Books I read this October

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This month, by taking advantage of the half term and making good use of audiobooks, I managed to read a whopping 24 books.

Sanshirō, by Natsume Soseki

A peculiarly delicate coming-of-age novel set in Japan in 1907. The main character remains diffident, shy and inexpressive throughout, and very little happens in terms of plot, but the writing immerses you in another country and time period, making you live through another’s eyes.

Henry II: A Prince Among Princes, by Richard Barber

Unusually for an entry in the Penguin Monarchs series, the book begins with a chapter on ‘The Man’, stringing together eyewitness accounts from Walter Map, Gerald of Wales, etc. This works to give him a definite figure and personality, energising his earlier career. Only later, during his rupture with Thomas Becket, is this mental image usurped by Peter O’Toole. A tantalising and energetic brief introduction.

The Harder They Fall, by Bali Rai

Year 10 were getting a talk by the author in the library during their enrichment day, and I noticed one of his books on display. Thus, I spent half of his hour-long talk listening with half an ear while I breezed through this short children’s novel of a bully getting his comeuppance, brought up to date with scenes in food banks, lots of Batman references, and the key importance of mobile phones to the finale. Brisk, simple and relatable.

The Selected Poems, by Jonathan Swift, edited by A. Norman Jeffries

Swift, thou shouldst be living at this hour! At a time when there’s so much ire and so little wit in our public discourse, it was delightful to read some really pungent, scabrous satire. I always forget how rude Swift is; though he adopts the Scriblerian posture of scourging vice, not personalities, there’s plenty here that would now infringe our uptight libel laws. Some of the Dean’s verses that could even be mistaken in a poor light for the work of that atheist libertine, the Earl of Rochester. His poems benefit from being read quickly in bulk, I think. Nothing gets same-y, you appreciate the range of tone, and have more impetus to tackle the longer poems.

Richard II: A Brittle Glory, by Laura Ashe

Another outlier in this series, Ashe’s book feels less like a Richard II biography and more like a sociological study of medieval life, broken down into fields like Parliament, Religion and the City. It’s beautifully written, making extensive use of Chaucer and the Gawain poet to catch the texture of the period, and unlike last month’s biography of Henry V it thoughtfully interacts with and supplements Shakespeare’s portrayal of the King. I’m just still not sure that this thematic, non-chronological treatment is best suited to the biographical task.

The Railway Detective, by Edward Marsden

First in a series of paperback detective novels that seem popular, so I decided to give them a shot. However, I found the Victorian dialogue was stilted and the setpieces didn’t have the oomph I was hoping for. Struggled to finish it and will be sticking to my Boris Akunin in future.

Edward I: A New King Arthur?, by Andy King

This book balances its interests rather better than Ashe’s take on Richard II, with King admitting from the off that it’s hard to write a modern biography of a medieval King because their personality and their agency is thoroughly occluded by the bureaucracy that surrounds them. Chapters are thematic and only loosely chronological, but because King keeps Edward I in the centre of the frame at all times, he avoids the diffuseness of Ashe’s treatment. Edward’s reputation as a great lawmaker, working effectively with the medieval Parliament, is explored and illuminated as clearly as his mastery of warfare, and I finished it feeling like I’d gained a balanced insight into a King some hail as a glorious conqueror and other (particularly north of the border) vilify as a tyrant.

Macbeth, by William Shakespeare

I read this in the Oxford Schools Edition, which doesn’t get the plaudits due to it: it’s one of the most satisfactory Shakespeare reading experiences I’ve ever had, with clear concise marginal notes, charming little illustrations and helpful scholarly commentary in the front and back, including excerpts from Shakespeare’s sources. Stuff the Arden edition, with its two lines of Shakespeare to a page of academic disputation: this is the edition you want. Vastly enjoyed the play, to the point where I began muttering Macbeth’s final soliloquy to myself in the English Learning Base, and I am looking forward to teaching it.

Cratylus, by Plato

The whole of western philosophy is footnotes to Plato, they say, and this short dialogue on naming and etymology kicks off the linguistic branch that Saussure and Derrida will continue. I always found that side of things rather tedious, and the dialogue does rather suffer in translation, where Socrates’ lengthy (and I think satiric) etymologies of common Greek words don’t pass the language barrier. One thing that did strike me was when Socrates defined the title of the person who gives names to things as a legislator–I wondered if and how this fits in with Percy Shelley’s famous definition of poets as ‘the unacknowledged legislators of the world.’

Mr and Mrs Disraeli: A Strange Romance, by Daisy Hay

This is a charming book, telling the stories of Disraeli and his wife Mary Ann through their own letters, and the lifelong romance of their marriage has many sweet and tender moments. It’s definitely a one-archive book, however detailed that archive may be, and doesn’t quite stand alone as an account of the time and manners–for one thing, Gladstone’s barely in it! For a record of a marriage, though, there are few things to beat it.

How Much Land Does A Man Need? by Leo Tolstoy

One of the little black Penguins–80p for 80 pages, or two short stories by the famous Russian novelist. It’s almost the opposite experience to reading Anna Karenina; short and dramatic where Anna was long and symphonic, peasant stories full of devils and angels while Anna is a realist novel set among the upper classes. But for all that, the limpidity of  Tolstoy’s style carries over, and there’s a supreme art in making fiction this artless.

The Wanderings of Oisin and other poems, by William Butler Years

Yeats’s first ever volume of verse, a good proportion of which was later suppressed while other parts were comprehensively redrafted. The latter is particularly evident in the title poem, a three part epic where the first two parts were infinitely improved in later revisions, making the diction terser and more concrete where before it had been prone to a medieval fuzziness I think Yeats inherited from William Morris. The allegorical structure remains the same, however, which makes it an interesting study in form and content, and the time and effort needed for artistry to draw level with conception.

The Apology of Socrates, by Plato

It has been a long while since last I read this, and Socrates’ splendid lack of repentance and refusal to truckle to his judges struck me anew. Only Macheath–a much coarser character–rivals him for defiance in the face of the gallows. One of the easier, shorter and less ambitious dialogues of Plato, which is why dabblers like me tend to start off with the Apology and never quite get around to the Republic.

The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde

Read for the A-levels, where the students will be comparing it to The Bloody Chamber as part of the module on the Gothic. They’re unlikely bedfellows, I think, and especially with Dorian Gray there’s so much going on within it besides the Gothic that that theoretical lens only gives a partial view. In terms of the decadent movement, I think they’ve got much more in common.

The Bloody Chamber, by Angela Carter, read by Emilia Fox and Richard Armitage

The modern classic, a compendium of traditional fairy tales retold with savage and sexually provocative gusto, spawning a thousand imitators. Reread, like Dorian Gray, for the A-level course, alternating between the book and the audiobook as time allowed. Emilia Fox is a fine narrator, but she has all the lengthiest stories to herself, and I was left feeling I hadn’t had quite enough of Richard Armitage, who performs Puss in Boots with an infinitely seductive purr.

Confusion, by Stefan Zweig

This is a very gay novel–and precocious, seeing that it was written in German in 1927. It tells the story of an ingenue student and an elderly professor whose kind interest in him alternates with periods of brusque rejection. The twist isn’t terribly surprising to a modern reader, but it’s handled in a sympathetic fashion that doesn’t alienate twentieth-century sensibilities. The professor’s wife, who sleeps with the student, is rather underserved. Despite all this going on, the sexiest thing in the book is when the professor starts talking about Shakespeare.

Amors de Voyage, by Arthur Hugh Clough

There was a period in the nineteenth century where it suddenly became fashionable to write in English hexameters. Despite a few fine lines (‘Lover whose vehement kisses on lips irresponsive are squandered’) most of the poems turned out dreadfully turgid, with Robert Southey’s Vision of Judgement among the more notorious examples. It’s something of a piece with Clough’s standing as the poet laureate of agnosticism, doubt and uncertainty to award Amors de Voyage the equivocal title of ‘probably the best poem in English hexameters.’ The plot, in which the conceptual hero fails either to get caught up in the struggle for the Italian republic or to get the girl, is also a masterclass of ambivalence. It’s an odd fusion of epistolary novel, travelogue and Matthew Arnold’s ‘Marguerite’ poems extended into five cantos.

The Devil’s Pool, by George Sand

A pastoral novel of rural France, probably a great deal more charming in the original French, but more than sufficiently appealing in this elegant English translation.

Henry VI: A Good, Simple and Innocent Man, by James Ross

The tragedy of Henry VI was that he was suited to be almost anything other than a King. It’s possible to imagine him living a blameless and holy life in some sympathetic monastery whose brothers would have allowed him to express his fervent piety and nursed him through his occasional bouts of mental illness. Ross’s treatment is sympathetic, but does not shy away from Henry’s massive failings of leadership. He should be praised for making the complexities of the Hundred Years War and the War of the Roses understandable in a brief 100 pages. It’s a far easier and less confusing task than slogging through Shakespeare’s trilogy of history plays, which were perhaps never done better than when the BBC cut out great tranches of filler and distilled them down into two parts.

Edward IV: The Summer King, by A.J. Pollard

One of only three Kings between Richard II and Henry VIII not to get the full Shakespeare treatment, this elegant biography makes no bones about the fact he was really something of a rotter. His reign may pass the low bar of being more stable than that of his predecessor, the mentally ill Henry VI, but this charming sexual predator connived at the regicide of Henry and the judicial fratricide of his own brother, the Duke of Clarence Talented as he may have been in war, in peace his achievements were few, and it’s hard to think of a more repulsive character ever to occupy the English throne. Even Richard III shines brighter in the glamour of the revisionists and the dark brilliance of Shakespeare’s characterisation.

Under the Jaguar Sun, by Italo Calvino

A slim collection of three Calvino stories, united under the theme of the senses. ‘Under the Jaguar Sun’, representing taste, is the story of a cannibalism-curious couple touring the culinary and cultural highlights of Aztec Mexico, and feels a lot like a holiday piece. ‘A King Listens’, representing hearing, is a second person story that suffers by comparison to Calvino’s own If On A Winter’s Night A Traveller, and grows tiresome for lack of characterisation. ‘A Name, A Nose’, representing scent, has all the edged sensuousness of an Angela Carter piece combined with Calvino’s own structural genius, and stands as my favourite of the collection. I wonder if the title is parodying the debut novel of his countryman, Umberto Eco?

The Day of the Doctor by Stephen Moffat, read by Nicholas Briggs

Doctor Who’s 50th anniversary story was so wholly satisfying that it’s hard to imagine a better. Moffat’s novelisation, however, makes it a richer and deeper experience, challenging the easy assumptions of TV viewers and turning lines, characters and whole scenes on their head. If it’s sometimes a little clever-clever, the wit, care and imagination is staggering. Even in a scene where John Hurt, David Tennant and Matt Smith are in a room together, Moffat finds a way to add something. Nicholas Briggs is an experienced audio performer who also does the Dalek voices on the TV show, and his impersonation of John Hurt is spot-on. His Dalek Emperor voice from Series One makes a welcome cameo, one of several Easter Eggs in this stylish audiobook.

This Transmission, by Mike McNamara

The poet contacted me on social media asking if I could get him a review, and since the book was 36 pages long and free online, I volunteered to read it for the blog. He’s a songwriter as well, and the ones I liked best are the ones closest to songs, like the boastful, Nick Cave swagger of ‘From Prussia With Love’. Elsewhere, as in the Dylan-Thomas-saturated ‘Crab Apple Jack’, there’s such mystic intoxication of words that the poem itself passes out and slips under the table. A short lyric, ‘The Winter Palace’, stands out for simplicity and economy in a collection flooded by the stream of consciousness.

The October Man, by Ben Aaronovitch, read by Sam Peter Jackson

Breaking my own rule on never listening to a book before I read it, this Rivers of London novella does a barnstorming job of introducing an entirely new cast in a shared universe while also proving to be a surprisingly good entry point for the series. Both writing and narration give a vivid impression of the German setting, characters and rhythms of speech.

Books I read this September

img_1451.jpgThis was my first month teaching in the secondary school system, and if I still managed to read eleven books, it’s only down to the fact that many of them are slim Penguin biographies of under a hundred pages. I’m looking forward to breaking into something substantial over October half term.

Accelerando, by Charles Stross

Nothing dates faster than the future, and this early work by one of my favourite writers already seems a touch dated. The opening chapters are cyberpunk to the point of self-parody, but each of the chapters time-jumps a decade or more, and halfway through the book most of the inner solar system is already being broken down for computational substrate, while an interstellar mission has discovered an alien wormhole network out in the Oort cloud. It’s a bit like watching The Expanse on fast forward. Exhausting at times–Stross does love to ping the ideas about–but never dull.

The Homeric Hymns, trans. Jules Cashford

Worth reading as the earliest source for Greek myths–the abduction of Prosperine, for example, which my girlfriend maintains is the cover for an awesome Goth romance, but as told here is more of a mother-daughter story. The longer ones–to Apollo, Demeter, Aphrodite and especially Hermes–are most interesting, since most of the others are short and unremarkable, and Cashford doesn’t do these many favours by centre-spacing them, in a bid to make them look poetic by the standard of Instagram. Hermes is far and away the highlight, since the hymn to him as a wildly precocious young trickster God is a total tonal leap apart from the rest of material. It’s funny, sarky, and full of life, and I may try my hand at writing my own slang version.

The Demolished Man, by Alfred Bester

Another dated future, this one of the 1950s. The solar system’s colonised and a sizable proportion of the human race have developed telepathy, but computers are still specialised devices the size of rooms. This one’s a crime proceedural, rather than a mystery. Ben Reich, head of the Monarch corporation, plots the perfect murder, and then Lincoln Powell, the telepathic Chief of Police, has to catch him out. The Freudian twist is that Reich’s motives aren’t what he assumes. Would make an interesting companion to a Philip K. Dick novel.

George I: The Lucky King, by Tim Blanning

Blanning admits immediately that the first Hanoverian King isn’t the most interesting in the dynasty, but the advantage of these sub-100 page Penguin Monarchs is that you can learn a good deal about the lesser lights without having to swallow a doorstopper. The biography of Henry VIII I read in this series felt overstuffed–poor Catherine Howard was married and killed off in the course of a paragraph–but here we get an easy tour of the reign’s highlights: Handel’s water music, the South Sea Bubble, Walpole scheming, ructions with the Prince of Wales, and endless European wars handled with admirable clarity and lightness of touch. Blanning has a good eye for anecdotes, and never lets the Electorate of Hanover slip out of focus while he’s narrating the affairs of England. Overall, rather a lucky commission.

James II: The Last Catholic King, by David Wormsley

The cover of this one presents James II as a looming, bewigged panto villain, so it’s a surprise how handsome he is in his portraits, particularly in his younger days as Duke of York and Lord Admiral, with a strong chin, good posture, and none of his father’s wispy facial hair. Wormsley likes to focus on this period, the colourful Restoration days when Pepys, Evelyn and Dryden were writing, and we’re halfway through the book before James comes to the throne. The question Wormsley focusses on is how it all went so wrong so fast, and while this threatens to enmesh him in tangles of historiography, he pulls through and gives a vivid portrait of a tactless, stubborn and imperious monarch who kept blundering and blundering until he finally had to flee the country. Plus, I have a soft spot for any historian still willing to quote Macaulay with enjoyment.

Edward II: The Terrors of Kingship, by Christopher Given-Wilson

Another failed King, this one famously a) gay and b) executed by red-hot poker up the jacksie, though both these received facts are questioned in this book. His struggles with the barons are rather hard going at times, since there are a lot of Mortimers, Pembrokes and Gloucesters to keep track off. Given-Wilson does manage to give a character to Thomas, 2nd Earl of Lancaster, and keeps us clued in to Robert the Bruce’s nation building and the dizzy throne-swapping in France. The life is briskly run through in four equal chapters, plus a welcome epilogue on legacy, which touches on a failed sainthood bid, Marlowe’s history play, and his adoption as a gay icon.

William I: England’s Conqueror by Marc Morris

William the Conqueror (or the Bastard, as he was known in his own times) is one of those Kings who exist as dates and battles rather than personalities. Aside from sketchy representations on his coinage and the Bayeux Tapestry, there isn’t even a portrait of him, so while Morris fills in the build-up and aftermath of the famous battle in Hastings well enough, the material can sometimes be a little dry. Two new facts leapt out at me: firstly, William was England’s first abolitionist, abolishing chattel slavery among the Anglo-Saxons, something that sits very oddly alongside his reputation as a brutal overlord. Secondly, it looks like the Domesday Book wasn’t a tax record after all, but a land register: a way to establish property ownership, alongside the principle that all land was held from the King.

Complete Poems, by Basil Bunting

I’d read through Briggflats a couple of times, and always put it aside as a poem needing more study and annotation that I could spare. So the sheer readability of this collection came as a surprise to me. Bunting’s other long poems, or sonatas as he calls them, are relatively accessible, filled with a pugnacious vitality, and very much of their eras. The 30s stuff, filled with meditations of castration and sterility, is influenced by Eliot’s The Waste Land without being slavishly imitative, and Bunting, never without as sense of humour, can be entertainingly brusque with Eliot’s elegaic postures. The short poems, or Odes, are a marvellous assortment. I was delighted by the pair of emigrant ballads smuggled in alongside the verse libre, and sniggered at the appendix of limericks.

Henry V: Playboy Prince to Warrior King, by Anne Curry

A neatly structured pocket biography, but I got to the end feeling like Shakespeare had covered all the major points. It was good to hear about some of the behind the scenes events–troubles with Lollard heresy, Henry IV’s probable syphilis and relations between King and parliament–but nothing here challenged the narrative shape and characterisation set by the history plays.

Pericles and Fabius Maximus, by Plutarch

Not the most obvious pairing in the Parallel Lives, Pericles being the politician’s politician, and F.M. the general’s general. I find the latter more sympathetic, in the stoic tradition of generalship that extends to Grant and Patton, fighting off Hannibal and public opinion simultaneously. With Pericles in the golden age of Athens, you can see why the rest of Greece hated them, and how much effort it took Pericles to keep the wheels on while he lived. Still, it was worth it to leave us the Parthenon.

Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens

My first time reading through this Dickens novel, as part of the project of reading all the school set texts I should probably have read by this stage. George Bernard Shaw does right to call it his most compactly perfect novel; Our Mutual Friend is still my favourite, but that’s an enormous, baggy, novel full of tour-de-force chapters, while this is one complete, compelling tale with nothing superfluous in it.

Books I read this June

IMG_1352As an English Literature PhD, you can expect that I read a fair bit. Eighteen books this month, in fact. Here’s the full list from my journal:

An Irish Navvy: The Diary of an Exile by Donall MacAmhlaigh, trans. Valentin Iremonger

Colourful and insightful diary of a working-class immigrant from Kilkenny to Northampton. Interesting insight into how important talk and storytelling were in the absence of TV and radio, and how much the navvies lived a life of the mind even after a day of backbreaking labour.

The Bramble King by Catherine Fisher

Poetry collection that’s more like the material for an autobiography and several fantasy novels, laid by and preserved. Full review here.

Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan

I fell in love with this for the footnotes, but despite the abundance of local colour and fascinating glimpses into a closed society, there wasn’t enough plot to urge me to seek out the sequel, and the central couple were considerably less interesting than the supporting cast. Would be tempted to seek out the film, however.

Aladdin, or The Wonderful Lamp, trans. Sir Richard Burton

Enjoyed reading this Arabian Nights original and noting its many variances from the Disney movie, but rather missed Burton’s lengthy and eccentric footnotes, not included in this edition.

Nets to Catch the Wind by Elinor Wylie

A recommendation from Jo Walton’s Tor blog, which I read on Project Gutenberg. Lush Yeatsian verse. Discovered the last line of ‘The Falcon’ has been haunting me since first I read it in some anthology or the other. Ordered the collected works.

In Search of Sir Thomas Browne by Hugh Aldersey-Williams

Not a biographical study, but a meditation on what unites and divides two science writers across 350 years. Both are genial company, and Aldersey-Williams has some intriguing thoughts on how Browne’s worldview differs from his own.

The Birthplace by Henry James

Enjoyable novella where the Jamesian style is distinctive but not laid on thick enough to suffocate, coupled with an insufferable smug introduction by Mark Rylance.

Doctor Who: Interference Book One by Lawrence Miles

I got into Doctor Who in the years prior to RTD’s big 2005 relaunch, when BBC books were still printing an Eighth Doctor novel every month or so. They were meant to be read sequentially, but as an impoverished teen I was limited to what I could get out of the library and the occasional remaindered stock that turned up in the works. The effect was rather like being introduced to the Steven Moffat era through Let’s Kill Hitler, only worse.

There’s a hardcore completionist still lurking in me fifteen years later, so spotting this book in a secondhand bookshop for half what it goes for on eBay, I took a pop at this famous novel from the enfant terrible of the range. It’s brimming with ideas and well-written, with a pleasantly period tinge of the nineties, but it suffers from the BBC author’s habit of putting the Doctor through as much torture as possible. I’d be tempted to go on to Part Two–but have you seen what that goes for on eBay?

Lud-in-the-Mist by Hope Mirilees

An English fantasy novel, drawing from Goblin Market and The King of Elfland’s Daughter, and influencing Neil Gaiman’s Stardust. Deals with the lives of folk who live on the borders of fairyland, and the attractions and dangers of luscious contraband fairy fruit.

Doctor Who: The Taking of Planet Five by Simon Bucher-Jones and Mark Clapham

Interference tempted me to return to old Doctor Who novels, and this crossover with H.P. Lovecraft’s At the Mountains of Madness was less solemn than the last book but very successful at presenting a huge-scale science-fiction adventure–entire universes hang in the balance–without drowning in technobabble. A very satisfying munch, and a surprisingly good entry-point to the arc.

Poirot’s Early Cases by Agatha Christie

Eighteen stories makes this collection overstuffed–I would have liked fewer stories of greater length–but Poirot and Hastings are charming, and some of the stories are little masterpieces, particularly ‘The King of Clubs’, ‘The Third Floor Flat’ and ‘How Does Your Garden Grow’. They need to be read over a course of evenings, however, because all at once is too much.

Solon and Alexander in Plutarch’s Lives

Two very different men–one a lawgiver so ambivalent about power he left Athens for ten years in order to give his laws time to bed in, and the other the conqueror of one of the greatest empires known to man. Solon’s is the more endearing story but Alexander’s is the most marvellous. I may steal some details of the Siege of Tyre for a short story.

The Philosopher Kings by Jo Walton

The sequel to The Just City, a book that enthralled me but ended unsatisfactorily, The Philosopher Kings ends with a literal deus ex machina so complete that seeking out the third volume, Necessity, hardly feels necessary. I still find the plain, unsensuous philosophical style a great draw, even as its attention to torture and sexual violence repels. I still enjoy the long stretches of conversation and debate, and still skip ahead to read the sections narrated by Maia, unquestionably the best character–the two others, Apollo and Arete, start to sound the same after a while. Where the previous book made me eager to read more Plato, however, this book with its long sea voyages made me keener to reread Homer. With the Platonic cities removed, at the book’s conclusion, from the pre-historic Aegean to a far-future planet, my enthusiasm for the series drops off.

To Catch A King: Charles II’s Great Escape by Charles Spencer

Read over a period of several months. A compelling history borrowed for a mooted historical novel I will likely never write. I already knew more than most about Charles II’s famous sojourn in the Royal Oak, but the book is particularly good on the background of the Battle of Worcester and the details of the escape, narrated in a moment by moment fashion. The final forty pages of wrapping up are rather dull.

Phaedrus by Plato

A brisk short dialogue, by no means as intimidating as The Republic, covering love, virture, reincarnation, the use of rhetoric, and the translation from an oral to a textual culture. Socrates is wonderfully sarky throughout (a modern translation helps bring this out) and it has a pleasing outdoor conviviality to it, rather than some of the more public, competitive dialogues.

Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy L Sayers

My first Lord Peter Wimsey, a whodunnit set at a 1930s ad agency, like a British version of Mad Men. Surprised it isn’t the highlight of ITV’s autumn schedule–like Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop, it speaks strongly to our own times and is more than ripe for adaptation.

Doctor Who: Festival of Death by Jonathan Morris

A past Doctor adventure with the Fourth Doctor and Romana II, the novel faithfully recreates the feeling of a 1970s serial right down to the retro-futurism and the bungling bureaucrat. An interesting exercise in story-telling in reverse, but lacking a little in atmosphere. Made a good beach read.

Theseus and Lycurgus in Plutarch’s Lives

On the borders of history and legend, Theseus is not Plutarch’s most vividly drawn subject, though his theories on the real-life inspiration of the minotaur myth can be fascinating. With Lycurgus, the Spartan lawgiver, details of his life are thin on the ground, but the details of how he reformed the Spartan state are fascinating, and rich material for young-adult authors looking for a new dystopian society.

And that’s it for June; more next month!