This is my review of Rosa Luxemburg: A Life (Life and times) by Elzbieta Ettinger.

For years I knew of Rosa Luxemburg only as a communist agitator who was assassinated.

This excellent biography which deserves to be much more widely praised and available, portrays her as a remarkably intelligent woman who from the 1890s made herself famous in Europe as a talented journalist and charismatic orator, spreading the cause of socialism. Although she had several lovers, the main influence in her life was Leo Jogiches, who financed her and acted as her mentor at the beginning of her career. An intense man, happiest when organising conspiracies, he was unable to commit to her in the settled home, with marriage and children, which she craved.

Ettinger analyses what influenced Rosa to identify so strongly with the cause of workers, and to reject nationalism: her status as a Jew, a Pole -i.e. brought up in a divided and occupied country-, her lameness, and her observation as a child of poor families living nearby.

Active in the social democratic parties of Poland and Germany, she dared to challenge Lenin, condemning the centralised nature of Soviet communism, whereas she believed that true revolution could only come from the workers themselves. Eventually, her ideas cost her several grim years in prison. It was her role in founding a German Communist Party in the anarchy following the end of the First World War which led to her murder in 1919. Perhaps naively, she did not seem to realise that many workers are motivated most strongly by the desire for material goods.

Rosa was not very interested in "women's movements" since she had the confidence to follow her natural interests, and basked in the admiration she received from the largely male circles in which she moved.

Ettinger does not hide her flaws. In her professional life, Rosa descended into bitter and undignified arguments with some colleagues. On a personal level, her emotionally open letters show her to be at times neurotic or domineering, and she was often too busy to find time for her family, not bothering to visit her dying mother and leaving her ageing father's letters unanswered. The ludicrous lengths she went to hide her affairs – pretending to her family that she was married to Jogiches- have to be accepted in part as a sign of the times.

A minor criticism is that, perhaps to avoid getting bogged down in political theory, Ettinger does not explain the evolution of Rosa's political thinking clearly enough, but the main points shine through, together with her independence and energy.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5 Stars

This is my review of A Time of Gifts: On Foot to Constantinople: from the Hook of Holland to the Middle Danube by Patrick Leigh Fermor.

Armed with natural charm and the confidence and precocious classical education of a public school boy, the eighteen-year-old Patrick Leigh Fermor set out in 1933 to walk from The Hook of Holland, along the Rhine and Danube to what was then Constantinople, although by the end of this first book he has barely reached Budapest.

Prepared to rough it, sleeping in barns, even the vacant cells of local police stations according to a local custom, whenever possible he drew shamelessly on a network of well-heeled connections to cadge more comfortable accommodation in the castles and luxury flats of a succession of middle-European aristocrats.

Despite making copious notes and sketches, some of which were lost, Leigh Fermor did not publish his account until many years later in the 1970s. This has the benefit that he would surely tend to record memories which remained most strongly in his mind, but it also calls into question how much he has embroidered his original impressions. I suspect that his detailed descriptions of, for instance, the paintings of old masters, or the history or geography of an area are based on research or knowledge gained long after his visit. Some recollections are too detailed NOT to have been embellished, but perhaps this does not matter.

At first, I was bowled over by his articulate spate of words, and some will remain impressed by say, his flights of fancy over the murals at Melk – a lusciously Baroque-style former Austrian monastery which is certainly worth a visit. For sure, his writing is often poetical and striking in its original imagery. Yet, it also tends to appear contrived and overblown – at times too convoluted to make much sense and often downright irritating. The notes from his original writing included at the end of the book show the simpler, more direct style of a young man barely out of school, so that the flowery outpourings in which Fermor often indulges seem the creation of an older man. His desire to rely the power of words is laudable, but I longed for some confusing passages to be replaced with a few good clear maps, family trees and timelines to provide a bit of clarity.

Although there is some reference to the rise of Hitler, Nazis tend to be portrayed as buffoons rather than perpetrators of a deadly holocaust and political issues are discussed from the complacent viewpoint of a privileged elite. One of his profounder comments is that the intelligentsia of middle Europe were less likely to be seduced by communism than their liberal English cousins, because they lived closer to the grim realities of communism. I often wanted Leigh Fermor to quit downing vast quantities of beer and wine in different coloured glasses, leave off mooning over obscure legends of unicorns in the Black Forest, and pay attention to what was really going on. What about the Depression, the poverty and inflation inflicting Europe at the time?

Leigh Fermor is at his best in his descriptions of nature: wildlife struggling to survive the cold and boys skating with the aid of a sail in the frozen winter landscape or the Hungarian marches in spring, exploding with croaking, plopping frogs, giant yellow kingcups in the streams, and flocks of migrating storks.

A fairly slow read since it is so densely written, the author arouses nostalgia for a lost world – a privileged, highly educated elite, strong peasant communities, perhaps somewhat romanticised, a refreshing lack of commercialisation, in particular of the cult of the teenager, allowing young men to move directly from the world of the schoolroom to adult freedom. He certainly makes me want to find out more about the Hapsburg Empire which dominated the area for so long, and to unravel the confusing history of the former Czechoslovakia and Hungary.

The third instalment of his planned trilogy is apparently due out in 2013, although compiled from his notes and drafts by others.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ 4 Stars

This is my review of Now All Roads Lead to France: The Last Years of Edward Thomas by Matthew Hollis.

I read this as much to find out about a period, in this case the development of the “New Poetry” of the early C20, as about the poet in question, in this case Edward Thomas. However, this biography requires a strong interest in Thomas and familiarity with his work.

A poet himself, the author is good on showing you Thomas composed, striking out lines and on occasion suffering from “poet’s block”.

I was interested to see how the now famous poets of the day formed a kind of community of fellowship, rather than work in isolation.

The friendship with Robert Frost which helped move Thomas from a prose writer to a poet caught my attention. Even more so, I was intrigued by the depressive personality which Thomas himself felt might be a necessary condition for his work, raising the question of whether he could have been so creative in a modern age where drugs are so widely prescribed as a solution.

The author is very honest in showing how the generally gentle and sensitive Thomas was often driven to thoughts of suicide, cruel words and neglectful treatment of his patient wife Helen: one can understand his pent up frustration over having been trapped in marriage after getting her pregnant while still an undergraduate, missing out in the process on the expected First in History which would have given him an academic career and the financial security to look after his three children with the freedom to write creatively without worrying about having enough money.

Although I wanted to admire this book, it did not engage me as it should have done. I think this was because of the rather disjointed structure, and the tendency to cram too many disparate famous names and unassociated facts into a passage.

However, I think that lovers of Thomas will enjoy it and it has certainly left me with the intention of reading more of his poetry.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ 4 Stars

This is my review of Mafia State: How One Reporter Became an Enemy of the Brutal New Russia by Luke Harding.

After mastering Russian with impressive speed, Luke Harding spent about four years based in Moscow as a foreign correspondent for "The Guardian". Making the most of opportunities to travel which he clearly found fascinating, Harding was more energetic and courageous than many of his colleagues, in reporting on the growth of corruption and undemocratic "vertical power" under Putin, crushing the opportunities opened up by Gorbachev's "perestroika". He describes unflinchingly how former KGB agents (siloviki) have gained key positions in the Kremlin, with the recently formed FSB (Federal Security Service) as insidious as the KGB and if anything even more of a law unto itself.

Regular readers of the "quality press" will already know how journalists like Anna Politkovskaya have been shot in broad daylight for investigating and writing about the truth, how Litvinenko was poisoned in London by Russians who brought polonium into the UK to put in his tea, and how the "oligarchs" who made vast fortunes out of Russian privatisation are now salting away their wealth in places like London. Harding builds on all this to explain how Russia is hardening back into an authoritarian state in which senior politicians enrich themselves, links with international organised crime grow, freedom of speech is crushed and the gaps between rich and poor widen.

Harding's outspoken stance attracted adverse attention from the FSB from the outset. He repeatedly found evidence of his flat being entered – not to steal anything, but leaving a window open next to his son's bed in a high rise flat, tampering with a computer screen, even following the old trick of placing a sex manual beside his own bed – weird signals to unnerve him and his family. Eventually, he was told he would have to leave because of some irregularity in his paperwork, a convenient and overused charge, and he was refused entry, his visa stamped "annulled" on a return flight to Moscow. Perhaps Harding's cardinal sin in the eyes of Putin and his henchmen was the journalist's inevitable association with the US embassy cables critical of Russia published as "Wikileaks" in "The Guardian".

"Mafia state" is written with the air of breathless haste of an article written to meet a deadline, but, as a book, requires more careful editing. Passages often seem disjointed, and although the chapters are themed, they tend to dodge back and forth in time rather confusingly, with continual use of the present tense for past events an added distraction. Harding's courage may include a touch of foolhardiness, and his apparent surprise at being thrown out of the country appears a little naive.

In the interests of balance, he could have shown a greater understanding of the fear, ignorance, insecurity or conditioning which may explain the lack of democracy and suppression of freedom in the Former Soviet Union. Also, perhaps we are not quite as politically and even morally superior as we like to assume.

I would have liked a bit less on Harding's family members (details no doubt included to bring home the reality of the harassment they suffered in Russia) and more on the background to some of the issues covered, in particular the political upheavals in the various outlying republics. A few more maps would have been invaluable. In fact, I found some good ones on Google images which increased my grasp of the geopolitics a good deal.

Overall, this is an important record of some alarming trends of which we need to be aware, even as our leaders are in the invidious position of turning a blind eye because of the perceived need to work with Russia on the world stage, and Harding has done us a service in putting himself on the line to expose the truth. I also have him to thank for introducing me to the wonderful "Peredvizhniki" painters who captured the beauty of C19 rural Russia.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ 4 Stars

This is my review of Van Gogh by Steven Naifeh,Gregory White Smith.

This vast biography is a gripping and often heartbreaking account of a tortured genius, probably suffering from what would now be diagnosed as a bi-polar disorder, which both fed his strikingly original work but also hindered his recognition as a great artist in his lifetime.

The joint authors paint a generally unflattering portrait of Van Gogh, although he was clearly well-intentioned, and showed occasional flashes of self-knowledge and touching, excessive humility or regret over past errors. Argumentative and excitable, he upset virtually everyone he met and drove away potential friends and lovers by being too intense, smothering and controlling. The only woman he ever managed to possess was the worn down prostitute Sien Hoornik, with whom he set up house, together with her baby, to his clergyman father’s distress, only to abandon her for some new obsession with little evidence of any sense of guilt.

After a number of “false starts” as an art dealer who felt honesty-bound to tell customers the shortcomings of artworks for sale, a teacher, a theological student and a missionary in the grim coalmining area of the Borinage, he spent the last decade of his life as a self-taught and astonishingly prolific artist.

The book is strong on Van Gogh’s development as an artist, and the various influences on his work, such as Delacroix’s startling use of colour. We see his progression from detailed ink drawings, produced with the use of a grid, through a period of dark paintings, exemplified by his sludge-coloured representation of a group of peasants eating potatoes, to the great explosion of works in colour which began in Paris, expanded under the brilliant blue skies and arid landscapes of Provence, and ended in a final burst of activity in the picturesque riverside town of Auvers near Paris, where he died mysteriously from a gunshot wound.

His complex relationship with his brother Theo is covered in depth, as he cajoled, wheedled and bullied the young art dealer (who had taken over his job) into sending up to half his income each month to pay for the extravagant follies Vincent thought necessary for his work – studios, models for the portraits, and vast quantities of canvas and paint.

The chaotic days in the “yellow house” at Arles leading to the famous incident in which Vincent cut off his own ear are also brought to life, with a detailed comparison of the “chalk and cheese” differences between Vincent and Paul Gauguin who had been persuaded to visit him, as part of Van Gogh’s self-deluding dream of setting up a community of artists. The painful contrast is made clear between the nervous Vincent, painting real scenes in the open air with spontaneity and lashings of paint, yet to find a single real buyer for his work, and the confident, manipulative Gauguin, who had just begun to enjoy a market for the pictures carefully planned and produced from memory in the studio, with the focus on symbolism and minimal use of paint.

The book lapses too often into a wordy, overblown, repetitious style from which suitable editing would have shaved off, say, at least 200 pages. This would have left more space to ensure that each reference to a key painting or description of a Van Gogh work is accompanied by a colour plate at a suitable point in the text. Failing this, you can in fact track down on Google imagesmost of the paintings mentioned.

If pressed for time, you may prefer to read Martin Gayford’s much shorter, “The Yellow House: Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Nine Turbulent Weeks in Arles”. Van Gogh’s letters are also revealing, and may give a more balanced view through greater focus on his detailed reflections on life and art.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ 4 Stars