The Madness Of July

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The first thing you'll notice (between metaphorical nail biting) is the language. This is a rare thing: a spy novel that can maintain excitement while employing moments of mellifluous phrasing that almost melt on the tongue and demand to be read aloud. Will!’ Jay Forbes could always summon up cheeriness from the depths. He steadied himself on the pavement with one hand against the car, and boomed, ‘Whither?’ I thought that I might be comparing it too much to Le Carré so left it for a while and started again but it was like homework. That meant there was danger, and his second encounter came less than three minutes after Lucy disappeared.

APA style: The Madness of July.. (n.d.) >The Free Library. (2014). Retrieved Nov 26 2023 from https://www.thefreelibrary.com/The+Madness+of+July.-a0386436667 Naughtie has a dead body – a US agent found OD'd in a House of Commons cupboard – and an anaemic conspiracy involving a letter, a sex scandal and Britain's wobbling diplomatic relationship with the US. But suspense doesn't thrive in an atmosphere of portentous abstraction, and attempts to create it artificially by, say, truncating dialogue in a manner that is obviously contrived will always fail. I have never known a writer string out promised revelations the way Naughtie does here. Chicago style: The Free Library. S.v. The Madness of July.." Retrieved Nov 26 2023 from https://www.thefreelibrary.com/The+Madness+of+July.-a0386436667 Plot is secondary to he emotional life of the characters. Naughtie’s chosen epigraph is a quotation from The Great Gatsby – “I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the griefs of wild, unknown men” – and it is these buried griefs that he seeks to unearth, showing that the political class is ruled far more by private passion than cool logic. The “madness” is that which haunts every public figure, their smooth professional façade concealing unknown inner turmoil. Government, in Naughtie’s depiction, is a mess of muddled loyalties and dark arts, all invisible to the plebeian eye.The novel takes place over a long weekend in a month when there isn't usually much going on in Parliament as it slowly winds down towards the summer recess. However, we fall right into the action on meeting Will as we're drawn into his life and increasing fears. I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men.’ As an avid Radio 4 man in the morning, I admire James Naughtie's pithy celtic observations on politics on the Today Programme. So I was very keen to listen to this novel set in '70s British politics. There is so much potential in the era and in his deep understanding of what he calls "The Game". MLA style: "The Madness of July.." The Free Library. 2014 Midwest Book Review 26 Nov. 2023 https://www.thefreelibrary.com/The+Madness+of+July.-a0386436667 It's also a clever idea to provide Will with American brothers. (The way the familial nationality difference is explained is seamless while providing another layer of contortion.) As readers we then have feet in both camps as Will becomes more and more conflicted between what he wants to do and what, increasingly, the prevailing tide is forcing him towards.

but it was grim. Despite some lovely descriptions of the Highlands it was slow, melodramatic and not at all enhanced by the style of the narrator ( it was also odd the way he changed accent with the geography of the plot rather than just with each character..) surely an editor could have suggested that there was a little more show and alot less tell? every thought, motive and reaction was detailed - perhaps that would work as notes for a film script but it left nothing to the imagination. I dont know any.siblings who dont interrupt , over talk, spar and compete. The brothers talk to one.another Iike geriatric strangers playing chess.There are some lyrical passages, especially describing Scotland, and some deft touches where the relationships between the three brothers are concerned. Overall, though, I felt this reached well beyond the capacity of the author to deliver. verifyErrors }}{{ message }}{{ /verifyErrors }}{{

It cannot be said too often that the thriller is not a loose, capacious form into which anything can be thrown as long as you remember to have a dead body and a conspiracy. Its conventions exist for solid reasons that are no less noble for being commercial. ( Lee Child doesn't write the way he does because he is technically incapable of producing "literary" prose.) If you don't intend to respect them, fine – just don't call what you've written a thriller. Sam tried a joke. ‘That’s a change for you.’ But there was no response from Flemyng. Sam’s shoulders rose as he pressed on. ‘If you’re wondering why I summoned you to these parts, I have an appointment across the street...

Reviews

Summer crowds swarmed and chattered around him, yet for Flemyng the winding down of the dog days brought claustrophobia, and the contrary suspicion that he was adrift on a wide sea with a spreading horizon, maybe lost. Despite the status he had achieved and the famous confidence that was his shadow, he felt creeping over him the fear that Sam had stirred up. It makes sense it was.written by a.journalist - it was.forensic, detailed and obviously polished but sadly dull and forgettable. None of the characters seemed real or believable, no one did any work and the women were cliches. Sam would be punctual, reaching their rendezvous at the appointed minute and moving on if Flemyng didn’t appear. He had in mind the last scribbled words on the postcard he had destroyed in the early hours of the morning: ‘Don’t dawdle.’ They were playing their old game. Further Reading: If this appeals, then you'll also love A Delicate Truth by John le Carre about another government employee who has to return to the past he thinks is well behind him.

I will try. Be sure of it.’ There was a brief silence, then Flemyng said, lightly, ‘One thing... I wondered if you’ve heard from Abel.’ Some of this may be intentional. The novel's driving conceit is that parliamentary democracy is a piece of self-regulating machinery, a bit like the orrery that its main character, foreign office minister Will Flemyng, played with as a child, its brass planets and moons "[weaving] their courses in perpetual peace". The system works well enough as long as it is left alone and not destabilised by scandal or terrorism or emotional excess. But in any case, Naughtie seems to imply, government is run at a deeper level by the intelligence services to the point where it scarcely matters who won the last election. The concrete world of briefings and debates is an illusion, so why dwell on it? Flemyng said, ‘Of course he will. And I’ll be coming home... when I can.’ The phone gave three beeps. He looked at his watch, slid another coin in the slot. ‘Soon. Try not to worry.’Happy days,’ he said, and realized that he had spoken louder than he’d meant to. A barrow boy on the corner laughed, unbuttoning his shirt and scratching himself in the heat. Flemyng raised a hand in friendly farewell and hurried across Oxford Street, which he disliked more than any other in London, striking westwards for a few minutes. He looked at the sign on the corner. Harley Street, Sam’s choice. Just in case, Flemyng carried on to the next turning, where his discipline faltered for a moment. At the last, when he should be keeping on the move, he paused. Masterfully weaving together espionage, political intrigue, and family drama, James Naughtie has written a spy novel for the ages, worthy of comparison to the finest work of Charles McCarry and Robert Littell. A friendly voice, welcome in any other circumstances. No one he knew, and no one who knew him, because there was no giveaway smile. A guy on the street in helpful mood, no more. An innocent. He laughed and his eyes gave Flemyng a slinky scan from top to toe, unblinking. He seemed to balance his weight on one foot in an ugly pirouette, drops of sweat springing from his broad brow. His cream shirt was too heavy for the heat, and he wore a purple brocade tie. ‘What brings you out in the sun?’ he said, and didn’t wait for an answer. Swinging round, he gave a merry wave and steadily climbed the steps to his club. There was a rattle of glass from the tall door as it closed behind him.