Roger Lewis
Light the candles and draw the thick velvet curtains, take a deep draught of purple wine and lift Jonathan Black's The Secret History of the World (Quercus, £25) on to the brass eagle-shaped lectern. I was much impressed by this richly textured and magisterial omnium gatherum about conspiracy theories. Yet, ironically, the book has itself been the subject of a conspiracy, as absolutely no newspaper would permit me to review it. I know exactly how this decision came to be made. Members of that most esoteric of societies, The Ancient Conclave of Literary Editors, which meets in a Giant Pyramid under Wee Georgie Weidenfeld's house, were frightened of what might occur if the populace had been encouraged (as Black promises) 'to access supernatural levels of intelligence'. Another worrying recommendation was that 'eye-to-eye meditation can also be practised in a sexual context'. When I tried that, my hairnet blew off.
The conspiracies don't stop there. For Jonathan Black, I can reveal, is the pseudonym of Mark Booth, the highly esteemed and mischievous non-fiction editor at Random House who made Peter Kay's memoirs into the biggest bestseller of all time and who helps ghost the Moon Goddess Jordan's novels.
Another great read of mine in 2007 won't officially be available until early 2008 — Duncan Fallowell's long-awaited hedonistic masterpiece about his visit to New Zealand, Going as Far as I Can (Profile, £12.99). There is no nonsense about scaling glaciers or being polite about Maoris here. Instead we have passages of pure poetry on the crumbling Edwardian-era theatres, where Larry and Viv once played, and page upon page of justifiable fury at the country's scandalous demolition of anything architecturally distinguished. Collections of European art — the Sickerts and Matthew Smiths — are hidden in basements and are not allowed to be exhibited, as it is deemed politically incorrect to upstage Polynesian tat. New Zealand comes across as a philistine hellhole, so Fallowell shuts himself in a motel to contemplate his knackers floating in the bath instead. You assuredly didn't get that in Bruce Chatwin.
Thirdly, I relished Anne Fadiman's At Large and At Small, a collection of whimsical essays, on butterfly collecting or the nature of ice cream, beautifully produced by Penguin (£12.99).
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