American Insurgents, American Patriots

American Insurgents, American Patriots: The Revolution of the People


“Troubled times demanded commitment” (73).


One of T.H. Breen's objectives in this book was to show how the commoners of English colonies who rebelled or asserted their independence, depending on how you look at it, made and carried out the decisions that were so unprecedented and led to the formation of the United States of America. Instead of focusing on military battles or the stand-out leaders with whom we are familiar (the Founding Fathers and others), Breen has chosen to look primarily at the Committees of Safety¹ that ordinary Americans (he looks primarily at New England but other places, too) formed to police themselves, as it were. So far, so good—that's what I wanted the book for. Breen also notes that people have a habit of glossing over the complexities of the American Revolution—as it says on the cover of my Eyewitness American Revolution book, “Discover how a few brave patriots battled a mighty empire.” If you've read Redcoats and Rebels² or The Spy, you know it's more complicated than that. John Adams famously said that 1/3 of Americans at the time were active revolutionaries, the others being roughly 1/3 Loyalists and one 1/3 neutral. While Breen gives good reasons for being skeptical about Adams' figures, it is a very tempting assertion—one-third stuck in the middle, waiting to see which way the wind was going to blow.

Breen has no time for either neutrals or Loyalists (in fact, I think he is a bit too critical of the actions of the latter). He also has no time for the Founding Fathers. American Insurgents, American Patriots is probably the closest we'll ever come to a Marxist reading of the American Revolution³. So it's a shame that it only seems to cover until about 1776, as I was interested to follow what this same body of people that Breen highlighted did once fighting actually began in earnest. Despite using the word “insurgents,” Breen mocks the Loyalists who wrote at the time they feared rule by the mob; I find his explanations for why the American Revolution didn't spiral out of control like it did in France some 15 years later, or the more recent examples Breen gives (as he seems to be something of a specialist on insurgency and counter-insurgency), to be not completely satisfactory. He seems to argue against a theory of exceptionalism but then does not explain why, not to my satisfaction anyway⁴. He feels that “taxation without representation” has been overemphasized as motivation.

He has mined a strong and interesting selection of primary sources and got me closer to the mindset of the average participant in the conflict than I was before, which is what I wanted in the first place. One question he has set out to answer—and which he does answer—is why an ordinary farmer like Matthew Patten-- “like other farmers, he did not welcome disruptions that took him and his sons away from normal chores”--would participate in “extralegal militant activities” (6,7). Breen feels that, instead of a favored view that Revolutionary/Enlightenment principles appealed to the cogitating intellectual class (I feel a dig at Jefferson here), the Revolution hit ordinary people's gut emotions. “Grief served to reaffirm a commitment to the American cause; anger fueled a sense of political self-righteousness . . . fear, fury, and resentment” (9-11). So who were these people? They were generally from white farm families. “Half of the total number of colonists” at this stage “were under the age of sixteen” (26). A population boom + new widespread availability of high-quality manufactured goods from Great Britain + high standards of literacy⁵ + social equality within communities + pride in agrarian life + evangelical Christianity + newspapers + effective communication networks = the kind of people Breen is profiling. These people had been, until the Stamp Acts, proud of being British citizens; “they served a vital economic role within the empire” (38). However, part of the problem was that this feeling was shared by the rulers over in Europe. As Breen has it, “The British learned a little late in the day that punishing insurgency—especially by attacking innocent people—is usually counterproductive, turning moderates into radicals and enhancing the reputation of the local resistance forces”⁶ (50). Unlike the sympathetic portrait we get of George III in David McCullough's 1776, Breen has contempt for the British and their lackeys in the colonies. “The defense of order and property in far-off colonies apparently justified authoritarian schemes” (63). Breen sees that Lord North's punishment after the Boston Tea Party “fell disproportionately on the poor,” but the cause-and-effect was such that colonists reacted in solidarity with the people of Massachusetts.

“Colonists reading about events in Boston persuaded themselves that ordinary people who lived there were suffering for all Americans” (101). The Boston Committee of Donations is an extraordinary body, something that should not have been written out of the history books: they organized the distribution of gifts of food, money, livestock, and random stuff out to the suffering poor of Boston. “The committee translated many contributions into cash, which in turn underwrote ambitious public works projects” (114). Why does no one teach us this in school? “And perhaps the most surprising gift came from 'the Aboriginal Natives of Christian-Town on Martha's Vineyard.' The Indians collected more than two pounds sterling for people who might not have been so generous had the situation been reversed” (118). Furthermore, being generous could sometimes save your life. Breen shows at least one case of an American being put on trial in suspicion of being against the Cause and being redeemed because the records showed that he sent an offering to the suffering Bostonians.

I was interested to learn about the Association, a sort of honor-system code against buying British products and therefore displaying modesty in dress and not doing fun stuff like going to the theatre and/or gaming. Long before the Declaration of Independence, “Some colonists stopped drinking tea; others joined vigilante groups roaming the New England countryside” (81). The vigilante groups differed in their approach, but they often made a show of intimidation against those they perceived as tools of an oppressive regime. One question I had to ask myself was what made a veteran of the French and Indian War a rebel/patriot or a Loyalist. Joshua Loring, for example, had served on campaigns on Lakes Champlain and Ontario, and his family was harassed in August 1774 by “a mob.” Meanwhile, Israel Putnam, who was also a hero of the French and Indian War, became a Revolutionary firebrand. Few of these intimidations (at least the ones cited by Breen) ended in something so violent as tarring and feathering (though anyone who has seen HBO's John Adams will not be able to think of that punishment as anything but brutal)--but true to The Spy, recent arrivals and small-time merchants (any outsiders in the community) were targeted for reprisals. Furthermore, a false report of Boston being destroyed by the British in September 1774-- “it is noteworthy that no one seems to have expressed the slightest skepticism about the intelligence” (138).

One of the chapters is called “Appeal to Heaven,” and I very much enjoyed learning about the origin of this phrase, which has filtered in and out of my learning about the Revolution since as long as I can remember. But I never knew quite what it meant before (it's from Locke). Breen uses this as the basis for the chapter explaining how Christianity helped fuel the Revolution—it's one of the best parts of the book. I also learned about The Crisis, an incendiary piece of writing from a crusty British misanthrope that had influence way out of proportion once it got to the colonies. Reprinted in the New-Hampshire Gazette, the headline was “BLOOD calls for BLOOD” (270).

Breen's book had me questioning how I (and James Fenimore Cooper, for that matter!) had lightly passed judgement on the Skinners in The Spy. Despised by all the other characters, they are considered the lowest of the low and are meted out with harsh punishment, which seemed to me deserved. The extralegal committees of 1774 “when pressed to justify their proceedings, they claimed to be acting in the name of the people, or the public” (162). However, the differene is that those who put their neighbors on trial, by and large, were lenient and patient—and did not advocate violence, unlike the Skinners who of course rob people and burn down houses. “Thousands of Americans who had never before held office—indeed, who never even imagined that it was their right to do so—flooded into positions of leadership” in the years after 1774, which I guess is what the Skinners would have done if, in the novel's voice, they were morally worthwhile (12). Besides, “no one else had a right to seize the property of another person,” thus the Skinners are reprehensible (250).

However, what I will most take away from Breen's book is his agonizing description of what could and did happen to people who upset the Revolutionary status quo. Two men in Camden, New Hampshire in 1774 attacked a man named John Taylor,“ ‘beat & kicked [him] with Fists & Feet. The ride lasted fifteen minutes, leaving Taylor, according to later court testimony, ‘very much bruised.’ Before his neighbors grew tired, the ordeal took a particularly ugly turn—whether by accident or design, we shall never know—for a sharp edge of the fence rail cut deeply into Taylor’s groin, leaving ‘a mortal wound on the private parts of his body of the length of six inches [and] of the breadth of four inches.’ The precision of the measurement seems in itself curiously gruesome. With a short time, Taylor bled to death. . . . John Steele, Moses Jewell, Robert Blood Jr, and Jane Steele appeared before a New Hampshire court for killing a man who apparently had not supported the American resistance to parliamentary taxation with sufficient enthusiasm” (Breen 15). Taylor's tormentors escaped punishment.

At exactly 300 pages, American Insurgents, American Patriots is succinct and easy to read.

1Despite the fact I now know that the American versions came first, I always think of the French Revolution when I read “Committees for Safety.”

2Which I read last year but didn't have time to review.

3Feel free to suggest alternate titles if you can think of any.

4“They [the Americans] surely would have burned houses and murdered neighbors if the situation had invited a continuous purging of ideological dissenters. . . . Wealthy Americans—great planters in the South or leading merchants in northern ports, for example—certainly harbored doubts about resistance to British rule, but when push came to shove, they depended more upon the goodwill of their neighbors than upon representatives of an imperial establishment” (163).

5I have read in various places that literacy among white male New Englanders was as high as 90%, with certain definitions of literacy for white women not all that much lower.

6Isn't that the whole thrust of the Mel Gibson Patriot?

Stir Crazy

I am a big fan of different types of tea. I am a connoisseur rather than a snob, however, as I have gotten very used to the British cuppa of black bagged tea with lots of milk. But when I'm feeling in a fancier mood it's nice to have something more refined for the palette, and as we know, loose tea is by far the best-tasting type. At the moment, the collection runs as follows:

From the New Mexico Tea Rooms
Rainbow roibos Possibly the nicest non-black tea in the world, this is beautiful to look at, wonderful to smell, and heavenly to taste. Roibos of course is the tea made from the redbush of southern Africa and therefore is not tea in the sense of being camellia--but that also means it has no caffeine. This blend smells like a cake baking, and the amaretto flavoring makes it a wonderful dessert tea--equally good as an afternoon tea on its own.
Black Jasmine Cream This is a blend of jasmine (green) tea and black tea, which is unusual, with vanilla flavoring as well. I have to confess, I am not a big fan of plain green tea though of course I respect its role in Japanese and Chinese tea culture. I like scented green teas and a strong oolong occasionally. This is good with a touch of milk or brewed quite weak on its own.

From the St James Tea Rooms
Lemon souffle This is a recent discovery, and in smell and look this resembles the rainbow roibos above quite strongly. However, the difference is the addition of lemon rather than amaretto, which is a nice variation on the theme and is really nice for spring/summer. It is a great dessert tea and is a startling amber/red in the cup.
Blueberry This was a gift and I am less keen on black teas scented with fruits than with other flavors. Nevertheless, it smells strongly of blueberry and is nice as a weak brew without milk.
Sparkling sugar plum fairy is a gorgeous winter tea which actually shimmers! It is a strong black tea with seasonal notes of cinnamon and clove and benefits from some milk.
Hearthside toddy resembles the above tea with much the same taste although it is rather like a chai (without the latte of course).
Lady Londonderry is an exception to the black tea/fruit rule as it is quite a nice refined traditional black tea that is good with milk and not so heavily satured in flavor/scent as to not serve with scones or tea sandwiches. Along with Buckingham Palace Garden Party and Atlantic City Jubilee 1921 it is among my favorite scented black teas.
Pumpkin Pie is another autumnal scented black tea which is just wonderfully redolent of Thanksgiving because it is like drinking a pumpkin pie. It may sound bizarre but it's quite a comforting and hearty tea.

From Whittard of Chelsea
Christmas Leaf Tea I had a cull of all my old teas recently as they were not being drunk and had to get rid of my old Whittard of Chelsea stock. I couldn't bear to get rid of this one, though, as its scents are so rich and so associated with Christmas. It is similar to the Hearthside Toddy tea above.

A Decent Pint of Old Toejam

Bill Bryson is one of the people I’d like to be when I grow up. He’s a very funny, very smart author of bestselling, well-received books, and like me, is an American with a profound love of things British. I had read his A Walk in the Woods right before I left for Britain which amused me immensely, and then enjoyed his audio commentary installed in the Roman Baths in Bath. I don’t know how I avoided his love letter to Britain for so long, since I understand and agree with so many of his sentiments—negative and positive—about Americans and Brits.

I wish I had stumbled onto a job in Britain like Bryson did in 1973, even if the job was at an outrageous sanatorium (you can almost see the characters from Life on Mars there) like his was. Then he somehow managed to land a bunch of copyediting jobs until there he was, working for The Times, living in the Yorkshire Dales, and in 1994-ish about to leave the country where he’d lived for twenty years in order to give his children a taste of America. (Encouragingly he managed to find the love of his life—he doesn’t say as much, he just calls her his wife—in Britain.) You can see why I heave a sigh of envy.

But the beauty of the book is that it works on two parallel storylines—the “present” (1994-ish) when Bryson is bidding goodbye to his adopted country, and 1973-on, his arrival and all the curiosities that coming to a new country always affords. He begins the book brilliantly by poking fun at the following inescapable truth: The fact is that the British have a totally private sense of distance. I encountered this myself and continue to encounter it, which is at times quaint and frustrating but believably natural. Bryson also uses this hook to introduce his dead-on comic parody of British place names. “Nice little pub,” someone will interject—usually, for some reason, a guy in a bulky cardigan. “They do a decent pint of old Toejam.”

Bryson landed first in Dover in 1973, having hitchhiked across Belgium and coming over from France. His first experiences in Britain, revolving around a memorable stay at a house owned by a formidable, demanding landlady, need little exaggeration for comic effect. Unfortunately, when he returns to Dover twenty years later, The whole town center seemed uncomfortably squeezed by busy, wide relief roads . . . there was now a big tourist edifice called the White Cliffs Experience, where, I presume from the name, you can discover what it feels like to be 800-million-year-old chalk. (All the more entertaining if you have come across descriptions of the White Cliffs Experience in guide books.) Certainly, as you see, Bryson is full of strong opinions, especially about town planning and historical preservation, and can even be surprisingly rude sometimes in expressing them.

Bryson’s journey back through Britain is not exhaustive by any means; he travels by foot, rail, and bus (which he says is much harder than years ago, though I have nothing but admiration for the huge majority of British public transportation I’ve experienced). His stay in London is surprisingly short, confined to an arrival in Victoria Station with which I can entirely sympathize—On my way out, three separate people inquired whether I had any spare change—“No, but thank you for asking!” –and staying in William Hazlitt’s house. Hazlitt (sp?), William (?), English (poss. Scottish?), essayist. Lived: Before 1900. Most famous work: Don’t know. Quips, epigrams, bons mots: Don’t know. Other useful information: His house is now a hotel. He has London cab drivers nailed, though my personal experience with them is limited to having once been driven by one and once been almost run over by one.

Other destinations of Bryson’s include seaside resorts like Blackpool. Though I’ve never been there—no, not even to see the Doctor Who exhibition—I have never quite understood the reason for its existence. Bryson’s opinion is much the same—It all seemed tacky and inadequate on a rather grand scale, like Blackpool itself. It’s at seaside resorts that Bryson comes upon another inescapable truth: And the British are so easy to please. . . . They actually like their pleasures small. I have found this to be the case and often charmingly so. I, too, am all about the joy of cream cakes and a cup of tea. Sigh. There is also an excellent section on Stonehenge. In trying to get a bus there, he is told, “I believe you’ll find the local taxi services will take you to Stonehenge, wait for you there, and bring you back for about 20 pounds,” he suggested. “A lot of our American visitors find this very satisfactory.” Perhaps even more stunningly, he sums up the whole Stonehenge experience exactly as it played out for me: Impressive as Stonehenge is, there comes a moment somewhere about 11 minutes after your arrival when you realize your fascination has peaked, and you spend another 40 minutes walking around the perimeter rope looking at it only out of a combination of politeness, reluctance at being the first from your bus to leave, and a desire to get £2.80 worth of exposure from the experience.

Having been to Stonehenge twice in the same year (on a busload with other North American students from Swansea the first time, with a coachload of North American and Australian tourists the second time), I can only speculate that the value of staring at a bunch of rocks must be diminished by the fact they can be accessed only by walking around a track. However, at the same time, I understand why access to them is designed that way and can’t think of a better way to leave the view virtually unobstructed and yet safe. In February, Stonehenge is dreadfully cold, but less crowded and more atmospheric.

Having never been to Oxford, I have no idea if Bryson’s dismissiveness of it is justified or not. In Cambridgeshire, he waxes poetic on the idea of really old hedgerows: without them, it would just be Indiana with steeples. Though Bryson seems much less interested in museums and galleries than I am, some of his must-sees would go on the list for me as well. Such as the house of the fifth Duke of Portland, who was an obsessive recluse, and visiting the set of Coronation Street in Granada Studios in Manchester. I am always pleased to relate that the first time I saw Coronation Street (a repeat, it must be said) was on BBC World in Spain and how disappointed I was! I infrequently caught it on TV last year, but like Bryson I had no idea what was going on, of course, but I found myself strangely absorbed by it. It’s less annoying than The Archers, in any case.

I of course took a personal interest in Bryson’s experiences in Wales, which I found to be slight indeed. There is a meeting with a steam train maniac on a train to Llandudno, but then he gets it utterly, utterly right in summarizing Pobol y Cwm: Occasionally, I was interested to note, they dropped in English words—“hi ya,” “right then,” “OK”—presumably because—a Welsh equivalent didn’t exist, and in one memorable encounter a character said something like, “Wlch ylch aargh ybsy cwm dirty weekend, look you,” which I just loved. A Welsh person might find this a trifle patronizing, but the beauty of Pobol y Cwm is that you can watch it with no Welsh vocabulary—besides bore da, tê, and diolch, obviously—and still enjoy it. At least I could.

However, Bryson is quick to suggest that Scotland is more of its own country than Wales is. Having not visited much of Scotland, I can’t really say, but I think that’s bollocks. While Scotland—and indeed Ireland and Wales!—has an enormous “rollcall of worthies” for its size, I find myself nodding at Bryson’s ambivalence about Edinburgh. While he finds it charming and picturesque by late afternoon light and a bit commonplace and ick by morning light, I found the inversion to be true! He does relate a rather hilarious anecdote about backstreet Glasgow: “D’ye nae hae in May?” the man went on. “If ye dinna dock ma donny.” “Doon in Troon they croon in June,” said his mate, then added, “wi’ a spoon.” (Shades of “Smith and Jones” there, I think.) Geordie is the accent I have trouble with, though I won’t pretend thick Scottish brogue hasn’t given me occasional head-scratching.

Despite setbacks of all kinds, Bryson relates his real understanding and affection for Britain and the British people. On weather: I like knowing that so long as I do not go walking up Mount Snowdon in carpet slippers in February, I will almost certainly never perish from the elements in this soft and gentle country. On politeness, and this I can honestly say is true because with the possible exception of London suburbs, I was met with politeness, helpfulness and a seemingly genuine interest in my well-being wherever I went in Britain (and a minimum of chavs and yobs). This is in contrast to Chambéry in France where I lived for a semester; while not exactly unkind, there is definitely a certain reserve and “take-care-of-yourself” attitude in France. Somewhat amazingly, however, is that in both countries I managed to avoid the anti-American attitude that everyone says you will find Europe: . . . a well-worn rant about the shortcomings of Americans. I never understand what people are thinking when they do this. Do they think I’ll appreciate their candor, or have they simply forgotten that I am one of the species myself?

One of the last ideas Bryson conveys in the books is his affection for the people of the Yorkshire Dales. He says of the American Midwest, there are people who move house every six months just to get the pies. This pie-giving, welcome-to-the-neighborhood approach (which, believe me, does not happen in Albuquerque!) would not happen in Yorkshire, but nevertheless he paints them as friendly and polite. With a final assertion that he will be back, Bryson gives us a really great glossary with some of my favorite British slang words like berk, naff, and twee (which I still use here, to much consternation from my American friends) and ponders the impossibilities of why a truck is called a lorry and why it’s a milk float when it doesn’t float. The whole book, when not making me shake with laughter, makes me nostalgic for chocolate digestives, fish and chips, and I hope I, like Bryson, will be back. And soon.

sooo many books

The best way to introduce me is to introduce the media and my wacky takes on it! Here is a list of the books I’ve read in the last year (roughly) with annotations and in some cases, links to longer reviews. Enjoy.

How Poetry Works (PD Roberts)
I made myself get through this. For a poet I have a very atrophied sense of rhythm, which I constantly attempt to ameliorate. This book helped in a little in that respect, though perhaps the most enjoyable part of it was reading the anthology of poetry in the back.

Lascivious Pleasures: A Sexual History of the Eighteenth Century (Julie Peakman)
I read this as research for my short story about Casanova. I have to say I really liked researching it and writing it! This is a very colorful, well-written history of a period that, indeed, had a lot of sex in it.

Ambush (Nigel Jenkins)
A slightly older but still accomplished offering from Nigel [my poetry professor at University of Swansea]. My favorite poem was probably his rendering into “English” the words to the Welsh national anthem, illustrated with exciting pen and pink drawings of “O let the hens fly!”

Dreams of Empire (Justin Richards)
see the full review at the link

The Collected Poems of Idris Davies
Idris Davies preceded R S Thomas by a bit, but his long poem “The Angry Summer” is an amazing piece of work. By today’s standards he might be considered a little old-fashioned, but I was impressed by his oeuvre.

The Three Sisters (Anton Chekhov)
In my time taking creative writing courses in University, I’ve never heard anyone criticize Chekhov. In fact, I got so fed up my final year of undergrad at my professor worshipping Chekhov, I wrote a poem called “F*ck Chekhov.” That was when I had only read one of his short stories. Having read this play by him, I can now see the praise might be justified. Subtlety was his middle name, and I can understand why his plays can remain so fresh because it’s all in the subtext.

Mesmerized (Alison Winter)
Another excellent history survey, which I used to research my disgraced radio play.

101 Sonnets ( Ed. Don Patterson)
A strong and varied collection of sonnets, from the familiar (Shakespeare and Milton, of course) to the more contemporary. My attempts at a sonnet were completely shot down.

Burning the Candle (Christine Evans)
Fabulous long poem and quite an inspiration for my long poem about tea. I went to Christine Evans’ reading from the book before I knew I had to buy it and read it for my poetry module. I wish I had known them what a great book it was going to be. It’s about light and science and creativity (and Michael Faraday, who showed up in Mesmerized) and it’s thus a little cheesy to describe it as luminous, but that’s the best description I can come up with.

The Great Exhibition of 1851 (Asa Briggs)
This was a large, coffee-table-sized book with a good selection of illustrations. Again, research book, and indispensable, though I can’t say the style really knocked me out.

Paterson (William Carlos Williams)
I admire Williams’ tenacity in writing this mother of all long poems, but to tell you the truth, I got quite bored with it. I did, however, read it all the way through, and parts of it are definitely beautiful and lyrical and meaningful. It’s all the stuff in between!

Short Trips: A Universe of Terrors
see the full review at the link

The Book of Nightmares (Galway Kinnell)
I admire a lot of Galway Kinnell’s poetry, and even wrote a poem in his honor. Unfortunately I don’t remember a lot about this long poem.

Station Island (Seamus Heaney)
I can’t remember where I was first introduced to Seamus Heaney, but we did read some of his work in my Modern Irish Novel class in undergrad. He is good at being concise, which I always find difficult. This collection includes a long poem, the eponymous one, but also some shorter ones. In general I think I preferred the short poems.

Correspondences (Anne Stevenson)
This was an interesting transmutation of the long poem, or the poem sequence. This poet wrote poems based on letters and the lives of her ancestors. One particular poem I remember was from an Edwardian father to a daughter upon the daughter wishing to go to college. I was impressed by the tone the poet was able to capture in each of the poems, with none of that self-conscious evocation of history that so many of us are guilty of.

Singing in Chains (Meredid Hopwood)
The englyn is the most difficult poetic form I know of, and though I almost achieved a proper English englyn, it would not have stood up for the purists. Meredid Hopwood does her best to explain cynghanedd in this slim volume with its accompanying CD, and dutifully I tried my best to understand Welsh verse. I came to Wales with the intention of trying to learn some Welsh, and the closest I got to it was singing it in choir.

The Shadow in the Glass (Stephen Cole & Justin Richards)
see the full review at the link

How Are Things? (Roger Pol-Pot)
see the full review at the link

Marie-Antoinette: The Journey (Antonia Fraser)
see the full review at the link

On Film-Making (Alexander MacKendrick)
This is supposed to be a classic for film writers by a master at the craft. I found it to be helpful in the abstract sense; it gave quite a few common sense rules. I even took some notes on his ideas about structure and dialogue (don’t write dialogue that you think is funny just to demonstrate how clever you are . . . ha).

The Empire of Tea (Angus and Iris Macfarlane)
One of my tea research books, very attractively put together and an attempt by the old scions of the tea plantation industry to defend themselves from criticism of exploitation and imperialism. While I found the mother Iris’ introduction interesting (describing “how the way things were” on a tea plantation in Assam in the 1930s), her overly apologetic tone got on my nerves. The history sections of the book were much better with an especially good overview of the early years of European tea as well as its alterations to meet a twentieth-century consumer market.

The Book of Tea (Kakuzo Okakura)
A classic, one that I had wanted to possess for years and finally bought it for my “research.” Again, beautifully arranged. I feel like Okakura and I would have gotten along (he wrote this text in English at the end of the nineteenth century, though it has to do with explaining to a Western audience the role of tea in Japanese life). He has reverence for tea but also a sense of humor about it, too. It was highly influential for my tea poem.

The Ruby in the Smoke (Philip Pullman)
I tried to use this as research for my radio play, but in truth it looked interesting and I was curious about it, since I missed Billie Piper and her famous lisp starring in it over the holidays [2006]. Pullman is an excellent author and one of those few who can create a historical world you absolutely believe. His characters were just on the edge of historical credibility, but they were loveable and I cared what happened to them.

Tea: Addiction, Exploitation, and Empire (Roy Moxham)
Unapologetic in tone, this study skewers imperialist policy on the tea plantations while providing some really interesting facts that were completely absent from the Mcfarlanes’ study. For example, there was a roaring trade in smuggled tea in the eighteenth century. It also provides an up-to-date picture of tea in the era of Fair Trade and Tescopoly.

Short Trips: Monsters
see the full review at the link

The Resurrection Casket (Justin Richards)
see the full review at the link

All the King’s Men (Robert Penn Warren)
I got recommend this by a friend on a drunken night in Gregynog. It was superb. I get chills thinking about how consummately Penn Warren opened the novel—I was completely sucked in by the tone, the diction, this fallible yet fabulous narrator, and the characters of this Depression-era southern US world. Penn Warren’s background as a poet comes through clearly in the amazingly calculated phrasing, while his ability as a novelist comes through in structure and giving us stunning portraits of characters. Easily one of the best books I’ve read all year.

Perfume (Patrick Suskind)
I saw the film first, read the book in France (which was appropriate). The main character Grenouille is more difficult to sympathize in the book; he is completely remorseless, less than human really. Cleverly written and taking us to places we’ve never been before (especially in the olfactory sense) this was a lot of fun to read and kudos to the translator.

Mistress of the Elgin Marbles (Susan Nagel)
I was given this after a friend in my course read it and wrote a review for her journalism module. I agreed with her assessment that the book was deceptive and written by an author with sensationalism and bias as her backbone. The story, of course, is a fabulous one—Mary Nisbett, wealthy Scottish lady travels with her husband to Turkey and France at a very exciting historical epoch—and the concluding love triangle is definitely filmable. However, it has almost nothing to do with the marbles of the title and is very clumsily told indeed.

The Gallifrey Chronicles (Lance Parkin)
see the full review at the link

HMS Surprise (Patrick O’Brian)
see the full review at the link

The Time Travellers (Simon Guerrier)
see the full review at the link

Being Alive (ed. Neil Astley)
I read the first poetry collection in this series last summer. Both are spectacular. I love poetry anthologies because they introduce me to poets I might never have found before, particularly ones in translation, and if I get sick of a particular poet or theme, I can just move onto the next poem or section! Some outstanding poems on loss in this collection.

Short Trips: Seven Deadly Sins
see the full review at the link

Poems (Robert Penn Warren)
After All the King’s Men blew me away, I was somewhat disappointed with this poetry volume. I found most of the poetry boring.

New Poems (Kenneth Rexroth)
I gave it a go because I had liked some of the poet’s work I’d seen elsewhere. His debt to the East definitely shows, as his poems are mostly haiku-like and about nature. Some of them are very beautiful.

Winter in the Blood (James Welch)
Randomly picked this up at the library. It reminded me of A Yellow Raft in Blue Water which I was forced to read back in high school. The author is an American Indian writing about life in Montana in the 1970s for a young man with no prospects. It would be facetious to call it a Cree Catcher in the Rye, but the same sense of drifting aimlessly pervaded it. I hated Catcher in the Rye but I thought parts of this had a lot of wisdom, plus it was a nice change of scene.

The Last Dodo (Jacqueline Rayner)
see the full review at the link

Elizabeth’s London (Liza Picard)
Exhaustively researched with a definite authorial voice of a certain charm. A strong history book and more than mildly entertaining. Unfortunately I read it on the plane back from Wales to the US and was crying my eyes out most of the time, so that colors memories of the book slightly.

Who Is Witter Bynner? (James Kraft)
Witter Bynner is a poet from the early twentieth century whom I admire, having come across his work randomly when I worked at the Center for Southwest Research in Albuquerque. He is an underrated poet and New Mexico transplant, and I read this biography (the only one, so far) in order to write an article on him for Poetry Canada (which they never published). The book itself seemed slight, when I don’t think the life was slight.

Pint-Sized Ireland (Patrick McManus)
Amusing, likeable, sometimes trying too hard but on the whole an enjoyable travel book. Definitely a good command of the accent and probably does pick out the best bits of everything, though a little prejudiced against American tourists, I think! Since I’d recently been in Ireland when I read the book, a lot of it rung true—though I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve still not had any Guinness.

That’s Not What I Meant! (Deborah Tanner)
Long on interesting socio-linguistic explanations, short on any meaningful ways to improve communication.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (J K Rowling)
I got to it about a month after everyone else, partially because I didn’t want the series to end and partially because it was such a huge undertaking. I’m a Harry Potter fan of both books and films, not an obsessive one, mind you, but I love Ron and even got a bit Snape-obsessed because of this book. Anyway, I remember being miserable at the time I read this, so the book made me even more miserable because so many people died. But I think it was an impressive achievement and overall one of the better books of the series.

Boy: Tales of Childhood (Roald Dahl)
Well-written and charming. Read, of course, because I knew Dahl grew up in Cardiff and I was desperately yearning for Wales. I’ve always been a Dahl fan, but I knew next to nothing about him (even though I’ve been to the Norwegian Church in Cardiff Bay twice). His childhood in Wales, England, and Norway was quite interesting and well-expressed for a young (and not-so-young) audience.

Gwalia in Khasia (Nigel Jenkins)
Given to me as a birthday present by the author. I was a bit weirded out by the fact I was given an autographed book by its author, but in all fairness to Nigel, it ended up being one of the best birthday gifts I’ve ever received. Really interesting and unusual book, well-written except for some poetic flights of fancy Nigel takes with the language. It could have benefited from some photos, of course, but overall good weaving of old and new stories. It is, by the way, the account of the Presbyterian presence in the northern Indian provinces in the Khasi Hills in the 19th century, and by extension, Nigel’s forays there in the 1990s to do research.

How Green Was My Valley (Richard Llewellyn)
Evidently I was on a Welsh kick. Actually I had heard this was great for years, and I thought it was finally time I read it. Told in a strange chronology, but very Welsh—unsentimental while being nostalgic and beautifully written in some places—offering no easy answers. I’m glad I waited to read it until after I had been to Wales, because it felt so familiar.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Milan Kundera)
see the full review at the link

Just Jane (Nancy Moser)
see the full review at the link

Timbuktu (Paul Auster)
see the full review at the link

Inventing the Victorians (Matthew Sweet)
see the full review at the link

Bluebird, or the Invention of Happiness (Sheila Kohler)
see the full review at the link

The Shadow in the North (Philip Pullman)
see the full review at the link

The Mouse and His Child (Russell Hoban)
see the full review at the link

Love in the Time of Cholera (Gabriel García Márquez)
see the full review at the link

The Sparrow (Mary Doria Russell)
see the full review at the link

The Shipping News (E. Annie Proulx)
I didn’t much like it. Obtrusively poetic language, unlikable characters, no hope or joy—until it got all local and cutesy. The dialogue was good at least, real. Pulitzer people must be off their rockers.

Eventually, I’ll have posted all the long reviews with links and all.