Proverbs Reduced To Truth

They say, most cliches contain a grain of truth. THIS IS THE NEWS: a grain is not very much. I mean, look at sand. Tiny. Wouldn't it be good if there were some sayings that contained a more reasonable amount of truth?

Yes it would. In fact, yes it is.

Because I have boiled down some proverbs, evaporating the  excess non-truth, to leave them pure. 100% Polyunsaturated Truth. Each serving contains 100% of an adult's RDA. IT'S GOOD FOR YOU.

Here we go:

1. A watched pot often boils.

2. Three lefts make a right.

3. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts (that contain hostile military forces).

4. You have to accumulate to accumulate.

5. A leopard cannot change a lightbulb. It lacks the manual dexterity.

6. Charity begins with a C.

7. People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw orgies.

8. The grass is always greener where there is an abundant supply of water, sunshine and nutrients.

9. Very few men are any form of landmass.

10. Better late than excessively late.

The Reluctant Fundamentalist

Mohsin Hamid

Changez, the eponymous narrator of The Reluctant Fundamentalist, is charming, polite, and irresistibly likable. It becomes apparent, however, that he is holding something something back; he is not all he seems.

How much of this is the deliberate distancing of respect that his American friends find so endearing, and how much is slick, narratorial deceit, is deliberately unclear.

But this is no con. Hamid draws you in, and it is a cold reader indeed who does not emphasise fully with Changez. And when it is revealed that Changez is, to whichever degree you choose to read into it, a fundamentalist, there is no sleight of hand involved.

The gentle, grey area blend from American success story to riot-stirring anti-American is both the craft and the message of this book. We are presented with two extremely opposite points of view, and the book is a dialogue between them. Are they fundamentally different positions, separate in essense? Hamid doesn't think so.

Changez's own journey to becoming a fundamentalist might feel like a trick, because there is never one moment when something of essense changes. We never feel the train run over the joints in the track; instead, it's a smooth ride from one position to the other.

And that's because there is no defining line in the sand, between one position and the other. They are opposite ends of a completely crossable spectrum.

How far Changez, and Hamid, carry you with them in ideals, is debatable; but also beside the point. It is how far our empathy can be carried that is the revelation.

I was given this book through the very excellent World Book Night: and I'm going to pass it on to someone, soon. Has anyone else recieved a World Book Night copy of anything?

Alexander At The World's End

Tom Holt

I've read Tom Holt on and off for nearly a decade. He writes comic fantasy -- hilarious but not cheerful, smart, densely plotted and British. I've always viewed his work as a reliably good read, well-suited to my basic tastes and not needing excessive attention. Not the sort of thing I tend to get excited about, or recommend to a friend, maybe, but worth a thumbs-up if I see you reading it on a train.

When I first saw Alexander at the World's End -- or it might have been the first in the series, The Walled Orchard -- I wasn't sure it was the same Tom Holt. Serious historical fiction? Really? Was Alexander the Great possessed by the spirit of a young English temp who got a job in the wrong office?

When it turned out it was  the same Tom Holt, I still didn't dive in. Historical fiction isn't my favourite flavour, and honestly, I wasn't confident how well Holt would cope outside his unique, meticulously carved niche.

For shame, Benjamin, for shame. Have more faith.

Alexander at the World's End is fantastic. The humour is still there, and perhaps has even reached its zenith, in the voice of con-kid turned Yapping Dog philosopher, Euxenus. This book is his story, not Alexander's, though Alexander casts a shadow across the whole thing. In fact, it is his lurking presence, and his strange ties with Euxenus and his family, that keep the musings and memories of an old Greek man compelling.

That's a plus I didn't expect from the jump to historical fiction. Holt's novels are pretty compelling anyway, in their own way, and surelyThe Past could opnly lessen that. But this, that looks like a thriller in precisely no aspect, had me captivated.

Tom Holt did one thing, that nobody else was doing, and did it very well indeed. What gave him the confidence to step away from it, at least for a while, for something completely different? Or maybe I have this backwards, and he always wanted to write about Ancient Greece. How many times has he approached his agent with this idea, saying thi is what I really want to write?

Who else has changed direction mid-career? Have any thriller writers changed tack and tried to win the Booker? Who has succeeded? Who has failed?

The Laying On Of Hands

Alan Bennett

The Laying on of Hands is the story of a particularly well-attended memorial service. Clive Dunlop, who died aged 34, was ostensibly a masseur, but his talents stretched far beyond that.

Father Jolliffe, taking the service, was also a friend and client of Clive. He is surprised by the array of show-business types on display at the service; and the show-biz themselves are surprised at the extent of Clive's connections, too. He was, as well as warmly tactile, scrupulously tactful.

We hear Father Jolliffe preparing mentally for the service, as well as wrestling with the implications of his own association with Clive; we hear Archdeacon Treacher, (standing for dignity, formality and self-restraint, Bennett tells us), vetting the service for his Bishop; we hear the publisher, attending the funeral as a dutiful favour to the author he is probably losing, searching for the easiest way to cash in on the collective and esoteric fame united in the church.

Through whipsered conversation, the mutations of spreading rumour, and moments of inner dialogue, we trace the audience (as Jolliffe has always thought of a congregation as, anyway) question the cause of death. There is the unspoken worry, very practical to many in attendance, of Aids. And as people (invited by Jolliffe) contribute their favourite memories of Clive, it soon becomes far less unspoken, and much more of a worry. Aids is a certainty, then questionable, and then -- hope heartbreakingly dashed -- a certainty again.

By the time Clive's doctor speaks up to finally set the record straight, Jolliffe has completely lost control of his audience. Treacher, hidden away near a pillar, makes a final, scornful note, condemning the service and Jolliffe's role in it. We look over his shoulder as he does so, to Bennett's obvious pleasure, and our own.

In fact, Bennett takes obvious pleasure in walking invisible through the church and the Order of Service, sitting next to whoever he chooses, listening in to any private conversation he likes, pencil and pad in hand. The only cruelty, as always, is in capturing exactly what people do say, and nothing more.

There is a sharper satire here than at first glance. Bennett, who uses such gentle colours and such humble brush-strokes, can paint a far more honest picture than most. How we judge, who we judge, and how we present ourselves are all here, but the real target, as with all good satire, is hypocrisy.

Ad Infinitum

Nicholas Ostler

This history of Latin is a lot more than just that. The changing role of  language in a tribe, nation, empire and church is the perfect window through which to view the growing pains of civilization's teenage years.

There is a tangible tipping point in Ad Infinitum. Before that point, the Roman Empire, standing united and unconquerable, becomes an animal of two halves. The Latin-speaking west, in which the heart of Rome beats, and the Greek-speaking East; this is cellular division, one creature becoming two, before our eyes.

There is a last moment of hope, as this fragmenting empire is united again, perhaps as it has never been united before, by the spread of Christianity and the establishing of the Catholic Church. Catholic, of course, being another word for united.

But then the tipping point. The Church spreads, and with one eye perhaps on the causal crack in the proceeding empire, it actively spreads the use of Latin. And suddenly, it becomes obvious. Language, across barriers, borders and oceans, makes the most natural sense of the extent of a community. More than the economics of trade, or the ideals of religion, the pragmatics of who you can understand is the real divider and uniter.

So when that red shading on the map that represents the (Holy Roman) Empire doesn't match up with green shading of the Latin-speaking empire, there's only one of those that are going to win.

This is a biography as much as a history, because Latin grows and changes and ages. And as such, the massive success story is underpinned with a bittersweet tug of Ozymandias, and this too shall pass. We know where Latin ends up (although whether it is the end remains to be seen), in the backwaters of select English private schools and botanical naming classes.