A candid and revealing snapshot of mid–20th-century cultural life, seen through eccentric but shrewdly perceptive eyes.
The British critic’s personal jottings from the 1970s chronicle a glamorous life with characteristic wit, underpinned by melancholy.
It wasn’t an entirely happy decade for Tynan, who found it increasingly difficult to write as his emphysema worsened. (Diagnosed in the late ’60s, the disease finally killed the cigarette-smoking 53-year-old in 1980.) The entries begin in the closing years of his tenure as literary manager of Britain’s National Theatre, where he was frequently frustrated by executive director Laurence Olivier’s timidity regarding the politically and sexually provocative plays Tynan championed. Nasty comments about Olivier, on whose acting Tynan had lavished praise as a critic in the ’50s and ’60s, reveal a decidedly catty side to his personality, as do the vitriolic remarks concerning director Peter Hall, who bumpily assumed the reins at the National in 1973. After he left the National, Tynan drifted, trying to get financing for an erotic film and to stage a follow-up to his scandalously successful stage review, Oh! Calcutta! His own sex life revolved around spankings and whippings described in juicy and surprisingly cheerful detail—leave it to Tynan to make S&M sound like a day at the beach. Since the hairbrush got applied mostly to girlfriend Alison, relations with wife Kathleen were understandably strained in this period. Tynan’s habit of attending glittering upper-crust parties and favoring the guests with his adamantly socialist opinions can’t have enhanced his popularity either: “I enjoy testing people,” he admits in one entry. He enjoys hobnobbing with them too: name after famous name, from Marlene Dietrich to Mel Brooks, appears after the words “dinner with” or “drinks with.” The mood darkens in the late ’70s, as Tynan is plagued by money worries and health problems, but his prose still sparkles, his opinions still strike sparks. We sorely miss a critic who writes sentences like: “It is a dangerous fallacy to assume that being a perfectionist is the same thing as having good taste.”
A candid and revealing snapshot of mid–20th-century cultural life, seen through eccentric but shrewdly perceptive eyes.Pub Date: Nov. 1, 2001
ISBN: 1-58234-160-5
Page Count: 420
Publisher: Bloomsbury
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Nov. 1, 2001
BOOK REVIEW
A moving meditation on mortality by a gifted writer whose dual perspectives of physician and patient provide a singular...
A neurosurgeon with a passion for literature tragically finds his perfect subject after his diagnosis of terminal lung cancer.
Writing isn’t brain surgery, but it’s rare when someone adept at the latter is also so accomplished at the former. Searching for meaning and purpose in his life, Kalanithi pursued a doctorate in literature and had felt certain that he wouldn’t enter the field of medicine, in which his father and other members of his family excelled. “But I couldn’t let go of the question,” he writes, after realizing that his goals “didn’t quite fit in an English department.” “Where did biology, morality, literature and philosophy intersect?” So he decided to set aside his doctoral dissertation and belatedly prepare for medical school, which “would allow me a chance to find answers that are not in books, to find a different sort of sublime, to forge relationships with the suffering, and to keep following the question of what makes human life meaningful, even in the face of death and decay.” The author’s empathy undoubtedly made him an exceptional doctor, and the precision of his prose—as well as the moral purpose underscoring it—suggests that he could have written a good book on any subject he chose. Part of what makes this book so essential is the fact that it was written under a death sentence following the diagnosis that upended his life, just as he was preparing to end his residency and attract offers at the top of his profession. Kalanithi learned he might have 10 years to live or perhaps five. Should he return to neurosurgery (he could and did), or should he write (he also did)? Should he and his wife have a baby? They did, eight months before he died, which was less than two years after the original diagnosis. “The fact of death is unsettling,” he understates. “Yet there is no other way to live.”
A moving meditation on mortality by a gifted writer whose dual perspectives of physician and patient provide a singular clarity.Pub Date: Jan. 19, 2016
ISBN: 978-0-8129-8840-6
Page Count: 248
Publisher: Random House
Review Posted Online: Sept. 29, 2015
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Oct. 15, 2015
A wonderful page-turner written with humility, immediacy, and great style. Nothing came cheap and easy to McCandless, nor...
The excruciating story of a young man on a quest for knowledge and experience, a search that eventually cooked his goose, told with the flair of a seasoned investigative reporter by Outside magazine contributing editor Krakauer (Eiger Dreams, 1990).
Chris McCandless loved the road, the unadorned life, the Tolstoyan call to asceticism. After graduating college, he took off on another of his long destinationless journeys, this time cutting all contact with his family and changing his name to Alex Supertramp. He was a gent of strong opinions, and he shared them with those he met: "You must lose your inclination for monotonous security and adopt a helter-skelter style of life''; "be nomadic.'' Ultimately, in 1992, his terms got him into mortal trouble when he ran up against something—the Alaskan wild—that didn't give a hoot about Supertramp's worldview; his decomposed corpse was found 16 weeks after he entered the bush. Many people felt McCandless was just a hubris-laden jerk with a death wish (he had discarded his map before going into the wild and brought no food but a bag of rice). Krakauer thought not. Admitting an interest that bordered on obsession, he dug deep into McCandless's life. He found a willful, reckless, moody boyhood; an ugly little secret that sundered the relationship between father and son; a moral absolutism that agitated the young man's soul and drove him to extremes; but he was no more a nutcase than other pilgrims. Writing in supple, electric prose, Krakauer tries to make sense of McCandless (while scrupulously avoiding off-the-rack psychoanalysis): his risky behavior and the rites associated with it, his asceticism, his love of wide open spaces, the flights of his soul.
Pub Date: Jan. 1, 1996
ISBN: 0-679-42850-X
Page Count: 320
Publisher: Villard
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Oct. 15, 1995
SEEN & HEARD
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