Customer Reviews:
By all means, read it in a public place.......2007-05-23
What can I possibly add to what has been said by the other reviewers? This book is short in length and long in content. *EVERYBODY* whom I know and who has read the book has claimed to have laughed out loud while reading it in a public place. That's 5 people, myself included. Years after reading it, I still recall with great amusement the stories about James' alter ego, the Flash of Lightning. And although this is a book about James, it also is a subtle homage to his mother, or at least it read that way to me. Such is James' command of language, he can turn his experiences into everyone's experiences, even if you haven't lived through similar situations. A wonderful read.
Heroic recollection of an Australian childhood .......2004-10-25
"Unreliable Memoirs" is Clive James' description of his upbringing in a Sydney suburb lasting up to the time of his university education. I was expecting it to be funny but wasn't quite prepared for the raw emotion and literary skill displayed on virtually every page.
To me this is the most impressive of James' autobiographical writing. He has a gift for describing childhood and a kind of relentless honesty which is hilarious and provides something of a turbulent rollercoaster ride for the reader, as he describes the trauma of being a single child to a single parent in the aftermath of the Second World War.
I felt a little left behind by many of the historical and literary references James makes but this is more than made up for by the relish with which he uses the English language. For example, he describes a friend's mother giving him buttered bread covered with hundreds and thousands as like "eating a slice of powdered rainbow".
"Unreliable Memoirs" made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end - I wish I had read it years ago.
Don't read while drinking anything hot.......2004-07-18
One of the funniest books you'll ever read. Especially recommended for anyone who has ever been a kid, Australian, in love, in lust, in trouble, at university or has had a head that sticks out at the back.
old age . I never thought the cornflakes would leave me ........2002-10-16
For those of you who have visited Australia in recent years , it may come as a shock to you that Clive James was the man who discoverd it . Jumping from captain Cooks ship ,when the hostile crew had threatened to eat him if he risked another witism . He discovered that the land was free from parking meters . " Well boil mi billy can , cobbers , this is the place for me " . So young clive tried his hand at acting, but was disillusioned ,when James coburn was cast as the aussie in the great escape . " He sounds more real than you Clive " . "Strewth i'll have a lash at journalism " . The rest is history . A raft back to blighty . A year as an assistant to clark kent , then unexpected fame as a latex puppet on spitting image . Its all here the unreliable memoirs, of the boy from Melbourne ,The land bought by Batman .
Don't read this in a public place!.......2000-03-31
This would have to be the best offering from Clive James that I have read. His acerbic wit makes for great reading. I found this text on a bookshelf in a beach holiday house and was immediately captivated. I lost count of the amount of times that I not only laughed out loud, I snorted with appreciation and had to wipe tears from my eyes (much to the consternation of those around me) He captures the innocence of childhood with fleeting glimpses of maturity like no one has before, proving that he is not just a television presenter but a Rhodes Scholar to boot. If I could give this book more than 5 stars I would. It would be a shame to tell you more because this is a book that just has to be read to be believed!
Book Description
At the very end of May Week Was in June, we left our hero sitting beside the River Cam one beautiful 1968 spring day, jotting down his thoughts in a journal. Newly married and about to leave the cloistered world of Cambridge academia for the racier, glossier life promised by Literary London, he was, so he informed his journal, reasonably satisfied. With his criticism beginning to appear in magazines and newspapers such as the New Statesman, and his poetry published in Carcanet, as well as a play being performed to rave reviews at the Arts Theatre, James had good reason to be content. But what happened next? Intelligent, amusing and provocative, its a book that cant come soon enough for the legions of Clive James fans worldwide.
Customer Reviews:
Reliable James.......2007-02-27
It's a decade since I read the first instalment of these Memoirs but the contrast effect is strong nevertheless. I remember the first book was funny and well written but I don't remember it having much point. In fact that was the point: "...someone who had done nothing writing a book about how he had prepared himself for not doing it...". Reading the fourth volume is like being given sound advice from a much admired uncle: try to learn from your mistakes so you can do better next time. James illustrates this theme by stuffing up over and over again while his career somehow manages to assemble itself around him. Eventually he even manages to learn from his mistakes. There are dull moments, or at least moments that are dull if you neglected to have a literary career in London during the 1970s, but these are easy to plough through because you know it won't be long before Martin Amis walks into the next pub. On the whole I smiled a lot. Sometimes I laughed loud enough to frighten the chooks, and I cried on the last page right on cue. One thing I didn't do was put it down.
Disappointed.......2006-12-07
I approached the book with anticipation, having enjoyed "Unreliable Memoirs" (Volume One).This latest volume, which brings us up to James' post-Cambridge early career, is unbelievably tedious: solipsistic, self-absorbed, full of endless references to literary editors, TV producers, buddies from the London literary world - most of whom no-one has ever heard of, though the big names, like Martin Amis, get grovelling accolades. James tries to justify his frantic, over-achieving persona by suggesting that he is presenting a cautionary tale from which the willing reader can learn. Don't believe it. The book is unutterably boring, lacking the verbal wit we once enjoyed from this former media celebrity. He should have quit while he was ahead with the fatherless little boy from Kogarah riding his billycart down that hill.
Customer Reviews:
damn funny........2005-01-14
If you're a tortured artist, a sucker for wit, a would-be critic, a bit of loser when it comes to attractive women, Do you have a passion for bohemian culture, want to travel around europe? Do you have a hard time trying to hold down menial jobs? Have you got a university education? Well, then "Falling towards england" is your book. If you've watched Clive in "post-cards", and remember his hillarious deadpan voice, you'll laugh out loud as you read his hard-to-put down 2nd installment within his "unreliable memoirs" series. If you're a bit of comedian and a bit of a geek at uni, then reading this book will help relieve the pain a little bit as James' details countless romantically inept experiences which he includes in what he calls "Another chapeter in the history of what never happened". pure gold.
* keep an eye out for the talking book version. listening to it is damn funny.
A CLEVER BOY.......2004-07-15
Clive James should be 65 by now, if the arithmetic of the years works in the same way for him as for me. This volume of his memoirs, the second, was issued in 1985, but presumably it calls on diaries kept in his 20's, the period the book covers, so one can't really gauge how it reflects his maturation.
His greatest strength and his main weakness are one and the same thing. He produces some brilliant one-liners, but so many of them, and so similar in style, that they become just a little wearisome over the length of even a shortish book. I became familiar with him first as the BBC film pundit and then as the television critic of The Observer on Sundays. Within the scale of a half-hour programme or a Sunday review he was absolutely unsurpassable for wit and originality. He did various other tv programmes over the years, and I remember in particular a series on a tour he had made in eastern Europe, at the time still the Evil Empire of fond memory. There was a clip of a rock band consisting of various balding 40ish gents in dull suits, on which James commented in his flat Australian accent `They don't just look like secret policemen, they sing like secret policemen'. Does that have you rolling in the aisles? It did me. It still does, and this book rarely goes two pages in succession without something of the kind. As a writer of English he is a consummate workman on his own terms. The tone is studiously light and informal, but the expression is never careless or cheap. Indeed his other fault as a stylist is a kind of demotic pretentiousness. The relaxed and plain-Joe paragraphs are liberally larded with obscure literary and cultural allusions, and it would serve him right if some readers find this patronising. What do you make of a chapter-heading `Solvitur acris James', for instance? I happen to recognise the reference to the ode of Horace starting `Solvitur acris hiems' (Sharp winter melts) but not only will it totally escape many, perhaps most, it doesn't have all that much point anyway in its context.
The period narrated is from his arrival in England in 1962 until just before he went up to Cambridge. As a document of an impoverished, chaotic, Hogarthian gin-lane existence it is simply brilliant. It would be hard to describe the feel of his account as precisely introspective - Rabelaisian might be nearer the mark. In saying that, I begin to suspect that James's manner is beginning to infect me too - the style of Rabelais is nothing like what you might expect from its English dictionary definition or the common usage of the word insofar as it has a common usage. Towards the end I thought I detected a distinctly deeper tone. I wonder what he could really do if he really tried.
Very funny and clever!.......1997-12-30
This is one of a series of autobiographical books from Clive James - Unreliable Memoirs and May Week Was in June being the others - which take Clive from his boyhood in Australia to the hallowed halls of Cambridge University. Clive has a clever, satirical and self-deprecating style. The humor is sly, very personal, and tends to creep up on you. It helps if you have heard him speak and can imagine the text in his rhythmic, expressive voice. The book, although written from the vantage point of Clive's current, and considerable, fame as a television presenter and journalist, does not endow Clive with any more talent than he had at that time. In fact you begin to wonder how he would ever make his mark, let alone a living. The characters he introduces are rich and colorful, presented honestly, to be liked or hated, much as Clive did. The pace is easy and undemanding, it's a gentle book, but not wimpy, rather it is very much in the style of the author himself. I highly recommend reading the books in sequence - Unreliable Memoirs is first - but if not possible, this one is a great place to start to appreciate Clive's work.
Customer Reviews:
UNIVERSITY CHALLENGE.......2006-02-15
This looks like being the last personal memoir Clive James intends to let us have. After he left Cambridge he became well-known from the media, first as BBC film critic, then as the television critic of The Observer on Sundays, and latterly with several shows of his own. He must be nearer 70 than 60 by now, to the best of my knowledge his marriage has survived, and the combination of anno domini, stability and exposure has probably left him with nothing much more that he feels driven to tell us.
His Cambridge career must have given the university more of a challenge in dealing with him than the other way about. He read voraciously, but he read what interested him rather than what was on the syllabus. He devoted much of his time and energy to theatrical productions, and much of his time if not energy to watching films. To what extent he found the Cambridge experience formative I can't really tell, but it clearly didn't take him over. He mentions a number of personalities - F R Leavis who clearly angered him, Germaine Greer thinly disguised as Romaine Rand, and a few others such as the college dean who come across to me as institutions at least as much as they do as personalities. Of the institutions properly so called he has a bit to say about the Union Society, which was clearly as imbecilic a tabernacle of triviality as its Oxford equivalent that I knew only a little earlier. Other institutions were the regular theatrical events, and here we get a genuine sense of involvement. Cambridge gave him a forum here where he could develop his talent. It might have developed less if he had never gone there, but in any case he carried on with his theatre productions in London at the same time, so I'd guess Cambridge's real gift to him was the student grant that unintentionally left him free to do substantially what he liked.
How reliable or unreliable these memoirs are I have to guess too, but I should think they can be believed a lot more than those of, say, Berlioz. Every newspaper review of this book since it appeared in 1990 must have pointed out that his or anyone's team on University Challenge consisted of four members and not three, and I wonder how this ever got past the proof-readers. Those of his contemporaries that he deigns to mention by name are mainly unknown to me, but some may be pseudonyms like Romaine Rand. As the book continued I started to recognise more names. These by and large are people he can mention without compromising or embarrassing them, so it's fair to suppose that some of the unknown personae are aliases to avoid problems. The story reads convincingly, and of course it reads very well. A child of that time attending a similar place of education can relate easily to his progressive disgust with the bogusness and herd-mentality of the 'intellectual' political left that drove us from any naïve revolutionary ideas back into being staid social democrats. The story of the attempt by one theatrical beauty to seduce him, in which he failed the test, is hilarious, but rather near the bone as well for someone whose occasional specialisation in such cases was just to abandon the scene or even to fail to recognise it as a scene in the first place. As for reading what one wanted to rather than what one was supposed to, scrambling through the syllabus and finishing with a better degree than one deserved - well, that rings a few bells too.
Those who know either or both of the earlier books of memoirs, or who simply know Clive James from The Observer and/or television, will know the style to expect here. It's individual, and in its way it's brilliant as well. It has 'matured' rather by this third volume - the one-liners are not so conspicuous as before, but there are plenty left and the writing has more evenness and homogeneity. He traces his developing interest in artistic and intellectual creation of various kinds, and the wide-eyed ingenu quality of his appreciation is one of the things I like best about him. The last chapter, in which he hears, as we must, the clock ticking more loudly as he continues to look into the door opening ahead of him is really striking and affecting. I sense that Clive James has said most of what he was given to say, but how well he said it all.
Not as good as the first two.......2003-03-26
This third volume of unreliable memoirs picks up where the previous volume (Falling Towards England) let off. James, in these books, is interesting, yet not as funny, at least to me, as it seems the things he is describing should be. I definitely need to give his fiction a try.
The nice thing about reading a writer's biography like this is to realize that you are not alone. It is much too easy for me to think that I am the only one with trouble concentrating on the matter at hand instead of flirting with one passion after the other.
The memoirs of a true Aussie larrikin.......2002-02-13
I love Clive James' writing - especially his wry style of combining haughty superciliousness with biting self-deprecation, often within the space of one line. He writes like he speaks, with a verbose sarcasm, and throughout reading May Week Was In June it's almost impossible not to hear his nasal, scoffing tones narrating the book for you.
And while this third (and final?) instalment in his autobiographical memoirs (following the hugely funny Unreliable Memoirs and equally hilarious Falling Towards England) contains the familiar elements of James' comedic style, it doesn't quite measure up to its two predecessors.
Unreliable Memoirs, where James told of his childhood days in post-war suburban Sydney, didn't have to exert any effort whatsoever to raise a laugh: James' skewed take on his youthful surroundings in Kogarah coupled perfectly with the countless moments of hilarity he lived through and strange and twisted acquaintances he made. In the same vein, Falling Towards England introduced us to a young man desperately out of his depth as a newcomer to the Mother Country, armed only with an ill-fitting suit and cardboard suitcase.
May Week Was In June is a continuation of James' days in Britain, as a late twentysomething attempting to forge an acting career in Cambridge while simultaneously stumbling clumsily through his English degree. Even though he's older he's still no wiser, being cursed with an overly healthy interest in women, a not-so-healthy interest in pints of ale and frustrating his teachers and himself by forgoing his assigned texts in their entirety to read countless books of his own choosing.
Yes, it's funny, and it certainly continues to reinforce James' portrayal of his younger self as more larrikin than laureate and more clown than Casanova. He's still a fish out of water, despite having immersed himself for many years in British culture, and his distinctly Australian outlook stands out in 1960s Cambridge like a sore thumb.
The funny moments, though, don't tend to come as thick and fast as in the first two memoirs. This was a shame, as episodes such as James practising his twist in his darkened bedroom in Swiss Cottage, and his teenage sex education in the back of a Kogarah garage, were what made the first two books so laugh-out-loud funny. James has grown up in his third boo, and is a slightly more serious and focused character (with the emphasis on slightly, though!), despite his shortcomings as a student and his scorn for conservative behaviour. However, the narration is still flawless in its eloquency and James proves he has not lost his sharp and unique way of observing the world around him with a cynicism that never grates, but constantly entertains.
A 250 page CV on how Clive James became an intellectual.......1997-10-22
Having so much enjoyed the first two volumnes in this series, I was not prepared for this turgid list of self improvement. Yes Clive is well read, English and Italian, yes he does know the difference between a Donatello and a Michelangelo, but do we need to know every book he read in the two years, every painting he saw and how it moved him. The simple answer is no. Unfortunately it takes 250 pages to find out.
The story of how a drunken extemely funny youth becomes a sober mildly funny old pseud.
Customer Reviews:
2 stars for effort to entertain.......2006-07-25
At some point in our lives, we meet her. She talks loud enough for you to wince everytime she speaks, and she yaks at a rate of 600 words per minute. Yes, she loves to talk-about me, me, me (herself), and complain about everything. She has a temper that makes a matador's bull demure, and most of all, she is your friend.
This whole book is like an unedited one-sided conversation with a loud friend who doesnt know how to use the comma or period. She also thinks that the world revolves only around her.
So this American woman, Fran Lebowitz, a famous (or so she claims) literary agent in New York, whines to her husband (a music copyright lawyer) about being burnt out. So the dutiful husband takes her and their 2 kids along to Singapore, when he gets sent there by his boss for a long business trip.
Lebowitz now focuses her radar on the people of Singapore, locals and fellow expat wives alike. This lady bitches just about everything, its irritating. She is right in a lot of ways though-like very candidly advises "don't forget the `LAH!'" when communicating with Singaporeans, and how these people are so square and move through their lives like a robot under command. Example: she went down to her condominium's tennis court, and was greeted by a "No reservations, cannot play ,lah" So she offered to make a reservation now, on the spot. "Madam, cannot, lah" Losing her temper, she asks how to make a reservation then, and the receptionist tells her, through a phone call. So Lebowitz flips out her mobile phone on the spot, calls the guy who is in front of her, makes the reservation, and gets the court.
Then her husband announces that the boss decided to station him in Singapore for three more years, hence Lebowitz grudgingly becomes an expat's wife. Her adventure ranges from looking for a Filipino maid, and the headaches that go with it, and living the life of a frat student-partying with other expats almost everyday. Reading the book is like going through the thoughts of a 13 year old school girl who has yet to overcome the perils of adolescence. (Mood swings and pure grade A bitchiness)
No nationality is spared from her sonar, imitating her Canadian friend, "Will you give me that baig please?", checking out her Swede friend's grand breasts and butt, and introducing an Irish friend "She has 3 daughters whose names are Caoughin, Byrehrn, and Siebheidn, but of course, they are pronounced as Lisa, Kim, and Ann, respectively" Ok, the last one I found funny, but there's more criticisms of her surroundings (both places and people) than storyline. The only thing that is appreciated is the food.
And she's in Singapore, for crying out loud. I can't imagine how many verses of whinings she will have if she goes to the neighboring countries. She did go to Malaysia, and her accounts are predictably like a high school composition. ("I can't believe we're eating this icky food and feeding it to my children")
The story ends (thankfully!) with her joining a triathlon, and placing fourth. At last, something productive from her runnung/excercise addiction. The husband also announces that the boss is cutting their 3 year placement short, and to her surprise, she is reluctant to leave Singapore afterall.
I don't believe that all expats are fat pampered pumpkins, but this `memoir' is a bratty and ungrateful diary that just about fortifies the generalization that expats are indeed, spoiled.
One shouldn't take this book seriously, and its not hard to do that with a cover And a title as such. The problem is, even if you do take it lightly, it will still weave its way into your nerves.
Expat Life? Who wants it?.......2006-06-21
Having lived as an expat in Singapore, I found this a great read. And actually, a reasonably accurate account of the expat scene there. Often found myself chuckling at experiences I'd had. If you've lived there, you might like it, and it could be a humorous resource for those about to go.....
close call.......2006-04-13
Isn't being a female humourist who is also called Fran Lebowitz a little like opening a store selling burgers called McDonalds with a logo that is a big golden M? Luckily I stumbled across this in a second-hand store, leafed through, thought, "Christ, Fran Lebowitz has really lost it", and never bought it. The fact that Fran Lebowitz HAS lost it is purely coincidental.
disaapointed that its not that Fran Lebowitz.......2005-08-25
No insult intended to the author but I was very disappointed to order this book and find that it was not by the same author of the social satires "Metropolitan Life" and "Social Studies" but since there were no reviews I had no way to know.
So wanted to post so others might not by it for the wrong reason as I did and be very disappointed. This is another writer named Fran Lebowitz.
Average customer rating:
- Interesting collection
- An Amazing Read
- A Strange Relationship
- Insights into a complicated man
- In Great Haste--A Picture of the Inner Michael Collins
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In Great Haste: The Letters of Michael Collins and Kitty Kiernan
Michael John Collins ,
Kitty Kiernan , and
Cian O. Heigertaigh
Manufacturer: Palgrave Macmillan
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The Illustrated Life of Michael Collins
ASIN: 0717123987 |
Book Description
Even seventy years after his death, Michael Collins remains a colossus of modern Irish history. During the five years before he died, Collins grew particularly close to Kitty Kienan of Grandard in County Longford. Harry Boland also expressed warm affection for Kitty in several letters, but it was the relationship between Michael and Kitty that developed and they planned to marry. They exchanged more than 300 letters which revealed not only their intimacy, but also the extraordinary pressure under which Collins lived during the tempestuous days of 1921 when the terms of the Anglo-Irish Treaty were being hammered out. A sequence of letters from London in May 1922 shows him near the breaking point. Kitty's letters in turn are full of concern about the life of strain Michael is forced to live and its looming physical danger. Both of them wish for a normal life in marriage.
This new and splendidly designed edition contains, for the first time, facsimile reproductions of the letters and includes correspondence first discovered in 1994. It is being published to coincide with the release of a major motion picture on Michael Collins, wirtten and directed by Neil Jordan, starring Liam Neeson and Julia Roberts and based upon the relationship between Michael and Kitty.
Customer Reviews:
Interesting collection.......2007-06-13
Although this book would have benefited from more photos and samples of the actual handwritten letters, the extensive collection of correspondence between Michael Collins and Kitty Kiernan is well worth reading for a feel of the times and especially the personality of Collins. However, I have to say that by the halfway mark I had just about had it with Kitty Kiernan's repetitive ruminations about his love, her love, her personality quirks, their future, etc... She sounded very immature, difficult and self absorbed for a woman in her 30s and it made me think that if she was as irritating in person as in her letters, SHE may have been what kept Collins on the road working 24/7 for the Republic. Independent Ireland may owe a lot to this woman! A funny side to this is that it reminded me of a collection of e-mails between any man and woman... hers rambling on and on embarrassingly spilling her guts out and his short, containing of bits of news, and not giving too much away.
An Amazing Read.......2006-10-22
I fell in love with this book. I have to admit I am a sucker for love stories. This book, however, is not only "love" letters, but an interesting look at the life of one of Irelands greatest people.
Michael Collins love of Ireland and hopes for his country are clearly stated in his own written words to Kitty. He is a man of great faith. While Kitty Kiernan seems a little immature or wishy washy at times, it is still a great read.
Michael Collins was an amazing man. This is definitely a look at a different side of a man who was such a powerful and important political figure. A man who was so important to Ireland.
A Strange Relationship.......2000-07-04
These excerpts from the voluminous correspondence between Michael Collins and his fiance Kitty Kiernan reveal a rather strange relationship between a dynamic revolutionary leader-turned-statesman and a woman who seems almost totally focused on herself and virtually oblivious to the pressures and dangers under which he was laboring. The feelings between the two seem to reflect a range of emotions, including irritation, jealousy, perfunctory interest and exhaustion (his)during a particularly fascinating period of Irish history. One wonders what the attraction was between these two since she seems very little interested in or informed about the momentous events in which he was a key player. One also wonders whether the match would have been very successful had Collins lived long enough to marry his lady. Nonetheless, engrossing reading.
Insights into a complicated man.......2000-04-05
I've been reading many books of late about Irish history in general and Michael Collins in particular. I was fortunate to find this one in my read stack one night, when I wanted something "different" from the normal biography -- this book fit the bill!
First, it a collection of letters, with a few pages of text from the editor. These pages help place the letters into the context of Collins' and Kiernan's life.
Second, the editor didn't edit the letters (though there are few comments to explain a few obscure references); thus the reader is allowed to read the text with a minimum of "outside interruptions"; some people may not like this.
Third, there are a few photographs and samples of handwriting included. The photographs were what one would expect; they included the couple, as well as some mutual friends. What intrigued me more than the photos, were the samples of handwriting. Collins and Kiernan both referred to their pages as "quick notes" and such, yet the pages contained few cross outs and changes which indicated that that both writers gave their "quick notes" quite a bit of thought.
These letters are remarkable, as they allow the reader to see how the events impacted the writers; especially true for Collins, as he was quite dedicated to writing letters to Kiernan in addition to his duties. It is remarkable to read these notes from a man whose time was consumed by governmental duties, treaty negotiations and fighting yet still found the time to tell his beloved how much he loved her.
This volumne is a rare bird, as it both a book for historians and for lovers. Enjoy
In Great Haste--A Picture of the Inner Michael Collins.......2000-04-02
The Michael Collins we see in these letters is a man of deep feelings, not primarily for Kitty Kiernan (although that too), but for his country and his fellow Irish. It is hard to read these letters and understand where your editorial reviewer gets the idea that Collins was "vainglorious" or "petty" (was he/she perhaps thinking of DeValera?). Collins certainly had his faults but these were not among them and certainly are not reflected in these letters. Rather, we see a man tormented by the burden laid on him in trying to end the 700-year oppression by the British and save his country from the terrible civil war that ensued after the signing of the Treaty. These letters are fascinating in their revelations of both Collins' character and that of Kitty Kiernan, who comes across as rather shallow or at least uncomprehending of the terrific strain under which Collins labored. These are a must-read for anyone fascinated with Michael Collins and that era of Irish history.
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