by TCW | Sep 29, 2020 | Book review
I live with somebody who understands a lot about money. I don’t mean that she’s great with the household budget (although we seem to keep afloat somehow) but that she understands some of the arcane areas of financial policy that make me very pleased that it’s her job and not mine. She’s always reading books on the financial system, or the pensions industry, and she knows how credit cards work. (You may think you know how credit cards work, but I promise you, you don’t.)
Anyway, I thought it might be nice if I could read something intelligent about money and kid her that I am entitled to view on whether or not Britain is running an unacceptable deficit, just as much as she is. So when Atlantic Books offered me a copy of Jacob Goldstein’s Money via NetGalley, I leapt at the chance to improve my financial literacy.
Goldstein hosts a podcast, Planet Money, and writes about money for New York Times Magazine. He understands his subject and is an excellent communicator. He talks through the history of money from the idea of proto-money – things that had value because of, for example, their use in religious ceremonies – through the use of precious metals as stores of value and into paper money. Paper money is probably what most people today would identify as “real money” but Goldstein goes on to point out that most value now is stored not as paper currency but as digital information on the ledgers of financial institutions.
As the money that we used to settle our debts, pay our mortgages, and trade with, became increasingly detached from any material store of wealth we moved more towards modern financial systems with all the strengths and weaknesses that they have. The strengths include the ability to create money by lending out more than you actually have. While you can’t lend people more gold than you have in your vaults, it’s easy to write promissory notes for more gold than there is in your vaults provided that not everybody cashes them in at once (as in a run on the bank). The extra money that is created in this way and the liquidity that it provides within the economy allows for substantial economic growth. Goldstein argues that times when money is being created correlate well with periods of economic growth while times when money is taken out of the system (for example by increasing interest rates or increasing taxation) correlate with periods of depression. He argues that the principal cause of the Great Depression was the Fed’s policy of raising interest rates in an attempt to maintain a link between the paper money that they issued and their gold reserves.
Whilst the creation of money not backed by any tangible assets allows dramatic economic growth and a genuine increase in wealth, it also allows substantial opportunities for fraud or crashes caused by that foolishness that we call “bubbles”. A good example of both would be bitcoin. It’s worth noting here that, whilst I still can’t claim to properly understand it, the description of the theory behind bitcoin given in this book is the clearest I have ever seen.
After talking us through the theory of the gold standard and the arcane mysteries of shadow banking, as well as more technical terminology (all terribly clearly explained) that I’m not going to fit into a review, Goldstein gets political. The theory behind the euro is examined and found wanting while the ideas underpinning modern monetary theory (MMT) get a much more positive assessment.
The penultimate paragraph of the book mentions covid (full marks for topicality). As we re-examine so many of the fundamentals of the modern world, perhaps MMT and the possibility of governments simply printing all the money that they need and never worrying about paying it back, is not as mad as it may once have seemed
This is a fascinating book full of random digressions that do not make you lose sight of the main argument. I particularly enjoyed the discussion of increasing wealth in terms of the amount of light that you can buy for a day’s work. It includes what is undoubtedly the most impressive illustrative graph I have seen anywhere and the book is probably worth buying for that alone. Even without that graph, though, it is an astonishingly entertaining and informative gallop through the theory of money and how it can be applied in the real world. If you don’t already know all this stuff and want to be able to understand something of what is going on around you (let alone share your opinions on social media) I strongly recommend that you get hold of a copy.
Money is published on Thursday (1 October). You can buy it on Amazon (https://www.amazon.co.uk/Money-True-Story-Made-Up-Thing/dp/1786495708)
by TCW | Sep 8, 2020 | Book review
After the historical mysteries I reviewed last week, this week’s offering is another contemporary mystery story by Jorn Lier Horst. This is the third book of his featuring Norwegian detective William Wisting. (I had to check the first name: he’s always referred to as Wisting.) Fans will be getting familiar with him, his daughter Line and the unscrupulous cold case investigator, Adrian Stiller.
This is the most straightforward police procedural of the three. Sexual sadist Tom Kerr is taken out of prison to reveal where he has hidden the body of his last victim but he makes a dramatic escape, injuring several of the police in his escort. Line, the freelance TV reporter, is there to film the whole exercise for the police, hoping to use the film later in a documentary she is planning. (I’m still worrying about how journalistic ethics work in Norway.)
Wisting is tasked to find Kerr, but discovers that Stiller has other ideas: he wants Kerr free to lead them to his accomplice, the Other One, who was never caught. The plan goes wrong, Kerr escapes and Wisting is somehow blamed. (There’s some kind of administrative reason given, but I can’t help thinking that whoever agreed to let Kerr out without an armed escort in a country where police routinely carry weapons is surely more obviously to blame than Wisting.) Wisting, we are repeatedly told, feels guilt about the whole thing, but I’m never entirely convinced. Line remarks every now and then how Wisting seems old too, but there is remarkably little character development over the series, which seems a waste of some interesting characters. Everybody makes the same mistakes as usual. People trust Stiller to play straight when they should know by now that he always has his own agenda. Line finds herself alone with the killer again, which you’d think she’d be more careful about after last time.
There’s quite a complicated plot, but if, fairly early on, you find yourself thinking, “Hey, isn’t that a bit odd? Why do the police go along with that?” hold that thought and then you can feel smug at the end.
As in the previous books, Horst tries to use the story to explore notions of good and evil. One of the characters has written a dissertation on the nature of malevolence:
“.. it posed questions about whether malevolence was an animal instinct latent in all human beings. Whether this was what made a cat play with the mouse before finally taking its life, or why the bestial gladiator fights in their time could feed the enjoyment of the masses.”
In the end, though, there’s no deep psychological examination. The Other One is basically just evil.
“… he had sought out such cases in order to satisfy his own lust, his own desires.… He had built up a large portfolio of deviant photographs, kindling his personal fantasies. Then he had met Tom Kerr, and these fantasies began to be played out in real life. He was no longer an observer. He became the accomplice, the Other One.”
In summary, this reads well and is a solidly constructed police procedural, but not much more than that. If you are looking for solidly constructed police procedurals with a Scandi-noir edge you could do a lot worse than read this.
by TCW | Sep 1, 2020 | Book review
Two short reviews this week, both of detective stories. The first is set in Victorian London, the second in Madrid in the run-up to the Spanish Civil War.
Death Comes But Twice
This is the second of David Field’s detective mysteries featuring the pathologist James Carlyle and the preacher Matthew West. The characters having been well established in the first book Field now has more opportunity to concentrate on the story, but for people who are new to the series the first chapter summarises all the important relationships quickly and efficiently
Carlyle is experimenting with the new-fangled idea of fingerprints and in the course of collecting samples he discovers that a corpse brought in to the morgue after a murder is apparently that of a man who Matthew West had seen hanged. How had the villain escaped death when West, in his pastoral role, had been present to see him dropped at Newgate? As a detective mystery, it is not up there with the best of Agatha Christie, but it’s a reasonable puzzle with a solution which does make sense. As far as the story is concerned, though, the significance of a mystery which involves a failed hanging is that it allows Field to discuss the mechanics of capital punishment and present arguments for its abolition. This provides the main subtext to the mystery element, though the developing romance between West and Carlyle’s daughter is another important thread.
Field is familiar with his period as demonstrated by an interesting historical note at the end of the book. There are no obvious errors that bring you out of the story and, while the characters are probably more liberal in their attitudes than the average Londoner of the time, their beliefs are credible given the social backgrounds that they come from.
If you enjoy Victorian murder mysteries this is a series that is definitely worth visiting.
A Murder of No Consequence
I picked this up as it was being promoted as a free offer on Amazon and I wanted to read a detective story. Depressingly often these free books seem to be somewhat overpriced and I read a few pages before giving up. This one, however, grabbed me from the opening lines.
“Madrid, that summer, was a city suffocating under a blanket of heat and a dark cloud of fear. Armed gangs roamed the streets like packs of rabid dogs. Shots cut through the night air; the rattle of machine-gun bullets punctuated the usual afternoon calm. Anarchists shot fascists, socialists killed communists. In the first week of July alone eleven young men were murdered for their political beliefs.”
We are in 1936 on the eve of the Spanish Civil War. It’s not a place or time I know much about (unless we’re moving over 100 years earlier and following Wellington as he marched through the peninsula). James Garcia Woods, though, obviously knows the period well. There’s a lot of historical detail about specific incidents during 1936, but what I found made the book for me was the sense of living in a society that is falling apart around you. Our hero, Inspector Ruiz, is an honest policeman, trying to do his job, solving the murder of a young woman. But the young woman was the mistress of a senior politician and policemen do not get to “just do their job” once politics are involved. Ruiz comes up against the realities of trying to enforce the law in a country where law and order are breaking down. We see the breakdown at every level: by reference to great political events, the continual interference by politicians in his investigation, and the way that the growing political divisions in the country come to intrude on the personal relationships and friendships of the characters.
The characterisation and back stories are almost all utterly convincing – the exception being the beautiful American student who is there, it seems, just to provide romantic interest and to give Ruiz an outsider to whom he can explain details of Spanish society that the reader cannot be expected to know.
In the end, dogged determination means Ruiz is able to solve the murder and achieve some kind of justice. It is, though, meaningless. A man who would have been shot out of hand in the political upheavals is, instead, to be executed for murder.
At one level, Ruiz’s crusade is utterly pointless, but at another it is vital. Ruiz represents the small man, a state functionary who holds to his principles and tries to do the right thing even when everything around him is collapsing.
I picked this up as a detective story, not as a historical novel, but it is, in fact, the very best kind of historical novel. The story makes sense only because of its historical context and we come to understand the history much better for seeing how it impinged on everyday life – even if everyday life here is a murder investigation. It’s also, I think, an important lesson in why historical fiction matters. These events were happening in a Western European nation less than a century ago. As we see our own political system becoming increasingly divided and politicians increasingly ready to interfere in the running of civil society, we need to be ready to learn from the lessons of history. These things can happen again and not just in Spain. What we need now is more men like Inspect Ruiz.
by TCW | Aug 25, 2020 | Book review
My choice for a book to review this week is a little strange because it’s a book I wrote. Well, not exactly – but I did write 10% of it.
Yes, it’s a book of short stories: Victoriana, produced by the Historical Writers’ Association together with Sharpe books. There are ten stories with the only common theme being that they are all set in the Victorian period. It was not only an honour to be asked to contribute alongside some rather better-known names – like Elisabeth Gifford and Hilary Green – but it gave me an opportunity to revisit James Brooke. When I finished The White Rajah, I knew there were so many more tales I could have told about James Brooke’s life in Borneo, but the sequel saw my narrator moving on to the Indian Mutiny (in Cawnpore) and there was no real chance to revisit Brooke. I’d always thought it would be fun to write some short stories about life in Borneo under Brooke rule and now I had the chance. I’m really happy with it, but I’m not going to review it here because That Would Be Wrong. You’ll have to read that one for yourself and make up your own mind.
As with every book of short stories there will be something that appeals to everybody and not everybody will like all of them. There were a couple that were definitely not my cup of tea, but I’m not going to single them out because I’m sure there will be somebody who will love them. Instead I’d just like to highlight some of my favourites.
Carolyn Kirby’s Ladies and Gentlemen is the best kind of historical fiction. It takes an actual event and the author uses her imagination to paint a picture that lets us understand the reality of a situation that, thank goodness, nobody in this country has to face nowadays. I’m being deliberately vague, because I don’t want to spoil the story. It’s not exactly a twist in the tail, but you will enjoy it more for not knowing what is coming next. It’s a stunning story and, given that Victoriana costs only £2.99 on Kindle, it justifies buying it all by itself.
Sophia Tobin’s The Unwanted Suitor is a disturbing tale with fantastical elements that leave you uncertain exactly what has happened but, despite this, it gives a wonderful insight into the way that marriage probably worked (or didn’t) for many “respectable” couples in the Victorian age.
Inevitably there are stories of Empire, reflecting not only how the British viewed the nations that they conquered but also something of how the colonial natives viewed the British. Elisabeth Gifford’s The Last Resort has an unusual take on the way that the British saw some of their colonial endeavours contrasted with how they looked to the natives. It takes a step away from the nowadays somewhat conventional view of exploiters and exploited and provides an interesting insight into the stories the British told themselves about the project of Empire.
A couple of the contributors, like me, have chosen to tell stories about characters who have previously appeared in books of theirs, but all the stories stand up well even if you have read nothing previously by the writers.
There are detective stories and romances. We visit Russia, Greenland, India, South Africa, and, of course, Borneo. It’s a lovely cross section of writers and writing about the Victorian era. Each story is accompanied with a brief interview where the writers talk about their background and inspiration. Some of them might well encourage you to look for more of their work.
Even without my 10% interest, I would be happy to recommend this book of short stories. At £2.99, really what have you got to lose?
by TCW | Aug 11, 2020 | Book review
Next week will see the publication of Fugitive, the latest of Paul Collard’s Jack Lark series. I call Jack Lark ‘James Burke’s big brother’ because both are a series of books about a British soldier, albeit Jack Lark is doing his soldiering half a century later than Burke. Like Burke, Lark moves around the world from war zone to war zone. Collard is more of a straightforward military history writer than I am and his battle scenes are brilliant and meticulously researched.
I’m marking the launch of Fugitive with an extended version of the review I wrote of his last book, The Lost Outlaw, for the Historical Writers’ Association.
The Lost Outlaw
Jack Lark has fought for the British in Crimea and India. He’s fought alongside the French Foreign Legion at the battle of Solferino and on both sides in the American Civil War. Now, though, he is facing a personal crisis. After a bullet nearly ended his life in the Civil War, does he still have what it takes to be a soldier?
There is a lot of existentialist angst at the start of this latest story, which really doesn’t suit Jack, who is not an overly reflective fellow. What gets him (and his readers) going is a good fight, but fortunately one comes along soon enough. When a beautiful, if clearly crooked, woman, finds herself on the wrong side of an ambush, Jack Lark finds himself forced back into action.
The temptation to fight was strong. He could feel the pressure building in his skull and in his chest, fear and desire mixing together to produce that peculiar, volatile cocktail that was more intoxicating than the strongest arrack or the most beautiful woman. The opportunity to reveal his talent was here and it was ready to be seized.
Jack agonises for almost a full two pages, but to the reader’s relief “he made his choice” and mayhem is duly unleashed.
The girl, Kat, turns out to be working for Brannigan, a waggon-train master who is taking thirty wagons packed with cotton from the blockaded Confederacy down into Mexico where they will be sold on to make their way to Europe. The cotton is, according to Vaughan, the businessman escorting the goods, “worth a king’s ransom”. Brannigan needs gun-slingers to defend it from bandits and Jack Lark is offered a job.
So we see a very different Jack Lark from in the previous books. Although the convoy is run with near-military discipline, he is no longer a soldier. He finds himself dealing with an intriguing mix of different characters. Brannigan is a sadistic bully, but a brave and competent leader. Vaughan is an enigmatic figure, constantly hinting at plots, but unwilling to commit himself to taking sides on anything. There is conflict with Brannigan’s right-hand man, Adam, jealous of Lark’s sudden arrival and there is the mysterious, but deadly Kat. I do particularly enjoy Kat, whose refusal to fall gratefully into our hero’s arms makes a refreshing change in this genre. I suspect we won’t meet her again after this book, which is a shame.
Along the way we meet other classic characters of the Old West: Dawson, the cavalry captain whose job is to keep the route safe, but who is not above taking a bribe to supplement his pay; and Santiago, the Mexican bandit. It would be easy for these to be mere caricatures, but Collard fleshes them out enough to make them real people. In the end, though, the story is inevitably episodic. There is a fight here, a betrayal there, a double cross somewhere else. There is a climactic defence of an old building, loosely based on a famous action fought by the French Foreign Legion (though you’ll have to be a dedicated military history buff to recognise it), but a hopelessly outgunned Confederate patrol is inevitably massacred almost to the last man and the very inevitability of the process detracts somewhat from the drama. Lark, of course, survives – just one more occasion on which he shows the kind of superhuman resilience that belongs rather more in fantasy than historical fiction. Still, this is Lark’s eighth outing and by now he has already demonstrated that he is no ordinary chap. In any case, if a little thing like being left naked and bound in a desert is going to stop him, then what will we do for the rest of the book?
In the pauses between the violence, we learn some fascinating facts about the economics of the War Between the States and there are interesting insights into life on the trail, but this is, first and foremost, an action thriller. As such, it definitely delivers. If you already enjoy the Jack Lark books, you will probably enjoy this one, but if you haven’t read any of them before you are best starting with one of the earlier, more straightforwardly military, stories.
by TCW | Aug 4, 2020 | Book review
I’m not a huge fan of Romantic Fiction, so the blurb for this book was not enticing:
Jane thinks he sees her as shallow and ill-educated. Theo thinks she sees him as a snob, stuffy and out of touch.
Within the ancient precincts of the university the first encounter between the conference planner and the academic is accidental and unpromising. Just as well there’s no reason for them ever to meet again.
It looks like the beginning of every trite and predictable chicklit romance. “My god, Jane, with your glasses you look quite intelligent.” “And you, Theo, once you’ve had a style makeover, could be the man of my dreams.” But I have “met” Gilli Allan online and I know how much she puts into her books which she prefers to think of as “contemporary women’s fiction” rather than Romance. So I snuck a copy onto my Kindle and decided to find out just how bad it could be.
And the answer is: not bad at all. In fact, it’s rather good. Her characters are properly realised with back-stories that are entirely credible and rather sad, but both Theo and Jane are trying to move on with their lives and overcome their emotional issues. They are active and engaging agents in their own lives, rather than the creations of a writer who knows that the path of true love can never run smooth until the lovers have overcome one or two largely imaginary obstacles to their happiness. In fact, neither Jane nor Theo is “looking for love”. Indeed, both are actively fending off unwanted suitors while concentrating on making successes of other aspects of their lives.
Jane is starting her own business as a conference organiser and Theo is trying to climb the academic ladder as an archaeologist. Gilli Allan knows a lot about both conference organising and archaeology and the details of the lives of the two protagonists are interesting and convincing.
As their work means that they begin to run into each other more and more often (she is organising a conference at the Cambridge college he is working at) so an unlikely friendship forms. Will it blossom into love, or will one of the various other potential romantic partners derail the affair before it has even started?
Gilli is a member of the Romantic Novelists Association, so a happy ending is more-or-less guaranteed. (One of the reasons I generally dislike Romantic Fiction is because most readers and writers consider that a happy ending is required.) Even so, I was not sure things were going to work out. The characters are complex, the back-stories elaborate. The story is told in the present tense, an affectation that usually annoys me but which works here because it delineates the main story from the quantities of back-story (past tense) that could otherwise get very confusing. There’s also quite a lot of plot. Actually, there are so many sub-plots I began to lose count, though I was never confused. All the characters, even the most minor, are clearly drawn so that even I couldn’t muddle them up. And Gilli keeps the plots so interesting. One rather important one centres on some sharp practice in a town planning department and the provision that should or shouldn’t be made for an archaeological survey before a supermarket is built. I’ve sat in on the odd local government planning controversy and it takes real skill to make them remotely interesting, but Gilli Allan does.
I’ve found this a difficult book to review because there is so much good stuff in it, but it seems to be scattered all over the place. It is a measure of the author’s skill that she manages to pull so many disparate strands together into a highly readable and wholly enjoyable book.
I do strongly recommend this, even if you hate Romantic Fiction.
