“Koba the Dread: Laughter and the Twenty Million”, by Martin Amis

320 pages, Miramax, ISBN-13: 978-0786868766

I have read several books concerning the Soviet Holocaust – Stalin: The Court of the Red Tsar by Simon Sebag Montefiore (reviewed on May 30^th, 2013); The Rise and Fall of the Soviet Empire by Brian Crozier (reviewed on January 10^th, 2018); A People’s Tragedy: A History of the Russian Revolution by Orlando Figes (reviewed on August 31^st, 2018); amongst many others – and can only come to the conclusion that Ioseb Besarionis dzе Jughashvili – Stalin – was a demon in human form. As if anything else was needed to add to this judgment, I read Koba the Dread: Laughter and the Twenty Million by Martin Amis, a book that will keep you spellbound and horrified as he acts as one’s guide through the labyrinth of Soviet madness. If Amis had not personalized the narrative and also attempted to make it a literary effort, it could have been a deadly dull recitation of a period of horror. Fortunately, he writes not just about the historical facts, but also about what it is for a modern person to learn about these events, comparing the large-scale tragedy to relevant events in his own life.

He also draws many perceptive conclusions. For example, he suggests that while it’s socially acceptable to laugh at Stalinism, one cannot say the same about Nazism. The reason for this, he argues, is not the mere gap between propaganda and reality (a problem for any government, it seems), but the perfect opposition of Stalinist propaganda and Soviet reality. The Nazis were, to a large extent, candid about the evil they were trying to commit; Stalin, meanwhile, was claiming the triumph of a workers’ paradise, always the high-minded ideal of Communism, as he was quite intentionally doing everything possible to destroy human solidarity in order to maintain and increase his own power, the triumphant apex of the reactionary low-brow. Amis refers to this phenomenon as “Negative Perfection”, and it is hard indeed not to have an ironic guffaw with citizens who are told that utopia has finally arrived while their children are starving to death. The horror makes all the cheerleading instantly risible or too absurd perhaps to deserve even a jeer, though you cannot tell that to today’s cheerleaders of Communism, a system that has always, always, led to oppression, penury and mass death.

Amis doesn’t add any new material to what we already know about Stalin and his Twenty Million victims, but then that is not the point of Koba the Dread, which is to tell the tale of this malevolent Georgian runt better than anyone before against the background of the small clan of psychopaths and morons that formed Stalin’s inner circle. Amis’ prose is passionate and sardonic in equal measure, with moments of pure brilliance dotted throughout the book. All the important facts are there, related in a way at once compassionate and hilarious which compels you to read on, often laughing through the tears. Yes, laughter – the unwanted presence that won’t depart – is here the laughter of forgetting, the forgetting of the twenty million crushed during Stalin’s reign. It’s also the laughter of real people gathered to hear Christopher Hitchens speak, laughing at an affectionate reference he made to “many an old comrade”. For while Nazism and (by extension) Hitler cannot be laughed about, Communism and (again, by extension) Stalin can be.

Koba the Dread does two very necessary and needful things: it pulls Stalin out of the dark forgetfulness into which he has escaped and puts his psychotic wickedness under the hot light of examination; and then it asks why, as an historical figure, Stalin is forgiven his sins by having had them forgotten. The answer to the latter resides in the inherent tragedy that invariably emerges from an irresistible desire: the golden image of the Just City in the flawed world we know. If the cosmic joke has a smooth groove, Stalin seems to have found it.

“The Phantom of Fifth Avenue: The Mysterious Life and Scandalous Death of Heiress Huguette Clark”, by Meryl Gordon

 

407 pages, Grand Central Publishing, ISBN-13: 978-1455512652

First: I love used books because they so often come with some mysterious backstory that evokes…something. Like this one, The Phantom of Fifth Avenue: The Mysterious Life and Scandalous Death of Heiress Huguette Clark by Meryl Gordon. When I opened it up, it came with a thank you card that said: “Thank you, Tina for the money! It’s so appreciated and always fits perfectly 😊 Love, Odey & Allison. XOXO”. I have no idea who Tina, Odey or Allison were, what the money was for or how much, or why this present of a book ultimately found its way to 2^nd & Charles to be resold. But the questions remain and the speculation is rife. So anyway…

It’s hard to feel sorry for the very rich; I mean, they have all this wealth, lots of stuff and the freedom to do as they damn-well please. And, they have a habit of going off the deep end. I mean, just think of Howard Hughes who, after a lifetime of building companies, making movies, romancing beautiful starlets and even circumnavigating the globe for God’s sake ended his days as a recluse whose once robust health was long gone and who was at the mercy of shysters and hangers-on. Sad. Pathetic. Tragic. And proof positive (if an anymore proof was still needed) that money cannot buy happiness. Or sanity, for that matter.

Or take Huguette Marcelle Clark, the subject of Gordon’s book, who was the heiress to the Clark Copper fortune, a painter of some renown in her own right and philanthropist who gave away vast amounts to worthy causes – and who, later in life, became famous all over again as a recluse, living in a hospital for more than 20 years while her various mansions remained unoccupied (come to think of it, I think I have another book about Huguette called Empty Mansions floating about somewhere…). She, too, traversed the world, saw amazing sights and was the center of attention wherever she went – until she didn’t want to be anymore.

Gordon is nothing if not indefatigable in hunting down and acknowledging her sources about this dead recluse who could have lived such a grand life if she had only wanted to. I mean, I get not wanting to be a celebrity and fearing that this friend or that relation may want you for one thing and one thing only. But Good Lord, Woman, you were raised in New York City and Paris and interacted with some of the most interesting and important people in the world, and you chuck it all to live in a hospital room wasting away and doing nothing? Of all the things that money can buy, freedom tops the list – and you had it in spades. All for naught.

This retreat from the world began with the end of her so-brief marriage to William MacDonald Gower, a retreat she indulged in, surrounding herself with Impressionist paintings, French antiques, priceless musical instruments, elaborate one-of-a-kind dollhouses and Japanese miniatures – surrounded by things. Her very few friends she communicated with by letter or over the phone, and she never seemed to have had time to go out for lunch or even to just pop around and say “Hi” (Did she even manage to wave to her niece on the street from her window? Who knows?). All of it pointless and pathetic, your great wealth notwithstanding.

The Phantom of Fifth Avenue is exhaustive in its detail – Huguette was a hoarder who kept everything, even the care labels of her cashmere sweaters – and it seemed that all of the litigants who fought over the woman’s TWO wills came forward to chuck their two-bob in. But by the end I still could not determine just why this vivacious woman full of life and with the world at her feet chose to retreat form the same and live in a hospital room surrounded by inanimate if beautiful objects without any meaningful human contact. Perhaps the answer is beyond knowing short of an answer from Huguette herself, who seemed content in her silence.

“Zork”, by S. Eric Meretzky

 

126–539 pages, Tor Books, ISBN-13: 978-0812579758 (1), ISBN-13: 978-0812579802 (2), ISBN-13: 978-0812579857 (3), ISBN-13: 978-0812559897 (4)

Zork was a text-based computer adventure game first released in 1977 – that I knew nothing about when I collected the original four Zork books. At the time I was all about these gamebooks that had multiple avenues of success or failure (think Endless Quest, reviewed November 11^th, 2021 and Choose Your Own Adventure, reviewed on April 24^th, 2024). And just like the video games, the Zork books (and the other series I mentioned) were a kind of interactive fiction which offered the reader a choice of actions symbolized by pages to turn to.

The protagonists of each book were a boy and girl, called Bill and June on Earth and re-dubbed Bivotar and Juranda in Zork. Unlike other like series, at the ending of each Zork book the reader received a score from ‘0’ to ‘10’, based on just how far they had made it through the book; if one ended in failure the reader was given an opportunity to try again (the books also usually contained a “cheater trap” that was reached by opting to use an item which didn’t exist, in which the story abruptly ended and the reader is chastised and not given a chance to try again).

The Zork books did not affect me like the other series I read and, seeing as there were only four of them – The Forces of Krill with 20 possible endings; The Malifestro Quest with 18 possible endings; The Cavern of Doom with 17 possible endings; and Conquest at Quendor likewise with 17 possible endings – I don’t suppose they affect very many other people, either. Maybe I’m wrong. But, I bought them all and read them and grew (at least a little) with them and they will forever be a part of me.

“Longbourn”, by Jo Baker

 

352 pages, Alfred A. Knopf, ISBN-13: 978-0385351232

I just can’t shake those Bennets, can I? First there was the original work, the Divine Jane’s Pride and Prejudice (reviewed on May 24^th, 2021); then I read Death Comes to Pemberley (reviewed on July 21^st, 2025) which followed Elizabeth and Darcy as a murder occurred on their estate; and now I have discovered Longbourn by Jo Baker which, changing things up a bit, follows the lives of those below stairs at the Bennet homestead. Who I hear you ask? Well: Sarah, the principle maid and focus of the book; Mrs. Hill the housekeeper and her husband, Mr. Hill, the man about the house; Polly, the young maid; and James, the new groomsman. We also have Ptolemy Bingley, one of the servants from Netherfield who is also half-black, the product of Bingley Sr. and his dalliance with one of his slaves in the West Indies.

The best thing I can say about Longbourn is that it is respectful towards the source material. The Bennet girls are portrayed just as Jane wrote them (except for Mary, who is shown in a rather more sympathetic light as the forgotten, middle sister). And everyone else is written as Jane had, except for Mr. Collins and Mr. Darcy; Collins is, like Mary, shown sympathetically, while Darcy blunders in and out of rooms without so much as glancing at the help – which is, I think, to be expected of a Great Man who can’t be bothered to even acknowledge his underlings. And this is the great strength of Longbourn, as we see already familiar scenes from P&P acted out once more from a different, lower angle, but still in the manner in which Jane wrote them. Baker manages to add to the original tale without subtracting or degrading it in anyway.

Well…except for one instance, where Baker states explicitly that Bingley’s source of wealth comes from Triangular Trade; that is, arms, textiles and wine shipped from Europe to Africa, enslaved people from Africa to the Americas and sugar and coffee from the Americas to Europe. Nowhere in P&P does Jane state explicitly where Bingley’s £5000 a year comes from, so for Baker to take it upon herself to supply the answer smacks of arrogance, to say nothing of disrespect towards Austen. Also, to give Bingley a half-black half-brother as a servant at Netherfield Park is just…mean; I mean, Ptolemy Bingley is not mentioned at all in P&P, although not every backdrop character is given a name, to be sure; but Jane says nothing about a mulatto (to use the contemporary phraseology) and certainly says nothing about a half-brother to the Bingleys.

Also, when James’ back history is filled out in the last third of the book we discover something shady about one of Jane’s characters, and it is not at all flattering. Disheartening, in fact, and totally out of character for the person in question, as Jane presented them to be. I’m dancing around the issue because I don’t want to give the game away, but Baker did a real disservice to this person and, worse, rewrote them to such a degree that I doubt that Jane would recognize the character that she herself had brought forth. Perhaps she wanted to deflate this person and bring them down to earth by showing them to be human, warts and all. But it seemed forced and only works if one disregards what Jane wrote, which is not only blasphemous but impossible. A low mark on an otherwise excellent reimagining of a masterpiece.

But these, really, are my only complaints with Longbourn. Baker does a wonderful job in fleshing out these background characters and breathing life into what were, to these Great Men and Women of the land, merely parts of the household to be moved about like chess pieces and discarded just as easily. To see P&P once more brought back to life from a different angle was nothing less than joyful as I was able to relive this beloved masterpiece of English literature, but through different eyes. And I cannot stress this enough: it is obvious that Baker respects P&P and sought to honor this original work by preserving what Jane wrote while adding her own spin on characters that Austen didn’t have the inclination (I imagine) to flesh out. Jane’s focus was on the daughters of this minor-league squire, but their lives would have been impossible but for the servants of Longbourn that made their living so easy.

And what vividly realized, fleshed-out characters, too. Sarah has dreams of independence that are all but impossible for an orphan with just a little education. James wants only to live out his life in a little comfort and away from the prying eyes of the world. The Hills live from day-to-day as the minor lordships of a household that was kind enough to take them in. Polly could have done worse (and would have) if not for the Bennet’s, and Ptolemy dreams his dreams of freedom – and his very own tobacconist shop. No cardboard cutouts here; these are actualized people with recognizable aspirations and all-too realistic roadblocks in their lives, roadblocks put up through no actions of their own. It’s easy to imagine that Sarah, James, the Hills, Polly and Ptolemy were real and that Baker merely transcribed their lives into her book.

Longbourn, then, is a (mostly) respectful homage to one of the most beloved novels in the English language that manages to add to the original work while simultaneously honoring the same. A rare feat that should be respected and rewarded.

“History of the World in Bite-Sized Chunks”, by Emma Marriott

 

192 pages, Michael O’Mara Books, ISBN-13: 978-1606711873

Over Christmas of 2022 the Fraser Public Library did a Secret Santa thing in which anyone who wanted to participate could write down a gift idea for themselves, which helped the shopper out tremendously (mine asked for Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, God Bless Her). I wrote down histories or biographies but, fearing they would not find anything below the $10 limit, also put down Hot Wheel and Matchbox cars – not that it matters, ‘cause my Secret Santa got me History of the World in Bite-Sized Chunks by Emma Marriott (for $9.99 from Barnes & Noble, I imagine). So I did alright and got another book for my library because, as you assuredly know by now, you can never have too many books.

This is a small book for such a large topic, coming in at fewer than 200 pages and measuring a mere 5”x7.75”. But this book is a primer, not an exhaustive history, meant to whet the appetite for more. And seeing one culture after another spoken of in order of when they arose, flourished and inevitably fell aids in bringing past worlds into focus and the march of history across the globe. This matters for Marriott prides herself on casting her historical net wide and gathering in cultures from around the world, not only from Europe and North America but from the Middle East, Africa, the Far East, Oceana and all the Americas. In short, as all-encompassing a history as one would hope for of our small world after all.

Be warned: the info packed into this slim volume is still immense, so you will probably (like I did) have to take your time and read slowly to ingest it all; hell, you will probably (like I did) also have to go back and reread certain sections just to ensure that you got all the facts straight. But no matter, read it twice, thrice and more to absorb all the history you can on this crazy world of ours.

“France: An Adventure History”, by Graham Robb

 

544 pages, W. W. Norton & Co., ISBN-13: 978-1324002567

France: An Adventure History is Graham Robb’s 15^th book, virtually all of them about “L’Hexagone” – be warned, though, as it was written for your common Francophile, not being an exhaustive history but rather a series of historical vignettes from over the many centuries this nation at the end of the Eurasian continent has existed, most of which a casual student probably hasn’t heard of. And this matters for, while your common Francophile thinks that France has and will exist forever, Robb, instead, sees a future full of uncertainty in which the nation’s people, language and, even, soul will change – whether for the better or no…you be the judge.

And what changes might those be? Well, the list is long and includes, not least, the Mouvement des gilets jaunes (Yellow Vests Revolution) of 2018 that saw a nationwide protest against economic and political disparities. Or the 2015 attack on Charlie Hebdo, the French satirical magazine, in which 12 people were murdered and a further 11 others were injured, all for a bunch of satirical cartons of the Prophet Muhammad and the subsequent debate – not always civil – over the influx of Muslims and other ethnic groups into France. To say nothing of how this theoretical Catholic country becomes less Christian by the day.

But while the present interests Robb, there are past Frenchmen, too, that he sets his sights on, such as: Harriet Howard, ambitious mistress to Napoleon III; Jacques-Louis Ménétra, a free-spirited glazier from Paris whose autobiography painted a ribald picture of 18^th Century France; Pope Sylvester II – aka Gerbert d’Aurillac – early medieval polymath, Archbishop of Reims and the first French Pope; Ermoldus Nigellus, a poet with a “cheeky sense of humour” whose chronicles bore witness to 9^th Century Brittany; along with the usual suspects, such as Charles de Gaulle, Napoleon and Caesar. Really, there’s a lot set down in these 18 eclectic chapters.

But these chapters act as leafy stations in this book in marked contrast to what Robb has called the “express train” narratives that have dominated histories of France. Bringing his command of French history, a lively curiosity and “taste for apparently futile journeys of discovery”, Robb (and his wife) traverse the whole of this beautiful and exasperating country by bike, train and foot in this mélange of a memoir, travelogue and history. This is a sweeping, spirited and refreshingly unsentimental portrait of France, from the Bronze Age to the present, that opens up new avenues of thought for the experienced Francophile on this most maddening of countries.

“What Time the Sexton’s Spade doth Rust” by Alan Bradley

 

320 pages, Bantam, ISBN-13: 978-0593724514

At last – AT LAST – the eleventh Flavia de Luce novel is here! It’s been a long, bleak seven years since The Golden Tresses of the Dead was published and we were graced by mystery’s most original character in ages. What Time the Sexton’s Spade doth Rust by Alan Bradley picks up soon after the events of Tresses, and I had to familiarize myself with Flavia and all that happened in the previous books, not the least being the death of her father, Havilland, and dealing with her status as the new mistress of Buckshaw, her ancestral home. Right away things get off to a poisonous start as we find Flavia in St Tancred’s graveyard contemplating the rotting corpses in the ground below – when Cousin Undine fetches her back at Dogger’s behest because Mrs. Mullet has been accused of poisoning Major Greyleigh, one of Bishop’s Lacey’s residents – a resident with a past.

Very quickly, the old patterns reestablish themselves as Inspector Hewitt begins his inquiries, only to find Flavia has picked up the trail as well. The relationship between experienced inspector and inquisitive girl has always been fraught, what with the two one another’s mutual admiration warring with sheer exasperation. I said before that I thought that Flavia saw Inspector Hewitt as a kind of surrogate father, a role that (perhaps) may flourish now that she has lost her real father. Flavia herself mentions how this dynamic in their relationship has cooled with the birth of the Inspector’s long-hoped for daughter (named for Flavia, don’t forget) and his, perhaps, exasperation with her meddling…er, make that assistance (indeed, Inspector Hewitt explicitly warns Flavia off the case – an order Flavia, naturally, promptly ignores).

A rather newer dynamic in the series is that between Flavia and her cousin, Undine de Luce, the daughter of Lena de Luce, likewise deceased. I suppose that Undine was intended by Bradley to be a charming imp, one sent by providence or whatever to hassle and harangue our preteen chemist/detective with her boisterousness and unpredictability – but she isn’t. More often than not she is an irritating nuisance to Flavia…and to us. I would much rather see Flavia tackle her case alone or with the sometime-assistance of Dogger and others, but Undine is just not the delightful scamp she is (I presume) intended to be. Maybe I’m transforming into a humorless old coot, but the younger de Luce’s shenanigans leave me frustrated – much like Flavia. If this was Bradley’s intention then mission accomplished; if not, then…

But Flavia’s relationship with Dogger is now the principal personal connection in her life as, indeed, it has been for some time. With the Arthur W. Dogger and Associates private detective agency still up and running, Flavia’s partner in crime-solving is as engaged in her extracurricular pursuits as ever, only now in a semi-official manner. It is this dynamic which has always been central to the books, and a good thing, too, as I would rather see Flavia and Dogger go about their business much more than tolerate Undine for any length of time. The obvious love and respect the characters have for one another warms the heart and makes one thankful that at least ONE person in Flavia’s world recognizes her worth and gives a damn for her. We can only hope that this tender though damaged man lasts a little longer for our heroine’s sake.

One final matter that Flavia wrestles with, one that she has wrestled with through the last couple of books, is her maturing. She is quite aware of what she’s goin’ through and tries to tackle the problem as a scientist – and for the most part, fails. Her change is a biological matter, of course, but it is also an emotional one, one for which, as a creature ruled by reason, she is rather unfit to handle. But to listen to her wrestle with what is the onrushing freight-train of puberty is to sympathize. I mean, we’ve all been there at it SUCKED, and I think we all would like to act as Flavia’s parent and try to help her through this stage of life. It also humanizes the hell out of Flavia and makes her more relatable. The character is English, from the mid-20^th Century and of the ruling class – but she is also all too human and we love her all the more for being so.

So after all that…how was the mystery? As with every other Flavia de Luce mystery, What Time the Sexton’s Spade doth Rust is competently written and engaging, due almost entirely to Flavia. If any other lesser character were in the lead role, I don’t think I would have made it through the first eleven pages, never mind the first eleven books. No Victorian polymath or English spinster or Belgian fusspot would have been as engaging as the prepubescent mucker who refuses to acknowledge any constraints on her ability or freedom. Anyone else would be insufferable and not nearly as entertaining. The mystery at the heart of this tale wraps up a thing or two that have been ongoing in the series and also drops a bombshell of a revelation that was…rather contrived, I think. And it lacked the emotional punch I think Bradley was going for.

We are expecting another Flavia book in a years’ time (maybe) and then a movie sometime soon (maybe), though I have read little progress on either front. Will that book be the last? Dunno. But it seems to me that Bradley may be wrapping things up, seeing as he has his heroine tell the world that, in regards to her family and its place in the Nide, “I am Flavia de Luce: a living and vital mushroom growing out of the dead wood of the de Luce family”. After the next book we will have a matched set of a dozen perfect gems of series, and perhaps no more. I dearly hope not.