I read 107 books in 2020. Interestingly, this total does not exceed those for the last couple of years despite the fact that much of 2020 was spent in lockdowns, bubbles or ‘tiered’ struggles. Twenty-five of the books read in 2020 were novels; 17 thrillers; 24 autobiographies or biographies; 9 books of poetry or the arts; 6 on sport (as were 14 of the 24 works of autobiography or biography); and 26 on philosophy, social theory, sociology, politics or history. I suppose this is the kind of mix I’ve grown accustomed to, at least since retirement in 2013.
Two of Simenon’ Maigret series, numbers 75 and 76 I think, are better considered novels than thrillers. What a writer! But let’s start with thrillers as a category. I confess to being slightly disappointed with Le Carre’s ‘Agents Running in the Field’, which seemed unusually contrived. Cumming I always enjoy. Herron is an acquired taste, and I seem to have acquired it. His comic, ironic accounts of protagonists from the semi-defunct London hideaway for failed spies reveal some talented writing. Try him if you haven’t already. Away from the world of spies, I always enjoy Donna Leon’s Venetian stories and ‘Trace Elements’ is no exception. I invariably catch up with James’ Roy Grace series, set in Brighton (I was brought up in Worthing), and I do the same with Billingham’s Tom Thorne series (I used to have the odd pint in Thorne’s favourite pub along from Warren Street tube station). Sara Paretsky I insist on reading too and 2020 saw the publication of ‘Dead Land’ featuring private eye V I Warshawski. A solid Grisham and another Nesbo conclude my thriller escapes.
Novels next. Houellebecq is not everyone’s swig of cider, but I often find his works original and intriguing, and this includes ‘Serotonin’. I enjoyed Harouf’s ‘Our Souls at Night’, and even more so Ogawa’s dystopian narrative on ‘The Memory Police’. Having systematically digested the Barsetshire Chronicles recently, I wilfully set about Trollope’s follow-up series starting with ‘Can You Forgive Her?’, ‘Phineas Finn’ and ‘The Eustace Diamonds’. These are long volumes (750 pages each give or take), but Trollope is a wonderful observer of character and what Maggie Archer calls people’s ‘internal conversations’. I love them but need to breathe between books. Sacher-Masoch’s ‘Venus in Furs’, a story of sexual masochism I picked up in the local Oxfam bookshop, was well done but I’m not sure it constituted a breather. William Boyd I always enjoy: he’s an excellent storyteller, and although ‘Trio’ is focused on the artificial world of the acting industry I wasn’t put off. Towards the end of 2020 I began Forester’s Hornblower series, managing the first two volumes. I was encouraged to do so by a snippet of conversation with Clive James in Waterstones in Cambridge a while back. And he was right: they are good stories, all the more so because of the author’s detailed and beguiling knowledge of sailing warships two centuries ago. I enjoyed Samson’s ‘A Theatre for Dreamers’ too
Now onto autobiographies and biographies. Hemingway’s café- and bar-based ‘Moveable Feast’ was fun. I’ve read too little Hemingway. Ray Monk’s biography of Wittgenstein was a feast too. For some reason I’d not got around to reading it before, but in my opinion it warrants all the plaudits it’s received over the years. Michael Rosen’s short account, ‘The Missing’, tracing his Jewish ancestors persecuted and often killed during WW2, is as beautifully and movingly written as I’d anticipated. I loved both Blair’s ‘Parisian Lives’ and Poster’s ‘Existential Marxism in Postwar France’ (the latter having long been on my shelf). There’s something about Paris and the era of existential philosophising that I can’t quite shake off. I relished my last coffees in Les Deux Maggots during my last pre-COVID visit. To these might be added a re-read in 2020, ‘Conversations with J-P Sartre’. Debord’s ‘Panegyric Vols 1 & 2’ are strange, though they acted as reminders that we are not put on this planet with any pre-planned agenda to follow: we needn’t therefore genuflect in the direction of others’ expectations. I may not be an anarchist, but a cord was struck here. Stuart Hall’s ‘Familiar Strangers’ is a beautiful study of a life switched from the West Indies to Britain in mid-course; and it gave me a much enhanced understanding of West Indian culture and feel for what it was and is like to be black in the UK. Finally I want to applaud Bunce and Linton’s new biography of Diane Abbott. This is a reminder of the principled consistency of a major black politician who has always had to face down racist abuse, not least from centrists in the Labour Party: a truly remarkable career of sustained and extraordinary accomplishment.
To this list ought to be added a handful of the sports life stories: mainly rugby players in anticipation of a chapter in the book I’m currently writing on ‘A Critical Realist theory of Sport’. Eddie Jones’ ‘My Life and Rugby’ was very informative and enjoyable, as was Joe Marler’s Loose Head’, Dylan Hartley’s ‘The Hurt’ and, in a different way, James Haskell’s ‘What a Flanker’. How different these new books are from two other rugby autobiographies I read in 2020, those of Billy Beaumont and Peter Wheeler. ‘What happens on tour stays on tour’ clearly no longer applies, particularly in Haskell’s case. Pollock’s ‘Tackling Rugby’ was a stark forewarning of the new research on the price that professional rugby players pay for their sustained and brutal commitment.
John Bolton’s ‘The Room Where it Happened’ and Mary Trump’s ‘Too Much and Never Enough’ in their different ways threw genuine light on the truly hideous career of a narcissist in free fall even as I write these words.
What ‘academic’ texts would I pick out? I would recommend the following: Eric Olin Wright’s ‘Rethinking Class’; Sayer’s ‘The Moral Significance of Class’ is a must read (I’m pleased to have just written a chapter for a forthcoming book celebrating Andrew’s magnificent body of work); Gruneau’s ‘Sport and Modernity’; the Care Collective’s elegant and important ‘The Care Manifesto’; John Ashton’s ‘Blinded by Corona’; David Attenborough’s ‘A Life on Our Planet’; Hugree, Penissat and Spire’s ‘Social Class in Europe’; and – one I loved – Carroll and Sapinski’s ‘Organising the 1%’.
I could go on, but maybe there’s enough here to ponder.