda, so a 3 it is.
Prior to this, I only knew Clive James through his Divine Comedy translation, which I enjoyed, and I thought it was sweet that he and his wife studied Dante together. I read her book, Reading Dante: From Here to Eternity, at the same time I read his, and enjoyed it tremendously. The image was tarnished a bit when I googled James and Shaw, just to check that I'd remembered rightly about their being married, and found that, while that part was true, he has recently admitted to a long-term affair with a model. Sigh. Well, that does explain the odd living arrangements he describes in some of the essays, in which he talks about “his” house, where his wife (and daughters) seem to be living nearby.
I did enjoy his musings on reading as one's mortality looms larger. Several essays touch on his illness, on book buying when the time to read books is drawing to a close, on what he's chosen to reread and what not. At fifty, I certainly hope I have many more good reading years ahead, but the quantity of books of my current TBR shelves is beginning to inspire certain nervous calculations about “years (hopefully) available vs years required” to read them, especially when shiny New books flirt temptingly about on my friends' GoodReads updates. James's passion for trying new authors, reevaluating old favorites, for poetry, biography, fiction, and show-biz fluff, right up to closing time is inspiring.
Some of my favorite pieces were the ones on Patrick O'Brian (I suspect that I bought the book for this one), Kipling, Shakespeare and Johnson, and Hemingway. If I hadn't already had some Hemingway on my list to reread this year, James's essays on him would have induced me to add at least one. The essays on books about American history and politics were also interesting. The ones on Hollywood were the least appealing to me (apparently James has been quite involved in television, but I don't know enough about British or American television/movie production to recognize any of his references). In most of the essays, though, even when the author he was focused on was unfamiliar to me, he broadens the scope, in the manner of the best book writers, and talks broadly enough about history/literature/culture that I was engaged.
Prior to this, I only knew Clive James through his Divine Comedy translation, which I enjoyed, and I thought it was sweet that he and his wife studied Dante together. I read her book, Reading Dante: From Here to Eternity, at the same time I read his, and enjoyed it tremendously. The image was tarnished a bit when I googled James and Shaw, just to check that I'd remembered rightly about their being married, and found that, while that part was true, he has recently admitted to a long-term affair with a model. Sigh. Well, that does explain the odd living arrangements he describes in some of the essays, in which he talks about “his” house, where his wife (and daughters) seem to be living nearby.
I did enjoy his musings on reading as one's mortality looms larger. Several essays touch on his illness, on book buying when the time to read books is drawing to a close, on what he's chosen to reread and what not. At fifty, I certainly hope I have many more good reading years ahead, but the quantity of books of my current TBR shelves is beginning to inspire certain nervous calculations about “years (hopefully) available vs years required” to read them, especially when shiny New books flirt temptingly about on my friends' GoodReads updates. James's passion for trying new authors, reevaluating old favorites, for poetry, biography, fiction, and show-biz fluff, right up to closing time is inspiring.
Some of my favorite pieces were the ones on Patrick O'Brian (I suspect that I bought the book for this one), Kipling, Shakespeare and Johnson, and Hemingway. If I hadn't already had some Hemingway on my list to reread this year, James's essays on him would have induced me to add at least one. The essays on books about American history and politics were also interesting. The ones on Hollywood were the least appealing to me (apparently James has been quite involved in television, but I don't know enough about British or American television/movie production to recognize any of his references). In most of the essays, though, even when the author he was focused on was unfamiliar to me, he broadens the scope, in the manner of the best book writers, and talks broadly enough about history/literature/culture that I was engaged.
July 23, 2018
If Cultural Amnesia: Notes in the Margin of My Time was Clive James's Well-tempered Clavier (48 Preludes and Fugues), then Latest Readingsis his Little Notebook for Anna Magdalena:
Bist du bei mir, geh ich mit Freuden
zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh.
These are very short essays on James's readings and re-readings as he faces a terminal illness (emphysema). As his body goes, his mind is 'still with him,' and his reflections are still (mostly) interesting:
Nor was “Dictionary Johnson” ever quite the strict academician that you might have expected from his reputation for whipping the ignorant. He was just as much descriptive as he was prescriptive. He observed the growth and change of language for what it was: a living thing. “That our language is in perpetual danger of corruption,” he wrote in his Life of Roscommon, “cannot be denied; but what prevention can be found? The present manners of the nation would deride authority, and therefore nothing is left but that every writer should criticise himself.” All he needed to add was that unless you can criticize yourself, you are not a writer.
Now, for me, a book of essays is as 'cozy' as a British mystery is for others, but I was surprised at how quickly this book went down. It is short (193 pp.- less than a third the size of Cultural Amnesia), but I think it is also concise. James does not have much time, and he does not waste the reader's time.
And then, there is music. At least one of my doctors thinks I need music in order to heal. Alas, the truth is that music has never soothed me. I just find it too interesting. I should be listening to the late Beethoven quartets, and those two lovely quintets by Mozart, all the time; but I would get nothing read or written, because great music was never designed to be played in the background. If it moves to the foreground, I will be on my way out at last. I will be halfway through the dazzling, multifaceted wall of books, and on the brink of nothingness, where everything begins again, but for different people.
Bist du bei mir, geh ich mit Freuden
zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh.
These are very short essays on James's readings and re-readings as he faces a terminal illness (emphysema). As his body goes, his mind is 'still with him,' and his reflections are still (mostly) interesting:
Nor was “Dictionary Johnson” ever quite the strict academician that you might have expected from his reputation for whipping the ignorant. He was just as much descriptive as he was prescriptive. He observed the growth and change of language for what it was: a living thing. “That our language is in perpetual danger of corruption,” he wrote in his Life of Roscommon, “cannot be denied; but what prevention can be found? The present manners of the nation would deride authority, and therefore nothing is left but that every writer should criticise himself.” All he needed to add was that unless you can criticize yourself, you are not a writer.
Now, for me, a book of essays is as 'cozy' as a British mystery is for others, but I was surprised at how quickly this book went down. It is short (193 pp.- less than a third the size of Cultural Amnesia), but I think it is also concise. James does not have much time, and he does not waste the reader's time.
And then, there is music. At least one of my doctors thinks I need music in order to heal. Alas, the truth is that music has never soothed me. I just find it too interesting. I should be listening to the late Beethoven quartets, and those two lovely quintets by Mozart, all the time; but I would get nothing read or written, because great music was never designed to be played in the background. If it moves to the foreground, I will be on my way out at last. I will be halfway through the dazzling, multifaceted wall of books, and on the brink of nothingness, where everything begins again, but for different people.
September 27, 2020
Excellent book about books. Clive James is an Australian Icon, and for me he’s like an old friend, although I’ve never met him. So sad he had so much illness for so long at the end of his life. This collection of his thoughts related to his reading were written during his last reflective years, and the collection is very interesting, not too high-brow, with some wonderful insights. I listened to the book via an audible audiobook. The narrator, although not Clive James, delivered Clive’s words in a similar manner to how Mr James would have done it. I was fully engrossed from the first word to the last. I discovered this book when I was looking for something else; I was looking for an audio of “The River in the Sky” by Clive James, which is a book of poetry published in 2018, I was hoping to listen to Clive’s dulcet tones read his words, but that was not to be. However, I feel fortunate to have discovered his “Latest Readings” audio, narrated by the excellent Graeme Malcolm.
November 8, 2016
Oh dear. There was a stab of disappointment early. Where was the parsing of ideas, so evident in Cultural Amnesia? Well, from the first page James notes that he's on his way out, dying from leukemia and myriad respiratory degradations. Finding his remaining time limited, he elected to reread some lifelong favorites and gauge any changes.
What results is a softened survey which belongs in a popular magazine. This precipitous decline left me unsettled. I struggle to imagine any aspect which I could recommend.
What results is a softened survey which belongs in a popular magazine. This precipitous decline left me unsettled. I struggle to imagine any aspect which I could recommend.
November 26, 2019
It must be nearly 40 years since I read "Unreliable Memoirs" but this book reminded me what a good writer Clive James is. A mixture of books I will follow up and books I will never read but all-in-all a delightful experience.
December 28, 2015
It seems churlish to give this short book only three stars: the author is dying, and this may be his last collection of lit-crit. But James is such a genius, and his reviews so startling and mind-stretching, that what I take to be the progress of his leukemia left but a few quotable quotes and additions to my TBR.
It helps that he praises Olivia Manning and faintly damns V.S. Naipaul ("He always wanted the Indian culture that he came from…to be modernized, if necessary out of existence."). He recommends "My Indecision is Final", about how making the movie "Gandhi" bankrupted the British studio behind it ("Heaven's Gate" with Oscars), and cites a fantastically complete, albeit one-woman band, movie blog: http://selfstyledsiren.blogspot.com/ James also praises Abba Eban's two autobiographies: "Personal Witness" and "An Autobiography" for their embodiment of *wit*. Who knew? TBR.
And he spends lots of column inches wrestling with Hemmingway: "[A] giant who dreamed of being a giant." Having read Lucy Hughes-Hallett's biography of the 20th Century Italian fascist nutter Gabriele d'Annunzio (I've reviewed that book at length), James says "[b]eside Hemmingway, even d'Annunzio is a mere zany." But that's Hemmingway the person, not the writer, says James:
"One of the most lastingly famous scenes in "A Farewell to Arms" is usually called the Retreat from Caporetto. A long and dazzling tour de force, it has the same stamp of authenticity as a short story like "Big Two-Hearted River." But Hemmingway never saw the Retreat from Caporetto. It happened the year before he got to Italy. He simply had the gift of turning a few facts he had read or heard into a convincing narrative. He could do the same with a few lies."
There's several chapters on Conrad as well.
It helps that he praises Olivia Manning and faintly damns V.S. Naipaul ("He always wanted the Indian culture that he came from…to be modernized, if necessary out of existence."). He recommends "My Indecision is Final", about how making the movie "Gandhi" bankrupted the British studio behind it ("Heaven's Gate" with Oscars), and cites a fantastically complete, albeit one-woman band, movie blog: http://selfstyledsiren.blogspot.com/ James also praises Abba Eban's two autobiographies: "Personal Witness" and "An Autobiography" for their embodiment of *wit*. Who knew? TBR.
And he spends lots of column inches wrestling with Hemmingway: "[A] giant who dreamed of being a giant." Having read Lucy Hughes-Hallett's biography of the 20th Century Italian fascist nutter Gabriele d'Annunzio (I've reviewed that book at length), James says "[b]eside Hemmingway, even d'Annunzio is a mere zany." But that's Hemmingway the person, not the writer, says James:
"One of the most lastingly famous scenes in "A Farewell to Arms" is usually called the Retreat from Caporetto. A long and dazzling tour de force, it has the same stamp of authenticity as a short story like "Big Two-Hearted River." But Hemmingway never saw the Retreat from Caporetto. It happened the year before he got to Italy. He simply had the gift of turning a few facts he had read or heard into a convincing narrative. He could do the same with a few lies."
There's several chapters on Conrad as well.
November 18, 2015
Honestly, I really wanted to love this. Clive James is a fantastic writer with many strengths and I truly respect his body of work. However, this book, while beautifully written just bored the dickens out of me.
December 12, 2023
I picked up this book because I wanted to read what he had to say about Olivia Manning, an author I want to read in 2024, and to read the chapter on Anthony Powell, an author I read in 2022 and want to reread. I ended up reading the whole book. James’ writing is engaging, at times very funny and certainly reminded me that I should make time to re visit his memoirs as it’s been far too long.
November 8, 2023
An account of the books that Clive James read as he was dying of cancer, in his home in England. As expected, this book is both sad, and touching.
June 30, 2019
Diagnosed with terminal leukaemia in early 2010, Clive James decided to read & re-read until the end came (which it still hasn’t). “If you don’t know the exact moment when the lights will go out, you might as well read until they do.” (p.2) These are his notes “... on what might well have been my last readings...” (p.4)
It’s a collection of book reviews, author appraisals & views on writing & writers, reading & readers, society & culture, with added glimpses of his own life, health & impending death. Of his books, his lifetime of reading, he says “We won’t be taking our knowledge any further, but it brought us this far.” (p.6)
I like his volume of poetry ‘Sentenced To Life’; he reconciled himself to his imminent death, only to survive for much longer that he’d expected; ‘Latest Readings’ was published in 2015; & he’s still alive today, 9 years after his diagnosis! I wonder if he’s still reading, & writing...
In the introduction I’m pleased to learn that despite culling his book collection & determining to read what he’d already got, he continued to buy more & more books! I’ve recently done the same on a much smaller scale; fewer to cull, fewer new acquisitions; but reading stimulates interest & attracts more books!
I also like that he reads all sorts of books, serious & trivial, heavy & featherweight, classic & modern, ones he’d read before & ones he hadn’t. I don’t want to be a snob about what I read; books need to be interesting, thought provoking, entertaining, enlightening, distracting... not necessarily all at once.
The first chapter (there’s about 30, they’re quite short!) is framed around Ernest Hemingway’s ‘The Sun Also Rises’, which I read ages ago & love... James is almost scathing about how Hemingway’s exaggeration & boasting ruined his later work; & is clear that ‘The Sun Also Rises’ stands the test of time nonetheless... he praises the dialogue as “... strange, mannered, yet somehow sensual... as if a phrase could be a caress...” & the book as “... a metaphorical triumph...” even though there are barely any metaphors!
I am impressed at Clive James’ incredibly broad knowledge & I’m left so far behind at times that I just feel inadequate. ‘Novels in Sequence’ lets me retreat to acknowledging that here is someone who is very widely read & consequently has something to say on things I have no idea about... I’ve not read many of the books he’s talking about but come away with admiration for authors’ ability to capture so much, by knowing so much & being bothered to put it all down for us. I have a couple of short sequences of books to read this year; Rachel Cusk’s ‘Outline’ trilogy & Graeme Simsion’s ‘Rosie’ trilogy; they’re the sort of sequences I can manage & I think I should both keep my perspective on my reading prowess & enjoy that I’m devouring the literature I like!
Writing’s hard at the best of times; I write every day, notes in my client sessions, letters & reports where I have the information to hand & just have to string it together; I struggled to get the last few hundred words of a recent case study written because the material was NOT all there & I kept grinding to a halt. Authors conjure up colour, depth, characters, stories, ideas, themes & twists in the tail (?tale) & layer them all together to make entertaining, thought provoking, challenging, satisfying books which brighten our lives & leave me in awe...
The chapter on Patrick O’Brian’s Jack Aubrey novels (there’s 20!) was interesting to me as one of my friends is an enthusiast for them; James likes them; if they are “... merely entertaining, they are that at a high level.” He compares them to Forester’s Hornblower series & decides to read that again too...
I’m learning things here; in World War II Churchill had to be ‘handled’ by someone called Alan Brooke - James thinks the war would have been lost either if Churchill had been allowed a free reign or if his opponents had been as well handled as he was! It’s fascinating that James devotes the time to read such long, demanding books & series of books when he has an indeterminate amount of time left to read anything; he sets off, not knowing if he will finish the next one; perhaps we all do really, falsely assuming we have a long life stretched out ahead of us...?
There’s a chapter where James complains that an (for me) obscure German writer ignores the fact that his readers really did have a narrative about the Allied bombing campaign over Germany in World War II; I’m left not sure if it was worth reading or not; it’s a subject I might be interested in; but I guess that’s not the point; he’s saying that we get our national consciousness from non-serious sources, not serious literature. This is no less true today, what with Facebook & Twitter & trashy magazines & fake news & the manipulation of referendum campaigns...
The advantage for prolific readers of ingesting so many books is a better sense of true comparison; for the rest of us we feel inadequate or stand in awe of them. Speaking about Anthony Powell he says “Powell inspires you to reflections like that. He’s good on the significance of the passing moment, his key message being that it doesn’t really pass, but is incorporated into the texture of your reflections just as thoroughly as the ecstasies and disasters, and perhaps even more so.” (pp. 61-62)
Theres a lot here that just washed over me but I’m left with a sense that whilst with every book I read realise there are thousands more I’ll never get to, it’ll only do me good to read more, as each one, just as the simple passing moments of our lives & the passing lives of those we read about, enhances my appreciation of life a little bit more. Here’s hoping that many more people will be enhanced by Clive James’ prolific & insightful consumption of the written word. I have his biographies to devour at some point now…
It’s a collection of book reviews, author appraisals & views on writing & writers, reading & readers, society & culture, with added glimpses of his own life, health & impending death. Of his books, his lifetime of reading, he says “We won’t be taking our knowledge any further, but it brought us this far.” (p.6)
I like his volume of poetry ‘Sentenced To Life’; he reconciled himself to his imminent death, only to survive for much longer that he’d expected; ‘Latest Readings’ was published in 2015; & he’s still alive today, 9 years after his diagnosis! I wonder if he’s still reading, & writing...
In the introduction I’m pleased to learn that despite culling his book collection & determining to read what he’d already got, he continued to buy more & more books! I’ve recently done the same on a much smaller scale; fewer to cull, fewer new acquisitions; but reading stimulates interest & attracts more books!
I also like that he reads all sorts of books, serious & trivial, heavy & featherweight, classic & modern, ones he’d read before & ones he hadn’t. I don’t want to be a snob about what I read; books need to be interesting, thought provoking, entertaining, enlightening, distracting... not necessarily all at once.
The first chapter (there’s about 30, they’re quite short!) is framed around Ernest Hemingway’s ‘The Sun Also Rises’, which I read ages ago & love... James is almost scathing about how Hemingway’s exaggeration & boasting ruined his later work; & is clear that ‘The Sun Also Rises’ stands the test of time nonetheless... he praises the dialogue as “... strange, mannered, yet somehow sensual... as if a phrase could be a caress...” & the book as “... a metaphorical triumph...” even though there are barely any metaphors!
I am impressed at Clive James’ incredibly broad knowledge & I’m left so far behind at times that I just feel inadequate. ‘Novels in Sequence’ lets me retreat to acknowledging that here is someone who is very widely read & consequently has something to say on things I have no idea about... I’ve not read many of the books he’s talking about but come away with admiration for authors’ ability to capture so much, by knowing so much & being bothered to put it all down for us. I have a couple of short sequences of books to read this year; Rachel Cusk’s ‘Outline’ trilogy & Graeme Simsion’s ‘Rosie’ trilogy; they’re the sort of sequences I can manage & I think I should both keep my perspective on my reading prowess & enjoy that I’m devouring the literature I like!
Writing’s hard at the best of times; I write every day, notes in my client sessions, letters & reports where I have the information to hand & just have to string it together; I struggled to get the last few hundred words of a recent case study written because the material was NOT all there & I kept grinding to a halt. Authors conjure up colour, depth, characters, stories, ideas, themes & twists in the tail (?tale) & layer them all together to make entertaining, thought provoking, challenging, satisfying books which brighten our lives & leave me in awe...
The chapter on Patrick O’Brian’s Jack Aubrey novels (there’s 20!) was interesting to me as one of my friends is an enthusiast for them; James likes them; if they are “... merely entertaining, they are that at a high level.” He compares them to Forester’s Hornblower series & decides to read that again too...
I’m learning things here; in World War II Churchill had to be ‘handled’ by someone called Alan Brooke - James thinks the war would have been lost either if Churchill had been allowed a free reign or if his opponents had been as well handled as he was! It’s fascinating that James devotes the time to read such long, demanding books & series of books when he has an indeterminate amount of time left to read anything; he sets off, not knowing if he will finish the next one; perhaps we all do really, falsely assuming we have a long life stretched out ahead of us...?
There’s a chapter where James complains that an (for me) obscure German writer ignores the fact that his readers really did have a narrative about the Allied bombing campaign over Germany in World War II; I’m left not sure if it was worth reading or not; it’s a subject I might be interested in; but I guess that’s not the point; he’s saying that we get our national consciousness from non-serious sources, not serious literature. This is no less true today, what with Facebook & Twitter & trashy magazines & fake news & the manipulation of referendum campaigns...
The advantage for prolific readers of ingesting so many books is a better sense of true comparison; for the rest of us we feel inadequate or stand in awe of them. Speaking about Anthony Powell he says “Powell inspires you to reflections like that. He’s good on the significance of the passing moment, his key message being that it doesn’t really pass, but is incorporated into the texture of your reflections just as thoroughly as the ecstasies and disasters, and perhaps even more so.” (pp. 61-62)
Theres a lot here that just washed over me but I’m left with a sense that whilst with every book I read realise there are thousands more I’ll never get to, it’ll only do me good to read more, as each one, just as the simple passing moments of our lives & the passing lives of those we read about, enhances my appreciation of life a little bit more. Here’s hoping that many more people will be enhanced by Clive James’ prolific & insightful consumption of the written word. I have his biographies to devour at some point now…
January 15, 2026
As a writer and reviewer, Clive James was also a reader. In this book, written in Cambridge during his final illness, he talks about visiting his favourite bookshop, Hugh’s bookstall in town, and compulsively buying books, even if on a smaller scale, like he did his whole life. Hugh is described in the following way: “Hugh doesn’t say much, but those in the know tell me that he scores all this mouthwatering stuff at car boot sales.” (3)
Reading this book, you could say books were Clive’s life. Clive writes of his house in Cambridge, “In my house I am under pressure from my most frequent visitors - wife, two daughters - not to turn it into a book warehouse like every other dwelling I have ever been in.” (119)
Then there is the conversation with a fellow collector who, Clive says, “was one of the smartest minds in the philosophy faculty when I was an undergraduate. He told me that he was under strict instruction to bring no more books into his house, so he had to smuggle them in and hide. Since I was under something like the same embargo myself, it was clearly time to sit down at a coffee bar and discuss the protocols and techniques of book-smuggling.” (131)
This book is for lovers of books, all books. Clive’ taste is eclectic. And his weakness for books is endearing - but his writing is the main reason I love this book. His humour is humbling. Clive writes of an incident in the hospital:
“One night the bag broke and suddenly the floor was awash with amber piss. I signalled the night nurse, who told me to stop apologising. (In such circumstances, I have found, one tends to apologise for one’s mere existence. She set about mopping it up. She had a deformed body, with limbs all the wrong lengths. Life could never have been easy for her. But now she was making the end of life easier for me. It was a night to remember, and I haven’t forgotten it for a second. I can only hope the sum total of my writings has been as useful to the world as her kindness, but I doubt this is so.” (176)
Reading this book, you could say books were Clive’s life. Clive writes of his house in Cambridge, “In my house I am under pressure from my most frequent visitors - wife, two daughters - not to turn it into a book warehouse like every other dwelling I have ever been in.” (119)
Then there is the conversation with a fellow collector who, Clive says, “was one of the smartest minds in the philosophy faculty when I was an undergraduate. He told me that he was under strict instruction to bring no more books into his house, so he had to smuggle them in and hide. Since I was under something like the same embargo myself, it was clearly time to sit down at a coffee bar and discuss the protocols and techniques of book-smuggling.” (131)
This book is for lovers of books, all books. Clive’ taste is eclectic. And his weakness for books is endearing - but his writing is the main reason I love this book. His humour is humbling. Clive writes of an incident in the hospital:
“One night the bag broke and suddenly the floor was awash with amber piss. I signalled the night nurse, who told me to stop apologising. (In such circumstances, I have found, one tends to apologise for one’s mere existence. She set about mopping it up. She had a deformed body, with limbs all the wrong lengths. Life could never have been easy for her. But now she was making the end of life easier for me. It was a night to remember, and I haven’t forgotten it for a second. I can only hope the sum total of my writings has been as useful to the world as her kindness, but I doubt this is so.” (176)
September 19, 2020
I think it is just such a disappointment that this book became a bit of a diatribe against the things that James did not like, or did not agree with, as opposed to the literary homage it is pitched as. I love books about books, and I find a deep and enduring value in the reading lists of others. Understanding the love for certain pieces of literary work in the eyes of others is deeply valuable, and I absolutely adore it, however, this book diverted.
I think the difficulty for me is that James simply cannot set aside his political views, which would be fine, if he didn't use this to take stabs at people he feels are undeserving of his attentions. I don't mind that he has these opinions, but to utilise them to induce spite when facing down the barrel of his death is rather sad. I just felt like this book could have been a triumph of personal meaning, as opposed to a bit on a morning television show about the glowing triumphs of the Howard government.
It did give me a bit of a Hemingway craving, however, which I appreciate. I feel like it will have me knocking on the door of dear old Ernest very soon, as it has been a long time. It also brings the existential feeling of knowing death and finding the books to fit in before it happens- especially when you've been given your estimated expiry date. To think on this gives some comfort in knowing certain books would be handled, but also an overwhelming sadness about books left unread. However, should I be told about my impending mortality, this one would not be one I'd be picking up again.
I think the difficulty for me is that James simply cannot set aside his political views, which would be fine, if he didn't use this to take stabs at people he feels are undeserving of his attentions. I don't mind that he has these opinions, but to utilise them to induce spite when facing down the barrel of his death is rather sad. I just felt like this book could have been a triumph of personal meaning, as opposed to a bit on a morning television show about the glowing triumphs of the Howard government.
It did give me a bit of a Hemingway craving, however, which I appreciate. I feel like it will have me knocking on the door of dear old Ernest very soon, as it has been a long time. It also brings the existential feeling of knowing death and finding the books to fit in before it happens- especially when you've been given your estimated expiry date. To think on this gives some comfort in knowing certain books would be handled, but also an overwhelming sadness about books left unread. However, should I be told about my impending mortality, this one would not be one I'd be picking up again.
November 13, 2017
Here’s a book, a slim volume of a book that hooked me right from the start. Oh how I wish they all did! What our Clive James doesn’t know about literature, reading and writing is probably not worth the bother. At times I was a little out of my depth but Clive managed to go easy with this novice and reeled me back in when I got lost, gently taught me new words and delighted me with many a perfectly structured turn of phrase. Mr. James spoke to me as an interested friend and amazed me with a commanding yet easy eloquence. For the first time ever in my reading life I’ve come across a book that I could happily re-read, immediately, and gain more for the doing of it.....I think I will.
April 12, 2017
Latest Readings is an absolutely wonderful collection of essays written after the author, a book reviewer and literary critic, was diagnosed with terminal leukemia. It is a love letter to reading and the power of the written word and I adored it. The introduction is worth the price of the book -- but every essay spoke to some level of essential truth -- either about writing or about how it connects us to the world around us and influences our perceptions. Witty and sharp, James knows how to write a good sentence -- and he made me smile throughout.
August 19, 2017
A smart writer (Clive James) writes about his smart reading of smart books. I especially liked James's reflections on Hemingway, whom I've never really cared for.
October 22, 2015
"[Books] are an arcadian pavilion with an infinite set of mirrored doorways to the unknown, which seems dark to us only because we will not be in it. We won't be taking our knowledge any further, but it brought us this far."
Diagnosed with ultimately terminal leukaemia in 2010, Clive James has found his love of books reinvigorated: “If you don't know the exact moment when the lights will go out, you might as well read until they do ...The childish urge to understand everything doesn’t necessarily fade when the time approaches for you to do the most adult thing of all: vanish.”
And one result was this book, a linked collection of short pieces on collecting and reading books, some new discoveries (Olivia Manning's two trilogies - me neither) and re-readings "it was almost as much of a revelation, after fifty years, to rediscover Conrad...time felt precious and I would have preferred to spend less of it with him but he wouldn’t let me go."
But this is no mere paean to books, his appraisals are balanced, critical as well as generous.
For example: "James Wood and Will Self have the right to say [Edward] St Aubyn is witty, even if the rest of us only find him wittyish.", although he then goes to explain just how witty the author is.
And despite being a confessed admirer of W.G. Sebald, particularly "the magnificent Austerlitz", he neatly dissects his Luftkrieg und Literatur (translated as a Natural History of Destruction), admittedly an easy target, "the prose, being Sebald's, was exquisite...but the basic idea was, for him. uniquely nonprofound." Specifically, and rather more wittily than my review captures, James points out the flaw in Sebald's case that the absence of Allied bombing raids as a subject of post-War German literature had created a lacuna on the topic in the German national conciousness. The flaw?: due to his "exclusive concerns with serious publications", Sebald had neglected to consider war-story magazines, read by young Germans in their millions.
James always writes extremely well and with commendable brevity, but I certainly enjoyed more the chapters about books I had read, or was at least familiar with. Having said that it is difficult to read Latest Readings without coming away with a reading list of new works to seek out. Generally, perhaps in reaction to his terminal condition, James's taste in this period seems to mainly for adventures (Conrad, Hemingway, Patrick o'Brien - even Game of Thrones although he sensibly goes for the box-set) and multi-volume sagas (Anthony Powell, Evelyn Waugh and the previously mentioned Olivia Manning).
Where he is far less convincing is when he strays into politics - as with most writers and critics he is out of his comfort zone and unconvincing. He is remarkably fond of Michael Howard and James justifies Howard's immigration policy by the ridiculous statement "meanwhile the first container ship of Australian aboriginals has yet to arrive in the Persian gulf."
Diagnosed with ultimately terminal leukaemia in 2010, Clive James has found his love of books reinvigorated: “If you don't know the exact moment when the lights will go out, you might as well read until they do ...The childish urge to understand everything doesn’t necessarily fade when the time approaches for you to do the most adult thing of all: vanish.”
And one result was this book, a linked collection of short pieces on collecting and reading books, some new discoveries (Olivia Manning's two trilogies - me neither) and re-readings "it was almost as much of a revelation, after fifty years, to rediscover Conrad...time felt precious and I would have preferred to spend less of it with him but he wouldn’t let me go."
But this is no mere paean to books, his appraisals are balanced, critical as well as generous.
For example: "James Wood and Will Self have the right to say [Edward] St Aubyn is witty, even if the rest of us only find him wittyish.", although he then goes to explain just how witty the author is.
And despite being a confessed admirer of W.G. Sebald, particularly "the magnificent Austerlitz", he neatly dissects his Luftkrieg und Literatur (translated as a Natural History of Destruction), admittedly an easy target, "the prose, being Sebald's, was exquisite...but the basic idea was, for him. uniquely nonprofound." Specifically, and rather more wittily than my review captures, James points out the flaw in Sebald's case that the absence of Allied bombing raids as a subject of post-War German literature had created a lacuna on the topic in the German national conciousness. The flaw?: due to his "exclusive concerns with serious publications", Sebald had neglected to consider war-story magazines, read by young Germans in their millions.
James always writes extremely well and with commendable brevity, but I certainly enjoyed more the chapters about books I had read, or was at least familiar with. Having said that it is difficult to read Latest Readings without coming away with a reading list of new works to seek out. Generally, perhaps in reaction to his terminal condition, James's taste in this period seems to mainly for adventures (Conrad, Hemingway, Patrick o'Brien - even Game of Thrones although he sensibly goes for the box-set) and multi-volume sagas (Anthony Powell, Evelyn Waugh and the previously mentioned Olivia Manning).
Where he is far less convincing is when he strays into politics - as with most writers and critics he is out of his comfort zone and unconvincing. He is remarkably fond of Michael Howard and James justifies Howard's immigration policy by the ridiculous statement "meanwhile the first container ship of Australian aboriginals has yet to arrive in the Persian gulf."
June 18, 2016
This is a very poignant and slim volume marked by Clive James' erudition, wit and learning. These are hardly fully thought out critical essays, but that is quite besides the point as James decides to face a diagnosis of terminal cancer with a decision to read (and often re-read) whatever he wishes. The result is a series of short incisive takes on whatever he happens to be reading which for a man of Clive James eclecticism and intellect ranges from familiar favourites like Conrad, Kipling and Hemingway to Australian poets (before I read this book I wouldn't have been able to name even one).
This book is worth reading for Clive James' quite wonderful voice alone, the lone hazard being that it leaves you feeling a quite awful sense of inadequacy. This man somehow finds it in himself to read all 20 volumes of the Aubrey-Maturin series while battling cancer. He makes his way through Olivia Manning's Balkan and Levant novels (a novelist I had not heard of before but will certainly check out at his urging) and decides to then read through the whole of Anthony Powell again just to make a comparison. And this is while going through full treatment for cancer, in his 70s. And here I am struggling through to make it through anything more challenging that the latest paperback thriller. Reading this book was a real privilege and a joy.
This book is worth reading for Clive James' quite wonderful voice alone, the lone hazard being that it leaves you feeling a quite awful sense of inadequacy. This man somehow finds it in himself to read all 20 volumes of the Aubrey-Maturin series while battling cancer. He makes his way through Olivia Manning's Balkan and Levant novels (a novelist I had not heard of before but will certainly check out at his urging) and decides to then read through the whole of Anthony Powell again just to make a comparison. And this is while going through full treatment for cancer, in his 70s. And here I am struggling through to make it through anything more challenging that the latest paperback thriller. Reading this book was a real privilege and a joy.
September 24, 2015
Clive James is consistently wonderful, and these essays/appraisals written in the teeth of the sickness unto death are only a little short of anything he's done; maybe just a whistle on the slight side. Gratifying to see another person "discover" Olivia Manning. How many more such discoveries will it take before she's recognized as one of the great writers of the 20th c.? Powell has the greater scope, he avers, although he does little to convince me that that's so (and I love Powell.) Happily he spends a lot of time on the novel sequences I love, but it's the resuscitation of minor figures (Osbert Lancaster) and quarrels with the established (Sebald -- can it be? is he really established?) that yield the typical Jamesean insight.
I guess I'm in sympathy with most of his judgements, especially on Powell and O'Brian, and most convincingly on Conrad; that's the appeal and the weakness. With James it's the stinging apercu at the end of an otherwise conventional looking sentence that wakes you up with a fresh perception. In his best books these come surprisingly often. It would be churlish to *expect* that level of electricity from a sick a man, but also does him no justice at all to not notice it's absence. Long may he run, though; he's utterly incapable of being boring.
I guess I'm in sympathy with most of his judgements, especially on Powell and O'Brian, and most convincingly on Conrad; that's the appeal and the weakness. With James it's the stinging apercu at the end of an otherwise conventional looking sentence that wakes you up with a fresh perception. In his best books these come surprisingly often. It would be churlish to *expect* that level of electricity from a sick a man, but also does him no justice at all to not notice it's absence. Long may he run, though; he's utterly incapable of being boring.
September 11, 2015
I can say with surprise (I always tend to think that Clive James is much too clever not for his own good but rather for mine) that this collections of short essays on books was satisfying and perfectly formed. All were just long or short enough and leavened with James's increasingly acute awareness of which things in life are important. He is marking out his humanity, letting us in on his progress or at any rate the state of his current literary interests.
His style is more approachable than ever; knowledgable, knowing, highly intelligent and gossipy. James is less arch and much more than a critic - he inspires me to read. And I hope I have time.
His style is more approachable than ever; knowledgable, knowing, highly intelligent and gossipy. James is less arch and much more than a critic - he inspires me to read. And I hope I have time.
August 21, 2015
I've only just discovered Clive James, and when I say discovered I mean I have only just discovered that I like him.
The thing is with this sort of book is that usually it is pointless to read unless you are already well read enough to know who he is talking about all of the time. But, the thing I have found about Clive James so far is that his love of books, and the arts in general, is very infectious, and books and movies I would never have dreamed of spending time on, now seem to be pulling me in to read/watch them.
The thing is with this sort of book is that usually it is pointless to read unless you are already well read enough to know who he is talking about all of the time. But, the thing I have found about Clive James so far is that his love of books, and the arts in general, is very infectious, and books and movies I would never have dreamed of spending time on, now seem to be pulling me in to read/watch them.
September 20, 2015
A poignant read in that Clive James has chosen to spend his last days reading. Something I think we can all understand.
But even with COPD and suffering from terminal leukemia, Clive James' wit shines as brightly as ever.
I had intended reading this book slowly, one essay at a time. I ended up doing what almost every other reader of the book has done and devoured it in one sitting.
The perfect book for book lovers, and lovers of a well turned, witty phrase.
But even with COPD and suffering from terminal leukemia, Clive James' wit shines as brightly as ever.
I had intended reading this book slowly, one essay at a time. I ended up doing what almost every other reader of the book has done and devoured it in one sitting.
The perfect book for book lovers, and lovers of a well turned, witty phrase.
September 14, 2015
Clive James is erudite and entertaining, but I liked the premise of this book more than the reality. The reflections on a lifetime of reading, his library, and deciding what to read in the uncertain time remaining were very poignant, but for me, the chapters on particular books were perhaps too short for the books I knew and too long for the ones I'd never heard of. Maybe it just reflects how reading is a very personal experience.
September 28, 2016
A short book of essays about rereading his favorite books and favorite authors, this was an easy read from Clive James. Which is a good thing, because nearly half the time I had no idea which writer or book he was talking about. There were a few familiar names and titles, and those were revelatory pieces. Also, thanks to this book, I now know more about Hemingway than I would care to know, considering I haven't read a single book by the man.
January 4, 2019
Loved this brief collection of essays, written after James was diagnosed with leukemia, and knowing he didn't have much time ahead. So what did he do? He read, and he wrote about what he'd read. A lifetime of reading and writing is distilled on the page, and the deep love of literature, and of life, comes across.
July 11, 2020
Reading Clive James’s books of criticism is rather like gaining a succinct and well-reasoned set of book recommendations from a trusted friend. The kind of friend who has never given you a bum-steer. Not the kind of friend who bought you The Da Vinci Code in some mistaken belief that the terrible writing was somehow your bag.
Such is his work Latest Readings.
I’m a big fan of James’s work, and like to think that he is one of the stronger influences on my own criticism. And yet, I really haven’t read that much of his material. I might own some collections of criticism, some memoirs, his translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy, and other pieces here and there. But I don’t own his writings on poetry—or his poetry. In fact, the list of what I don’t have is much longer than the list of what I do have.
It was on a sojourn in my local bookshop recently that I picked up Latest Readings.
I wasn’t there to browse, fall in love, and buy. I was there to discuss an order I’d placed, which had turned out to be frightfully expensive. So while I was there, and feeling that peculiar Australianism of not wanting to leave without buying something, I followed my nose, and here we are.
Latest Readings isn’t new. James wrote it when he was sliding into his decline. He was Ambulatory (his word, not mine), and took the opportunity, much encouraged by one of his daughters, to Ambulate to the local secondhand book stalls and shops, buy books, and then Ambulate home again. James died in 2019; between the publication of Latest Readings (2015) and his death, he published six more books. It’s not like his long, slow decline was unproductive.
The book itself is on the cold, glass table adjacent my left elbow. A few days ago, it was a slim, flat volume. Now, it is bent, filled with dog-eared pages, and reluctantly relinquished.
As I remarked to my husband, in between reading out whole sections imagining he cared, Clive James is so eminently quotable.
I’ll show you.
In discussing the fact that he finds music too interesting to be either soothing or healing: ‘… great music was never designed to be played in the background.’ (Any real music fan knows the same.)
In one of his (many) ponderings about Conrad’s works: ‘…peace is not a principle, it is only a desirable state of affairs, and can’t be obtained without a capacity for violence at least equal to the violence of the threat’.
On reading the works of others, while you are writing: ‘… it is always fatal, I have found, when you have something of your own to write, to get too close to someone else’s music’.
Many of the turned-up page corners are reminders for me to pull quotes out and put them into my own notebooks, where I may re-read and re-ponder them for years to come. Others mark remarkable books that I haven’t read, yet wish to. Still others are simply moments that I wish to re-read before finding a place amongst my own crowded bookshelves.
A life lived among books is something of which I have dreamed, ever since I was a young child. My house is filled with bookcases, but there is never quite enough space.
In Latest Readings, Clive James writes about his own book-buying ban, enforced by his family, who didn’t wish his last dwelling to be turned into a book warehouse like all of his prior residences.
Then I read:
‘Being book crazy is an aspect of love, and therefore scarcely rational at all.’
The book itself is rather like James revisiting all of his favourite niches, haunts, and topics. There are chapters in which the great books about Hitler are discussed; others in which he writes extensively about poetics, or the world’s great authors and literatures, from Hemingway and Conrad to poetry and wit.
Yet it is also somehow Clive James coming to terms with his own decline, finding a new level of appreciation in the beauty and the ugliness of life, its creators, and its creations. It is not apolitical, by any stretch, touching even on that most difficult subject of an artist whose personal life was morally bankrupt, perhaps even disgusting, but who yet created moments of magnificence.
James writes:
‘Art grows from the world, and the world, as Louis MacNiece said, is incorrigibly plural. This cruel but consoling fact really shows up when you start the slide to nowhere. The air is lit by a shimmering tangle of all the reasons you are sad to leave and all the reasons you are glad to leave.’
Clive James saw his work as a signpost for those younger than him. His criticism wasn’t something that he did so that he could say that he’d read more books than you. Instead, his approach was entirely to show other people where they can find wondrous books.
Which, darling reader, brings be back to where I started: With the considered recommendations of a reader I trust.
Clive James’s Latest Readings was published by Yale University Press in 2015. You will find it in any good bookshop.
Do you get my Weekly Letter? Opt in here.
Such is his work Latest Readings.
I’m a big fan of James’s work, and like to think that he is one of the stronger influences on my own criticism. And yet, I really haven’t read that much of his material. I might own some collections of criticism, some memoirs, his translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy, and other pieces here and there. But I don’t own his writings on poetry—or his poetry. In fact, the list of what I don’t have is much longer than the list of what I do have.
It was on a sojourn in my local bookshop recently that I picked up Latest Readings.
I wasn’t there to browse, fall in love, and buy. I was there to discuss an order I’d placed, which had turned out to be frightfully expensive. So while I was there, and feeling that peculiar Australianism of not wanting to leave without buying something, I followed my nose, and here we are.
Latest Readings isn’t new. James wrote it when he was sliding into his decline. He was Ambulatory (his word, not mine), and took the opportunity, much encouraged by one of his daughters, to Ambulate to the local secondhand book stalls and shops, buy books, and then Ambulate home again. James died in 2019; between the publication of Latest Readings (2015) and his death, he published six more books. It’s not like his long, slow decline was unproductive.
The book itself is on the cold, glass table adjacent my left elbow. A few days ago, it was a slim, flat volume. Now, it is bent, filled with dog-eared pages, and reluctantly relinquished.
As I remarked to my husband, in between reading out whole sections imagining he cared, Clive James is so eminently quotable.
I’ll show you.
In discussing the fact that he finds music too interesting to be either soothing or healing: ‘… great music was never designed to be played in the background.’ (Any real music fan knows the same.)
In one of his (many) ponderings about Conrad’s works: ‘…peace is not a principle, it is only a desirable state of affairs, and can’t be obtained without a capacity for violence at least equal to the violence of the threat’.
On reading the works of others, while you are writing: ‘… it is always fatal, I have found, when you have something of your own to write, to get too close to someone else’s music’.
Many of the turned-up page corners are reminders for me to pull quotes out and put them into my own notebooks, where I may re-read and re-ponder them for years to come. Others mark remarkable books that I haven’t read, yet wish to. Still others are simply moments that I wish to re-read before finding a place amongst my own crowded bookshelves.
A life lived among books is something of which I have dreamed, ever since I was a young child. My house is filled with bookcases, but there is never quite enough space.
In Latest Readings, Clive James writes about his own book-buying ban, enforced by his family, who didn’t wish his last dwelling to be turned into a book warehouse like all of his prior residences.
Then I read:
‘Being book crazy is an aspect of love, and therefore scarcely rational at all.’
The book itself is rather like James revisiting all of his favourite niches, haunts, and topics. There are chapters in which the great books about Hitler are discussed; others in which he writes extensively about poetics, or the world’s great authors and literatures, from Hemingway and Conrad to poetry and wit.
Yet it is also somehow Clive James coming to terms with his own decline, finding a new level of appreciation in the beauty and the ugliness of life, its creators, and its creations. It is not apolitical, by any stretch, touching even on that most difficult subject of an artist whose personal life was morally bankrupt, perhaps even disgusting, but who yet created moments of magnificence.
James writes:
‘Art grows from the world, and the world, as Louis MacNiece said, is incorrigibly plural. This cruel but consoling fact really shows up when you start the slide to nowhere. The air is lit by a shimmering tangle of all the reasons you are sad to leave and all the reasons you are glad to leave.’
Clive James saw his work as a signpost for those younger than him. His criticism wasn’t something that he did so that he could say that he’d read more books than you. Instead, his approach was entirely to show other people where they can find wondrous books.
Which, darling reader, brings be back to where I started: With the considered recommendations of a reader I trust.
Clive James’s Latest Readings was published by Yale University Press in 2015. You will find it in any good bookshop.
Do you get my Weekly Letter? Opt in here.
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