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Maverick’s view of the book world
A TLS columnist’s memoir sparkles with wit and literary revelations
NB BY JC: A WALK THROUGH THE TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT
WHEN the Times Literary Supplement (TLS) was first published in 1902, it was viewed as a makeshift solution to the problem of too little space for book reviews in The Times. That it survived as long as 12 months surprised some, but in the years thereafter it put down deep roots in the literary firmament, becoming a standard bearer for sober, judicious criticism.
Where it was less sober was in its Notes column. This opinionated piece was the forerunner of NB, which in time became to the TLS what the sports pages are to newspapers: filling the back page, and the first thing many readers turn to.
For 23 years, James Campbell, as JC, was the author of this column. Under his hand it became a fizzing, sardonic, often contrarian running commentary on the doings of what Muriel Spark liked mockingly to call “the world of books”.
Campbell, who is from Glasgow, is one of Scotland’s finest underrecognised writers. His memoir, Just Go Down to the Road, which was published last year, is a memorable account of his early life, from youthful academic refusnik, to hippyish traveller, to finally taking a degree and finding a berth at the TLS.
NB by JC may not strictly be autobiography, yet this finely tuned selection, culled from two decades’ work, sheds almost as much light on him as on the literary firmament in which he was immersed.
For those who like books, this is the kind of book they will like. At the outset, Campbell describes the column’s purpose before, during and after his time: “No matter what the personal views of the writer behind the initials might be, it is the job of the columnist to be contrary.”
For him, this seems to have come naturally, and the result is a refreshingly unpretentious and sometimes bracing overview of the fashions, shibboleths and sacred cows in which publishing and authors operate.
Starting in 2001 and concluding in 2020, NB by JC demonstrates its sweeping remit. The first column is on that perennially fascinating subject of authors’ rejection slips.
Anaïs Nin, Peter Matthiessen and Italo Calvino were all the subject of crushing dismissal, as was James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room and
Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, considered by the publisher’s reader to be “ill-conceived, poorly written, occasionally atrocious”. It’s all the encouragement needed for those who feel like giving up.
When bestselling crime writer Elmore Leonard published 10 rules for writing fiction, JC took him on: “We can add an 11th rule: on coming across lists like this, ignore them.
“Our rule for the cultivation of good writing is much simpler: stay in, read, and don’t limit yourself to American crime fiction.”
One of the pleasures of NB during Campbell’s tenancy was its selfappointed prize-givings, reminiscent of Flann O’Brien, as is much of his humour. There was an
Incomprehensibility Prize, one for Most Unoriginal Title, and my favourite, All Must Have Prizes Prize for those who had so far garnered none. With an eye as much to the past as the present, Campbell also instituted a seasonal series, in the run-up to Christmas, in which he would search secondhand book shops for neglected works costing about a fiver. He also encouraged disdain for tired stock phrases – fell swoop, thorny questions, dulcet tones.
To this end, he informed readers, a team in the Basement Labyrinth, where the TLS was produced, was working on an edition of the Dictionary of Received Phrases. Communication with these drudges was “restricted to a code of short and long knocks on the pipes and ventilators of the heating system”.
Whimsy aside, there was a real cutting edge to NB, as Campbell railed against many perceived modern idiocies, not least political correctness: “The subject of race in modern Britain is so delicate, so hedged about by hypocrisy and euphemism, so confused, that it has become impossible to talk about it in plain
language.”
He refused to be cowed by fear of vengeful twitterati, but also accepted that if he could dish out criticism, he must be prepared to take it.
Dipping into the archives and its author’s memory, NB by JC offers fascinating insights into literary history. Among the paper’s early contributors was Henry James who, when one and a half sentences was excised from a long essay, returned the proofs with a note: “It’s a bloody trade.”
Then there is the story of when, in 1926, Cambridge lecturer FR Leavis was questioned by the police for wanting to buy a copy of Ulysses; summoned by the university’s vice chancellor, he possibly saved his job by citing favourable mention of it in the TLS.
The etiquette of reviewing is a recurrent theme, with choice examples such as Orlando Figes anonymously reviewing one of his own books in glowing terms at the expense of a rival author. Others are also lampooned for crossing invisible lines.
One such was Andrew O’Hagan who in 2009 selected Mary-Kay
Wilmers’s family history as his Book of the Year for not one but three publications. JC pounced: “Ms Wilmers, who is the editor of the London Review of Books, must be thrilled. If she wishes to thank Mr O’Hagan, she won’t have far to look. He is a contributing editor of the London Review of Books.”
You might not agree with all of Campbell’s cavils and judgements, but there is amusement, enlightenment or provocation on every page. Thanks to Campbell’s dry, unflashy wit, there are also moments of laugh-out-loud humour.
The fact that he produced a weekly column of such quiet erudition and attitude over such a long period is testament to deep reading, a tireless work ethic, and the pleasure he took in questioning received wisdom, including the perceived superiority of private schooling and Oxbridge compared to what he calls his Poor School education.
Now with his NB days behind him, Campbell reflects: “Writing the column for 23 years was a further education all by itself.” For your readers too, JC.