I was reading this piece on the Barnes and Noble blog today about Sylvia Beach, owner of the original Shakespeare and Company bookstore in Paris. I particulalry liked this note about the liberation:

Shakespeare and Company would never reopen, but in her memoirs Beach says that she and the books were liberated in August, 1944, by Hemingway and Company, the author and his irregulars arriving on that day in jeeps and with machineguns. At Beach’s request, they routed some German snipers on the nearby rooftops and then rode off, “to liberate the cellar at the Ritz.”

I don't know how true it is and how much it owes to the perception of Hem as a bit of an action man but it does sound rather like him. Arrive back in town, get in the jeep and make sure the books are safe, belt off a few rounds at the Bosche then go to secure that other of his good friends - the booze from the cellar at the Ritz. (Not that I imagine yon Nazis had left a whole lot) Brilliant.

When I was browsing I found this account of what Sylvia was supposed to have said to Hem when he arrived. I like her reaction to the German officer, I hope it's true.

They closed me down, Hemingway, closed Shakespeare and Company down. How dare they, how dare they? One morning a very small and very brutish German officer came in and demanded to buy a copy of Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake – demanded! Have you ever heard of such a thing? I told him I only had one copy left and that it was not for sale, not to him, not to anyone. Not for sale he screamed, do you know who I am, madam? Do you know who I am!? Naturally I didn’t know who he was, how could I? No. I have no idea who you are, nor do I wish to, I responded. But do you know who I am, sir? I am Sylvia Beach, who, in the nineteen twenties, knew D.H. Lawrence, Ernest Hemingway, Ford Maddox Ford, Morley Callaghan, Scott Fitzgerald – well, who didn’t I know, Hemingway – and that I was the first to publish Joyce’s Ulysses when no one else would touch him. Do not come into my shop, whoever you are, I said, and demand anything from me. Do you hear me, sir? Well he went quite silly then, acted like a little boy, started knocking books off the shelves, and then told me the shop was now closed until further notice. Good, I responded, then I won’t have to deal with the likes of you will I, even if you do read James Joyce, who, I told him, would not want his books read by the rapists of Poland, Belgium and France. With that he slapped me twice in the face, and then marched out and placed an armed guard in front of the shop door. Of course the guard was a pussy cat – a Zane Grey fan too – and over the next few days Adrienne and I were able to move all the stock into the apartment, with business pretty much continuing as usual. We moved back in here last week. Did I do well, Hemingway?

I love the story of Shakespeare and Company, such a great shop and so of it's time. I love reading about Paris in that era with the talents of so many writers and musicians and other creative people being thrown together in the general sense of high living that followed the end of the first world war. I really want to write something set there it at some point, though sadly I got side tracked when I started so my novel set there is only at about six thousand words at the moment.

It’s Thanksgiving in the U.S.A. today, so I know at least some of you are going to be as busy with turkey and family as I will be, so this week’s question is a simple one:

What books and authors are you particularly thankful for this year?

Actually this year I'm thankful for a publisher - Vintage - because they reprinted two of Rafael Sabatini's books that I've wanted for years. I've been waiting for someone to do so and I was really pleased when Scaramouche and Captain Blood materialised in June, I hope they've sold well and that they release some more of his work. They're adventurous historical fun with a really good pace and you can see why his books have been so popular with film makers.

As for particular books If God Spare My Life by Brian Monyahan was fantastic, it was so informative on Tynedale's life and career and it is interesting to step back five centuries and yet see themes and beliefs that recur and are very relevant today. People associate things with tradition but in his day what he did was absolutely revolutionary for religion, language and culture. Exceptional read.

For a particular author I'd say Raymond Chandler. Yes, it's a time warp. I only just started reading him this year and his books are great. They're rough and ready and honest and totally immerse you in the world in which Philip Marlowe operates. The Big Sleep is a genuine masterpiece. It was only after reading it that I realised how little of the film I'd actually understood until that point! He had a very enjoyable written style and the plots never lack for punch.

PS: I trust on Brit-only holidays we'll have Brit-centric questions. I'd particularly like to see "Today is the Queen's Birthday; after you have finished toasting her health and singing the national anthem, tell us your favourite book about British monarchy?". That would really work for me. And the answer is, of course, Kings in the North which although dealing primarily with the aristocracy gives good accounts of several major kings and also that king in all but name, John of Gaunt. (He of the best last words ever, even if they were made up by William Shakespeare.)

Since the humble beginnings of the postal service the great British public have kindly paid to protect the chaps at the Royal Mail from rotters who had less than honourable intent upon their revenues. You ask the hangman 'who paid for the English Oak to make Turpin's gallows?' and you'll soon find out that joe public footed the bill, not to mention that whole hoo-haa of searches and investigations after the great train robbery. Yes, we don't take kindly to robbery in this country.

A Brigand from Generations Past.

Unfortunately, this morning, I was robbed. I was robbed in broad daylight, in a public place, while other civilians queued behind me to receive the same villainous treatment. Time was when any fellow intending to perpetrate such heinous deeds would have worn a mask to hide his identity and a brace of flintlocks at the waist but my assailant didn't feel the need; he wore a uniform and a badge to make sure I knew his name.

Held at ransom, until I emptied the contents of my wallet into his paw, was a parcel that I had ordered some time ago from the colonies containing one of those moving pictures they say are going to take off one day. I first got wind of this dastardly scheme when the fellow stuck a messily written note through my letterbox; the long and the short of this was that he was holding my parcel and unless I hurried forth with the not inconsiderable sum of over twelve guineas then some dastardly deed like deportation would be perpetrated on my parcel.

Imagine the trauma, if you would, of knowing that something of yours is being held against your will. I found it hard to take and considered my options carefully. Apparently the police don't consider this kind of thing serious and further to that would prefer if this particular gentleman did not bother them with such matters as they have real criminals to catch, like motorists and old ladies who are behind on their council tax. I did think about storming the building but one has to ask in such circumstances what damage this will do to the old reputation. I was left with only one option: I had to get up at an absurd hour, for the den of thieves is only open until 12:45, and then stand in an orderly line and wait my turn to be fleeced.

Some other stout fellows forced to ply their trade at
night on rough seas to avoid the brigands!

The fellow didn't seem like the usual criminal type and even commiserated with me on the loss of funds I was incurring. Said he didn't agree with it at all, daylight robbery it was. That didn't stop him putting my money in his cash box though.  Apparently the customs and excise men, not content with forcing decent brandy to have to be shipped into caves on a dangerous coastline at night, had decided to take some of my cash and the chaps at the Royal Mail decided this was a perfect opportunity to grab even more of it while my wallet was open.

I am undecided on what course of action to take now. The local constabulary clearly don't give a fig, which is rather unpleasant of them, so I'm now left to ponder writing to Her Royal Highness herself to discuss the matter in further depth and ask why she would lend her name and warrant to such low class brigands as these.

Today’s question was suggested by Barbara:

Do you think any current author is of the same caliber as Dickens, Austen, Bronte, or any of the classic authors? If so, who, and why do you think so? If not, why not? What books from this era might be read 100 years from now?

That's a good question. I don't think that there is anyone being published at the moment who writes with the skilll of say a Tolstoy or a Hemingway but that isn't too say such people don't exist. The publishing industry is skewed heavily now to what will sell quickly and for new authors to get a deal they have to conform to certain trends in length and style so there is quite possibly many good books that never get published. Let's remember that The Thirty Nine Steps would undoubtedly not be published today because it's length is considered to short - a publisher wouldn't even read it, likewise The Great Gastby is also considered too short. I can't see a publisher trawling through War and Peace were it submitted by a first time author either.

That is not to say that I think there are many people who could do it, but I'd not count it out altogether because I genuinely think the industry now is geared to quick selling stuff or specific genre fiction which is expected to fill it's mould. There is not the breathing room for most writers to be able to publish books of literary merit because that's not what books are sold on. I think we'll never know if there are gifted authors out there who this generation will miss because the publishing industry is too unwilling to take anything it percieves as risk. This is partly due to rampant capitalism and partly due to books being pushed into direct competition with movies and television.

Undoubtedly there will be books from today that stand the test of time, though I'm not sure that any direct comparrison can be made so soon after writing to the greats. Of published authors William Boyd can write very well and I expect he may be around for some time, Arturo Perez-Reverte is an exceptional writer and I think probably the closest we have to someone in the Dumasian mould at present - while the Alatriste books are lightweight fun things like the Fencing Master have more detailed and in depth style. John Le-Carre is very talented but it's hard to compare him to past masters because his style is something very different to theirs. Joseph O'Neill wrote brilliantly in Netherland but the plot was wishy-woshy.

I hope that this generation will at some point produce something really special to remember it by, but I've yet to read it.

This happens to me so many times it's unreal. The twenty minutes or so of glee and screaming "YES! I can code, what an amazing piece of code, it's so beautiful I want to weep!" There is the dance, the dance, the dance of Awesome and then the celebration is replaced by stunned silence as one's employer entirely fails to grasp the awesome.

Hat tip to Katja for sending me the link.

So I'm now halfway through this years NaNoWriMo and have written 26,724 words. This puts me just about exactly on target in terms of word count, though I must question whether I have entirely lost the plot.

My original novel plan was for 21 chapters, I've gotten through the events of the first six so far, which has actually taken ten. The thing is I have the nagging feeling that all I've really done is introduce the characters - the real basis of the plot hasn't even got cooking yet! Admittedly the main character has became besotted with a Countess, had a fight, been involved in what Napoleon called 'the most terrible of all my battles' and what not but it doesn't feel like intrigue or plot just yet.

Raymond Chandler, one of the finest writers of the twentieth century, used to say "When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand" and I do think to some extent I've used a Napoleonic equivalent: When in doubt have a flamboyant cavalry charge. I feel sometimes like rendering battle scenes is cheap theatrics when perhaps it should be more character based: does the fact that I have included a 5,000 word account of my main characters at Borodino immediately limit my potential readership to young men who like military history? Someone like Dumas seemed to pull off writing swashbucklers which could still appeal to a wide audience but now things seem to be very easily pigeon-holed. Anyone writing Napoleonic fiction is assumed to be a Bernard Cornwell wannabe, which I'm really not. Then on the flip side cavalry charges and storming redoubts with sabres are cool and he is a soldier so what else would he get up too?

At any rate too much action or not I think it's a fun story so far and I'm really enjoying writing it, hopefully it will finish up at around 65,000 words so I can edit, redraft and submit to some publishers.

As statements go it's always been one of those that plays prelude to an awkward silence and baffled looks, like "No, I've never actually seen Star Wars" or "Actually, I won't be reading the new Harry Potter". It's the kind of statement that while you're not alone in thinking you're never meant to say, lest the invisible hand of Odin smite you, or send Thor to avenge the slur on their countryman's name. Luckily, however, I'm not actually figuring that Norse deities are real, so I think I'm probably safe to say it and hopefully others can rise up too, free from shame and say it with me, I don't actually like ABBA. Never have, never will. I don't dance when they're on, I sit and roll my eyes and mutter about how rubbish it is that they still get played.

Don't get me wrong, I understand why they were successful, I'm sure if I were twenty years older I may have cut a move (or whatever old people did when they were young) to their music, but I just don't see them as anything beyond pop, and pop should be new and fresh, it should replace itself constantly, so while they were good at it, pop should have moved on by now. As I'm not the biggest cheesy-pop fan anyway, making me listen to Abba is a cruel and unusual punishment matched only by making me listen to the soundtrack to Grease, which would result in my trying to gnaw through the wires just to end it all. It's dated, and it's been played to death and worst of all if you're at some kind of function you can guarantee everyone over a certain age will flock to the dance floor to relive their youth. Pah. I guess this makes me what's known as a misanthrope or a party pooper, but at least I'll have the smug self satisfaction that comes from not embarrassing myself to antiquated Swedish pop; I'll save the embarrassment for when The Village People come on instead.

It would probably be met with an understandable amount of surprise then if I was to admit to having found myself humming Super Trouper while walking home the other day. I have to confess that I was equally surprised, but then I guess that's what happens when the bizzare dilemma presents itself that a band you like covers a song by a band who make you want to break every music player in the world just to end the agony. The thing is I'd never realised that Abba could actually write songs. I was to distracted by the cheesy music to realise that one of them must have been able to actually craft a lyric, and I only realised it when Traceyanne Campbell of Camera Obscura put her melancholic vocals to an acoustic cover. I really like this version, it's done just right, suddenly that song I never really liked has become a wistful ballad, one of those songs that manages to be sad and yet still somehow likeable, and when you take way the dancing partygoers and the bearded swedes it's actually a good track.

I'm sure when Abba fan's hear this version they'll be pausing their naughty dvd's, spitting out their Ikea Swedish Meatballs and getting in their doudy grey Volvos to have a public rally against the ruining of their favourite artist. A sea of golden blonde headed socialists shouting slogans about the protection of Abba. I on the other hand have only just realised that said artist were capable or writing lyrics, and am now left to ponder which other artists I loathe may have crafted a lyric or too in their time.

p.s) My apologies to Sweden for throwing just about every half baked, stupidly cliched, atrociously un-politically correct racial stereotype their way. I actually LOVE Sweden, just unfortunately, not Abba. (What do I know, I've never been to Sweden. I'm just covering my back in case they send someone called Lars after me.)

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Over the years I'd say I've gotten pretty quick on the draw. I've never been out of reach of one for about ten years now, I take it everywhere and it's always ready to go. Sometimes it can be a burden, you ask any of the big boys, Earp, Cody, Garret, if people know you're quick they're far more likely to try you out. It becomes a burden at times but then at the end of the day you know that it's there when you need it, when you're stuck in a mess.

This morning I had to leave the house completely unarmed.  There was no option; a lesser man would have stayed in and quivered in a corner but I was needed at the coal face and I wasn't going to shirk my duty. I sat aimlessly in the car, wondering what one does when one has no phone to be doing things on. I could have emails or tweets that need my attention, there could be videos of singing llamas that need to be watched, texts to write; not to mention the problem of knowing where you are without google maps! I got out of the car and walked down a long street, a clock chimed in the distance and a rooster gave off it's loud wake up to the world. Then I felt it that twitch in the leg nerve that signals the phone is going, I reach for the draw like Gregory Peck in the Gunfighter and find myself grasping at nothingness. There's a moments shock to my system until it sinks in that I'm phoneless, defenceless against the world of people who may want to make eye contact or communicate with me face to face. There is nowhere to run and no headset to hide behind.

I passed the morning in much the same fashion, every so often grasping for the phone only to find it absent. There is no point in being the quickest draw in the west when you're unarmed. I could have been faced with any number of terrible scenarios, missing an email or a tweet or worse - having to actually conduct conversation with other human beings without hiding behind gadgetry. I asked myself, what would Greg have done but I knew the answer, Gregory Peck wouldn't have been in this no good town without his piece.

Somehow I avoided any trouble until lunchtime when I returned home and, just a few moments ago, the courier arrived with a brand new and boxed iPhone. Somehow I had survived a morning in the valley of the shadow of no mobile telecommunications.

Which do you prefer? Biographies written about someone? Or Autobiographies written by the actual person (and/or ghost-writer)?

I think that both have benefits, but I really love Autobiographies - if the person is a natural raconteur it really gives them an opportunity to give anecdotes and things that really couldn't be related as well by a third person. I read The Moon's A Balloon at the start of this year and it was fantastic, David Niven's natural wit and humour shine through all the way. I also read Errol Flynn's My Wicked, Wicked Ways and, though apparently he was prone to stretch the truth a bit, it was very entertaining and the 'look at me I'm fynn'-ness of it was curbed at other times by admittance of faults.

However, I think that a big reason that those books were so entertaining was because the people were not only entertaining but were real stars who'd had big careers.  I'm not a huge fan of all these twenty year old footballers and "glamour" models writing theirs as I don't think they've done anything worth an autobiography. 

As a reader of history, however, you can't always access autobiography and I have quite a few historical biographies. Dallek's John F. Kennedy is a very good read but the most personal and humane portraits I've read in them came from Robert K. Massie in Nicholas and Alexandra and William Hague in his very interesting biography of William Wilberforce.

Who knew? Turns out I had more biographies and autobiographies than I first thought when I read the question.