The Value of Everything by Mariana Mazzucato (Penguin)


“The barbarous gold barons – they did not find the gold, they did not mine the gold, they did not mill the gold, but by some weird alchemy all the gold belonged to them.”

THE quote is from 1929, Big Bill Haywood, founder of the USA’s first trade union. The question has hardly changed. Money itself is the new gold.  For gold barons read financial institutions, read the credit offered to buy your car, read the drugs you might need to fight cancer, read the Internet barons.

Mazzucato is a professor of her subject at University College London and in the same vein as Yanis Varoufakis, the big question is value. What do we value and how do we put a price on it?

Essentially this is two books rolled into one. First we have a history of economics but as she explains economists rarely agree with each other and so we are grappling with hindsights. Was Marx right or Adam Smith wrong? You get the feeling that maybe we should have all  gone to the racetrack.

But laced through this scholarly arrangement is a compelling polemic:  namely that the financial institutions are running off with our money. And if you are not part of the club, watch out. Money has become a product and it is a closed shop as to who gets to play with it.

The only people making money these days are a financial cartel who have sold us on the idea that this is real economics where in practical terms it can only benefit them. They keep turning the same money around and picking up fees and bonuses in the process. It is not banking in the old sense of supporting business and community. It does not make anything, except them, richer. There is no investment. There is no end manufactured product.

And, interestingly, she points out that many of today’s great innovations, especially the internet, were not the result of entrepreneurial genius, but funded initially by government sponsored research grants to universities and laboratories. Although whether any of us have seen a return on that is pretty much the point.

And then what happens to things that you cannot put a price on, things that we invest in that are not pecuniary – motherhood for example, generosity perhaps, or in a more practical sense journalism – or even things we want to value like teaching, nursing, caring but discover we cannot because Big Pharma ran off with the piggy bank. Heavy duty psycho-intellectual with a political mauling to boot.



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Van Gogh and Britain (Tate)


“I’m gradually beginning to turn into a true cosmopolitan, meaning not a Dutchman, Englishman or Frenchman, but simoply a man” Vincent Van Gogh February 9, 1874.

THIS  book goes with the brilliant exhibition at the Tate Britain, but sometimes a book is the superior medium for all this expertise. For a start it allows time for reflection and consideration and a chance to return to the subject over a few weeks, even months.  Yes, you don’t see the great paintings themselves, but like Van Gogh himself you get to keep etchings, sketches by way of a scrapbook for ideas.

Vincent Van Gogh is perhaps a special case, extremely well read, some hold that his letters, mostly to his brother Theo , are some of the best writing on art from anyone. As a dealer, before he was sacked, he had a first hand experience of handling prints which is how he learned. And his reputation is such that he has drawn here a level of expertise among the editors that is awesome. Here we see that the painting of night time in Arles has London connotations because, well, he had lived by the Thames for three years and seen different works by other artists, so the Cockney DNA was really there. Here is a journey where different experts guide you through where and how other works might have inspired the Van Gogh vision. There are more than 20 pages of notes and creditations at the back in small type, academia at its finest and most astonishing.

Illustrated books are always a team effort – designers, illustrators, experts in different fields have to come together as well as an author, and even a good illustrator. Here  we have one of the greatest artists of his century who still informs, is still topical but we go beyond the clichés of sunflowers, of chopping the ear, of madness and suicide. Van Gogh it is clear saw no difference between art and literature…the books on the table of his woman from Arlesienne is in fact Charles Dickens’ Hard Times, a favourite. Even the tiny brush strokes smack of writerly techniques more than painterly splodges.

There is an intersection of different planes of culture. The graphic artists who provided the illustrations to London’s The Graphic Portfolio, Punch and Illustrated London News were an inspiration. And these same printers were also working on illustrating editions of writers like Dickens and Eliot. And Van Gogh shamelessly took on other people’s ideas like Gustav Dore’s etching of prisoners walking around a cell block at Newgate which he re-imagined in vivid colours but followed the original to a point of exactitude.


And we have scholarship in the array of writers here forensically picking apart his career – he would have seen this here, or that there. He learned this technique there.

Van Gogh was a very modern European, as he says in the opening quote, who spoke Flemish, English and French. He even ruminated on his own madness invoking great French writers who equated genius and madness. And he was a rebel, associating with the working man like miners, weavers.

A weaver who must control and interweave many threads…so absorbed in his work that he does not think but acts, and feel how it can and must work out, “ he wrote in 1883.

Carol Jacobi is the editor with contributions from Martin Bailey, Anna Greatzner Robins, Ben Okri, Hattie Spires and Chris Stephens. Hats off to everyone for a book that manages to go beyond art and be a fitting work in its own right and sets the great painter against a backdrop of friends, colleagues and the writers that inspired him and drove him insane.

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Spring by Ali Smith (Hamish Hamilton)


“Now what we don’t want is Facts”

THE first two of this potential quartet – Autumn and Winter –  were pleasant if not totally convincing as the contemporary novel of weight and import. This on the other hand opens with a stream of vicious double thinking vitriol which ring  many bells. And then puts its foot hard on the accelerator. We are on the cusp of two eras. Sorry, three, or maybe four. Who knows? Three or four interwoven stories too.  It is now, or as now as a novel can be. Maplins is closing down. It is Tuesday in October 2018. After the event, which was April of the title, so in fact published in April 2019. Very neat and very tidy. Even a heroine is called Brit, after Brittany, not Britney.

The same device of the string of vitriol as in the opening is repeated later with a sinister, ominous list of permissions. You are welcome. Of course. Thank you.

The plot and characters have nothing seemingly to do with the first books – as neither did they with each other – but here Smith has grasped fully what she is trying to achieve. And she packs a punch.

The plot is masterfully crafted to the extent that details might be deemed spoilers. One tease: man throws his mobile phone away at Euston Station…fill that out as a start point for 335 pages. No, that is too dry. Smith massages her characters to life, even the ones on the sides, so you read in the comfort of knowing you are meeting people of interest. You might get a good party going with a cast of her characters. An immersive experience, indeed.  So our man and his phone are fleshed out warmly, even vicariously through his friend and the ambiguous twins and through her a little literary interest in a couple of authors from another time. With other voices. Who are being revived…

I am speaking in riddles, in abstracts. She is incredibly tight in her writing, tiny deliberate slashes of colours.

“A door opens. She goes through it.

Then Brit’s shift is over.

She could leave.

She went for the train.”

Such simplification bundles the plot along and mixes with more elegant descriptions:

“March…the cold shoulder of spring. Month of the kind of blossom that could still be snow, month of the papery unsheathing of the heads of the daffodils.”

Her sense of place – a Victorian pillar here, a mountain there –  is filled in with a light meaningful touch, as is her sense of humour like the woman in a sleeping bag who opens the coffee shop without anything to sell. This is not just good, it is very good, as the Imaginary Daughter might have corrected him.

Then half way through we shoot off into a parallel contemporary social commentary bound together by a sense of the now of today’s politics. The signposts of familiar contemporary debate – homeless on the streets, fake news, climate change, detention centres, immigration – are all there, as too are almost Grecian style choruses. Is that Nature talking to us? But there is a unifier, unlikely, magical, a small girl, a hope if you read it that way…and some magic.

“Is she magic? Or in need of magic? Is she jealous? Is she enchanted? Is she lost in the wood, young and foolish and about to learn a lesson?”

Psycho-intellectual? Tick. Very Brainy. Tick. But accessible.

As in the other books, there is a heavy reliance on popular culture, so we even get a mention of a panharmonicon, an instrument devised for Beethoven, but also, note, an internet card for a game. And Tacitas Dean. And a pub quiz of Play for Today’s and other novels because at its heart one explanation is that this novel is about the creative process, the creative decision making and is a new work in progress in parallel. Or you could say it is about communication. This all works beautifully on more than one level. There is a hint, a single one I think, that maybe a fourth book will somehow manifest itself as a collective conclusion which would be a double triumph. But his can stand on its own, whatever.



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The elegance of the hedgehog by Muriel Barbery (Gallic)


“Marx has completely changed the way I view the world,” declared the Pallieres boy this morning, although ordinarily he says nary a word to me.”

PERHAPS it is just my personal taste, but it seems as if a new form of writing is taking shape that perhaps does not categorises as instantly as say psycho-geography but we might call for the moment psycho-intellectual. Anna Burns, Booker Prize winning The Milkman might be a case in point which reviewers referred to as dense and experimental which might be the case if you are coming off YA fiction or chick lit or some crimos – tightly written, carefully crafted, a novel with purpose. I could make case too that Noah Yuval’s Harari trilogy as a non fiction variation.

I could place this one in there too being almost psychotically psycho intellectual tale of the Parisian concierge and the volatile charges upstairs in the apartments she services. “this frozen palace, this glacial prison of power and idleness”.

….in fact we have a pair of hard thinking females heading for a conflagration. What exactly is it about? The plot emerges out of a wild mix of cultural clashes, out of rambles on philosophies, art, beauty, place and social and intellectual standings. The word consonance comes up quite a lot which apart from meaning compatibility and agreement also has a literary connotation in that it is a repetition of the same or similar consonants in neighbouring words, for example fridays felt forlorn but fiery which is precisely the interaction between the two heroines here.

Madame Michel, the concierge is mired in her classical readings which she gleans boraciously from the library and finds herself also coming out into the pop culture of the modern world. Her favourite movie is Hunt For Red October. Her doppleganger upstairs is the dangerous teenage manga-reading, sashimi eating, haiku apostle who is perhaps her equal. If, she had a cat.

Sentences are long and rambling like a big intellectual scarf for a winter’s walk. Grammatically Mme Michel can, and is, offended, by a coma out of place. Grammar is a way to beauty, a thought echoed by both protagonists. There is something here akin to the brilliance of Ruth Ozeki.

“When something is bothering me, I seek refuge. No need to travel far, a trip to the realm of literary memory will suffice. For where can one find more noble distraction, more entertaining company, more delightful enchantment than in literature?”

Fine language and a credit to the translation by Alison Anderson for catching that Parisian tone and sharpening the waspish, black humour. On admitting their grandmother to an old folks home the granddaughter asks: “is that the reward for emotional anorexia – a marble bathtub in a ruinously expensive bijou residence?”. Another inmate makes a dash for freedom after dressing up in “a polka dot dress and ruffles.”

Beyond the upstairs downstairs elements of rich and poor, she finds, perhaps they both find, an egalitarian universe in knowledge and reading, united in, for want of a better word, culture. And finally we discover that perhaps there is a more delightful enchantment to be found elsewhere than literature, albeit it is right here. A lovely, alpha novel.

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Talking to my daughter, a brief history of capitalism by Yanis Varoufakis (Vintage)


“All babies are born naked, but soon some are dressed in expensive clothes bought at the best boutiques while the majority wear rags”

THE very best way to write a book is to sit down on an idyllic Greek island and knock it off in nine days, like this one. In context you can place this on the bookshelf beside the bestselling  Yoav Noah Harrari trilogy. Here the subject is economics, markets and money.

Varoufakis was of course the finance minister in the Greek bailout from Europe which gives him an interesting perspective, and as he says maybe not all economists will agree. But like Harrari he credits an important dimension in banking to the imagination, the ability to imagine money, the parallel universe where money manifests itself on a ledger and is never expected to become coins or notes or even, so old fashioned, gold. At times he is even suggesting that maybe all that wealth is an illusion, which it certainly is to most of us. And maybe all those economic budgetary forecasts which we are all warned about, well maybe it is the same as going down the horse track. Markets are not predictable. Oh, dear.

“Fellow economists, as you can imagine, get very cross with me when I tell them we face a choice: we can keep pretending we are scientists, like astrologers do, or admit we are more like philosphers, who will never know the meaning of life for sure, no matter how wisely and rationally they argue”.

He warns sternly that in the future that money will become more not less political, that the moneyed class have developed their own shorthand which can only ascribe a monetary value to something. That in turn puts everything else at risk.

Do not entrust such people – governments, banks, corporates, their asociates –  with such powers because they are impotent in, for one example, that other eco debate ecology. Or climate change. Capitalism has run amok, or if it has not already done so will do sometime pretty soon. It is a train with no brakes.

One solution he suggests that might help is to create administrative decomcracies for things we value, like say rainforests that do not have an obvious monetary value but on which we all depend and we can vote on protecting them. Ummm.

The whole financial edifice is a fraud albeit one that exists because of our own faith and trust. The business of making money has moved on to a level where it has become self fullfilling and is increasingly disconnected from…well from all of us who are not a part of the banking machine. As Greece suffers…

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The Order of the Day by Eric Vuillard (Picador)

“The sun is a cold star. Its heart, spines of ice. Its light unforgiving.”

FROM this simple, fairy tale short opening, you may deduce that things we know are not all they seem. Let us open up the catastrophe that was World War 2. How did we get there?

There is a sting in the tail of this masterful piece of journalistic faction that recreates from different perspectives and sources the arrival of Nazism. Vuillard’s writing – and Mark Polizzotti’s translation from the French – match the import of the subject, opening with the “24 calculating machines standing at the gates of Hell”.

Vuillard is angry and outraged, his storytelling has purpose, glaring a torchlight on the skeletons of the participants as we edge towards war and holocaust. At moments it is high farce, high drama, high pathos, high tragedy, He has read the testimonies, the biographies, watched the newsreels again. In simple terms he tells his tale of downfall, annexation, of hubris, of the power of a bluff.

Each chapter head speaks for itself: A Secret Meeting. Masks. A Courtesy Call, Intimidations. Carefully he mixes recollections with the novelists’s eye for visualising a drama. This was how, he contends, the real modern Europe was constructed. The humour is sardonic and concise – the book is only 129 pages of type spaced at a generous 18.5 point as if at pains to be sure as many people can read it as possible. He shuffles his scenes into a climax befitting his task.

It won the Prix Goncourt 2017. Proper writing, proper translation, proper publishing. Intelligent and topical.

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Milkman by Anna Burns (Faber)


“The day Somebody McSomebody put a gun to my breast and called me a cat and threatened to shoot me was the same day the milkman died.”

THE prose is wonderfully joyful and rambling. The Guardian refers to this winner of last year’s Man Booker prize as experimental but that does it a disservice. The madness is Belfast as much as that of our heroine narrator’s predicament. Even the more brutal events are dealt with lashings of humanity and dark humour.

Burns writes about something that matters, Belfast circa late 1970s, the troubles, her troubles, The Troubles, even trouble himself, aka the milkman of the title, even Milkman, but not the real milkman, whom no one loves. Never mind borders, it is a novel in the grand Irish tradition. I have seen Burns writing likened to that of James Joyce and I would not argue. Brian O’Nolan also comes to mind. This is individual and distinct. Although fiction, a true record, one suspects of a town which is still dismantling itself. A town “where everything was so back-to-front… nothing could get said here or not said but it was turned into gospel.” And so you double and triple realities.

Everyone is anonymous as if wearing masks or balaclavas so we have SomebodyMcSomebody, the wee sisters, the third brother in law, the maybe-boyfriend, nuclear boy, tablet girl, ma herself, the wonderful ma who almost manifests herself as if from another era, a throwback to intractable, stone-set, pious beliefs, always at cross purposes with her daughter, a manifestation of chaos. Anonymous in name perhaps but not in personality. Everyone is married to the insane violence of the time. At one point she, our narrator and author, is being spoken to and “and here he said my name, my first name, forename”. You feel the intrusion, the outrage.

Places too have no names, they are just – over there, over the road, over the water, the ghostly 10 minute area, the parks & reservoirs – notice the ampersand – the district’s most popular drinking club etc All of which serves to focus on our narrator’s increasingly encroached upon head space. “It was constant hints, symbolisms, representations, metaphors.”

And it is all very prescient; the first page still reverberates through the story. It is in the now of events, at its hub a teenage girl emerging into a closed town divided by sex, religion, politics, even by cats and dogs, seemingly anything at all, a world in which different invisible opinions and rumours count where all she wants is to get away on Tuesday night to see maybe-boyfriend. A world patrolled by much hated peacekeepers, paramilitaries, of surveillance cameras that click, helicopters that hover, of women with better things to do…

Burns writes in a compelling style, repeating herself, like she is looking for a musical riff or chorus. Sentences roll: “depressions, da had had them: big, massive, scudding, whopping, black-cloud, infectious, crow, raven, jackdaw, coffin-upon-coffin, catacomb-upon-catacomb, skeletons-upon-skulls-upon-bones crawling along the ground to the grave type of depressions….” And then straight away afterwards, the sly drama of: “Ma herself did not get depressions, didn’t either, tolerate depressions…”

There is humour in the set ups – the dismantling of the prized sports car, the women discussing their slice of toast on the bus, the fearsome molls in the toilet at the club, the couple who abandon their children to follow their dream to become ball room dancers… neighbours appear at the door at the drop of something happening…and as to the nuns and saint Teresa de Avila, there is a background here because you may need to know the story

Part of its charm is its complexity. There are few books that can manage to have a wooden chair by way of finale. Everyone has a side story, one of their own, a half truth perhaps, which allows for depth and width, 3d in the storytelling. Plus there is the literary slant: she is known as the girl-who-reads-while-walking. Not the done thing. Her taste is for old fiction, as escape, but the wonderfully precocious wee sisters demand she read to them from the more modern Thomas Hardy.

The Booker chair judge Kwame Anthony Appiah gave it perhaps the worst of endorsements: “I spend my time reading articles in the Journal of Philosophy so by my standards this is not too hard”. That might well be applied to a few recent winners, but not this, it is a totally brilliant book – not as popular maybe as some of the other contenders, both Sally Rooney and Michael Ondatje, as I wrote back in the summer, might been happy winners but did not make the shortlist – but it is fake news to overlook the genius here. This is a stand out novel.

Topically speaking, everyone discussing the so called Irish BackStop these days could do worse than sit down quietly for a couple of days to read this before arriving at any conclusions of their own, thank you very much. One argument for Europe was that it helped put a stop to such things, and not just, for sure, in Northern Ireland. Anna herself, I notice, now lives in west Sussex. No wonder.

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