The White Ladder: Triumph and Tragedy at the Dawn of Mountaineering by Daniel Light | Book Review | Oneworld Publications

 

Perhaps even those only remotely interested in the history of mountaineering have heard the names of George Mallory and Andrew Irvine who (as the debate still carries on today) may or may not have been the first to reach the summit of Mount Everest, shortly before disappearing into the clouds and never seen alive again.

But what makes The White Ladder: Triumph and Tragedy at the Dawn of Mountaineering by Daniel Light thrilling is that it uses the fateful 1924 British expedition as its endpoint – something the narrative builds up to, starting from the very early days of mountaineering and giving a panoramic overview en route. As Light shows in vivid, involving detail, summiting wasn't always about glory and fame; in fact, mountaineering wasn't even always about summiting. The how and why of modern mountaineering turns out to be absolutely fascinating.

The White Ladder is a truly novel-like history. What especially fascinates me is how the initial interest in climbing mountains – purely scientific – evolved into sport, conquest and global power. From surveyors to naturalists, young aristocrats, rich protégés and even the odd occultist, the cast of mountain literature is as colourful as any novel, and Light gives an easy to follow chronological history of the evolution of high-altitude exploration. All the while, it is engrossing, written in a way that makes the reader feel like they are there with these great men (and even a woman), lighting pipes, breathing in the chill mountain air, eating Irish stew straight from the tin when the stove wouldn't light, 'slowly melting the lumps of white frozen grease in our mouths, and then swallowing them'.

Light doesn't just recount records, names and dates, but looks at key developments too, such as the gradual discovery of mountain sickness, the invention of crampons and using supplemental oxygen for the first time – small details that add colour and life to the cold upper reaches, and all in vivid, theatrical detail. I am so drawn into the book, in fact, that I don't want it to end: it truly allows me to live vicariously, with each chapter telling the story of a single person or team, and an expedition that moved the development of mountaineering forward, one way or another. Notably, I believe failed attempts actually outnumber successes, making it feel like a fuller, more realistic narrative.

It's a complete surprise to read about Fanny Workman Bullock, one of the most decorated Himalayan mountaineers – man or woman – of her time (though of course, the truth is that, as Light describes her, she was an 'ugly extension of British colonial rule' in attitude towards the locals, which may explain why she isn't as celebrated today as she might be). Equally, the eccentricities of late Victorian climbers are always a delight: from surviving on nothing but 'champagne and Danish butter', to Aleister Crowley arguing with Oscar Eckenstein about bringing his hefty poetry volumes to the top of K2 with him, because 'I would rather bear physical starvation than intellectual starvation'. 

Light doesn't shy away from sharing the often repulsive truths behind the glorified expeditions, including beatings, starvation, death and ugly gossip. But all that adds up to an intriguing history, one that pokes gentle fun at the white masculine heroism of the time, all the while giving credit where credit is due. It is thoroughly researched, very well written and highly recommended for anyone looking for an armchair escape into the cold peaks of the Himalayas. 

Adam Smith by Jesse Norman | What He Thought, and Why it Matters | Book Review | Allen Lane

I've had my eyes on this book ever since it first came out in hardback last year. Mostly because I love Penguin Press, and their Allen Lane imprint is truly trustworthy for genuinely interesting, in-depth and educational books. Adam Smith: What He Thought, and Why it Matters by Jesse Norman is no exception.

Bearing in mind that I've never studied economics, nor philosophy properly, what follows is an amateur's brief review on what she thought of the book. Rather than talk about the contents, I'll just aim to list the reasons why I think it is worth a read.

Side note: I had no idea I was reading the book of the Financial Secretary to the Treasury.

What did I like about it?

You may well be wondering why a book like this would interest me, or anyone like me, who isn't into market economy. I guess the answer is I have a soft spot for random little pockets of history, science, literature or other areas that are taken into close consideration, examined on all sides and presented in an accessible way. Before anyone takes offence, I don't mean that Adam Smith is a random little pocket - more like a significant personality in history who, for some reason and as Norman often points out, didn't and still doesn't get the recognition he perhaps deserves. I have spoken to several people while reading the book who didn't know who he was, and I myself was only taught about 'the invisible hand' of the market - enough to pass my finals.

In short, Smith is often considered the father of modern economics, and was the first to write about a market-centric economy in his most well-known work called The Wealth of Nations. He was also among the first economists to propose the division of labour and specialisation for increased productivity. Less well-known is the fact that he also wrote about morals and the law, exploring causality in human behavior; that he set out to write down the 'science of man'.

The book starts with a brief biography - brief by necessity, as we know very little about Smith's life - followed by an in-depth exploration of his philosophy, theories and also historical context. From the mid-18th century, his most active writing period, all the way up to modern times, Norman examines Smith's impact in all areas, and suggests reasons why governments and economists might want to revisit his works. He also challenges misconceptions about Smith, analysing and refuting these.

Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of Smith for me is how advanced his thinking was compared to his contemporaries in so many ways. He was vehemently opposed to slavery, saw overwhelmingly the negatives in the monopoly of the East India Company, and proposed a thought structure that was never before considered.

Conversely, I found it interesting that he didn't foresee the impact that industrialisation or technological advances might have in future.

What was I not massively fond of?

The language, as one might expect, was at times difficult for the humble non-aficionado, and it took me quite a while to finish the book for having to go back and re-read paragraphs I didn't understand (or I'd accidentally zoned out). Having said that, at 300 pages this book is short and entirely digestible - it just takes some dedication.

There were also some repetitions that I feel could have been left out, while some topics could have been more deeply explained. An example of this is the financial crash in 2008, and how Smith's thoughts relate or might explain it. Norman skirts around the topic but he doesn't settle on it unfortunately. More case studies in general would have been helpful - although I assume I am not the primary market.

I also found that sometimes, Norman's passionate defending of Smith's reputation against misconceptions made me somewhat suspicious. But I can't comment any further on this, I am in no way qualified.

Overall...

Bluntly? Reading this book will make you feel smart. For a while, at least.

I found the book overall really interesting, captivating and well-written even for a beginner like me. If you are even slightly interested in history and/or economics, this is a good place to dip into it.

7/10

To The Lighthouse

Have you ever pondered over the fact that we've been to space and the Moon, yet there are still vast areas of ocean floors that we haven't set eyes on? Or that there is such an occupation as 'oceanaut'? I think it says so much about the secretive, elusive and terrifying nature of our waters on Earth - surely something to be respected and feared.

Yet of course, just like the air and land, we have declared victory over our waters too, shipping and cruising across the world for business or pleasure. It seems cocky to think we've got this under control.

The sinking of cargo ship El Faro [the Lighthouse] in October 2015 is the 'proof in the pudding' - a haunting phrase that returns many times towards the end of Into the Raging Sea, the book by Rachel Slade that tells the story of this maritime disaster in detail.

It is a truly fascinating account: using the actual conversations transcribed from the ship's 'black box', we get real insight into the days leading up to the tragedy, and this is accompanied by in-depth analysis of the preceding history and events following the sinking of the ship. I love the back cover copy of this book, because for once it genuinely sums up the contents of the work, and perhaps is worth quoting here in full:

Why did the captain steer directly into a hurricane?

Why did the engines fail?

How could it sink without a single survivor?

Who's responsible?

What did I like about it?

I didn't think the story itself would be as captivating as it turned out to be - don't try selling me something with the word 'megastorm' on the cover - but Slade's powerful narrative works wonders to bring the tragedy alive and to hammer home the significance of such a singularity. It takes an in-depth look at the laws and regulations around shipping in the US, outlining the many areas in which it is lacking, and going deeper into the history of how these regulations developed in the first place.

She also takes good care to present all the major figures from the transcription in detail: backgrounds, interests, employment history, even personal lives are provided for everyone from captain of El Faro Michael Davidson to John Glanfield, retired shipbuilder who took part in the creation of El Faro's 'older sister'.

The human element is well balanced with the technical, and Slade is thorough in every area, which gives the book a satisfying air of professionalism. The years of research she must have carried out comes across bright as day - she knows the story inside out and it seems has spoken to everyone even remotely connected to the tragedy in any way. From how the crew is recruited for voyages through shipbuilding and weather forecasting, she leaves no stone unturned. And this helps people who know absolutely nothing about container shipping - me being a prime example - to not feel left out, but in fact come away with a general idea. And this is what good non-fiction is supposed to do. It makes us care.

What was I not massively fond of?

There are a few points I picked up on throughout the book for this section. Number one being that Slade too often flirts with melodrama in her writing style for my liking. When approaching turning points, short, dramatic sentences and single-sentence paragraphs take charge, and in my opinion cheapen the occurrences to the feeling of a disaster film. "In the whipping winds and waves, Shultz secured the scuttle. But it was too late." "Time slowed to a crawl. The sky began to take shape. Dawn." Of course, this type of dramatic tension is necessary, no debate - but I think a touch of subtlety would have gone a long way.

I also found that perhaps sometimes the technical bits went a bit too in-depth and I found myself zoning out. When discussing the Jones Act, for example (federal law that regulates maritime commerce in the US), we spend a long time on Alexander Hamilton and his role in the creation of the law, as well as its many variations. Interesting and absolutely relevant to the story, no doubt, but perhaps a bit of editing down would have worked in the book's favor.

The blame is also very clear in the book. Slade doesn't shy away from making her opinions known. Of Davidson: "What kind of a man is capable of facing such excessive errors of judgment?" (I mean, fair enough, she is right, but still.) Perhaps the book was written with a purpose more than just education.

Finally, there is a chapter towards the end of the book - 'Spirits' - that I just did not understand. It's only a few pages, but talks about the many 'ghostly' occurrences that family members and friends of the crew of El Faro have experienced after the tragedy. Premonitions, ghostly communications and the like. I would have cut this out entirely.

Overall...

The significance of the sinking of El Faro in maritime history really shows itself in the second part of the book, which deals with the aftermath and trial. US officials are baffled. People who deal with shipping emergencies all day, every day, for decades, are shocked. And it slowly dawns on us how outrageous and unfair it is to have lost 33 lives at sea due to, in large part, bureaucracy. It's frankly disgusting.

This is a well-written account, captivating in every way and, hopefully, influential to the right eyes.

P.S. If you're more the dip into things kind of reader, here's an in-depth article about the tragedy.

7/10

A little drop of poison

For the first two decades of my life, I didn't really read non-fiction except when forced to do so at school. (No, subtitled documentaries don't count.) Why? I'm not sure. It just never occurred to me. But in my recent attempt to catch up with contemporary literature, I have finally ventured into the non-fiction scene and to be perfectly honest, oftentimes nowadays I find myself enjoying these books even more than fiction. Plus, you know, I work for a non-fiction publisher, so this is probably good timing.

Sometimes though I'll come across a non-fiction book that not only outdoes fiction, but leaves it behind by miles. I mean, so juicy, so well written, so enjoyable that I cannot wait for my commute to begin so I can jump straight back in.

Enter The Royal Art of Poison by Eleanor Herman: a fascinating exploration into the world of poisons and poisoning (not all intentional), as well as history, tradition, myth-busting and delicious gossip. Eleanor is apparently known as the "Sherlock Holmes of history" and she wears the title proudly in this book. No stone is left unturned, no difficult topic untackled, no gross detail left out. You go, lady.

The book is built into three parts: the first discusses in detail the types of poisons popular around the 16th and 17th century and how they were used (we're talking human excrement powdered and blown into one's eye for medical reasons, for example). The second part takes 17 case studies in detail: the story, the contemporary postmortem and the modern analysis, and discusses whether the subjects were indeed poisoned, as rumored, or whether something else caused their death. The final part discusses poison in the modern era, from Russian state-sponsored poison research to the untimely death of the North Korean leader's brother.

What did I like about it?

Good writing style is essential, I think, for non-fiction. After all, you don't have a plot you can twist and bend to your liking to keep the reader entertained. And although Eleanor doesn't embellish, she doesn't bore either: she is matter-of-fact, often very amusingly sarcastic but doesn't dilly-dally. And you don't have time to doubt or question: the book is fast-paced, so you better pay attention.

The immense amount of research behind the book is clear. Historical figures from ancient Greece all the way to 2016 appear on the scene, from Socrates to Kim Jong-nam, and not just as superficial characters. Take the example of Erik XIV, king of Sweden: "The king sent suggestions to Erik's jailers on ways to kill him: smother him with a feather pillow, bleed him ostensibly for health reasons but take too much blood, and poison him with opium or arsenic." (No, they didn't like each other very much.) Or Cangrande della Scala, Italian warlord: "He plucked arrows out of his wounds and continued fighting." It's like she was there.

Her sources are also excellent: she quotes contemporary medics, healers, alchemists and apothecaries, convincingly explaining why their healing methods are fool-proof: a recipe for an antidote, for example, calls for "scorpions drowned in glass containers of olive oil to bake in the sun for forty days. They were then to be boiled for ten hours, the oil extracted and mixed with myrrh, rhubarb, saffron, and other plants. After another two weeks in the sun, the ointment would work 'against all kind of poison ingested by mouth, stings, and bites.'" Phew.

What was I not massively fond of?

One thing I noticed at the beginning is how in-medias-res the book felt. As I said, Eleanor doesn't dilly-dally, but at the time I remember thinking a bit softer, a bit longer of an introduction would have worked for me. But then again, we get a princess who "vomits and soils herself repeatedly" within the first paragraph, so that's a pretty efficient hook.

It's a delicate balance too between detail and facts. As the topic of the book is already dripping with juice, it's probably unfair of me to say I would have liked even more drops of detail on court gossip, perhaps a bit more of a story-like retelling of events - but once I got used to Eleanor's style, that wasn't a big miss either.

Overall...

A fascinating topic and a well-written book - it does everything good non-fiction should. It entertains; it informs - did you know, for example, that there were rumors that Napoleon died of poisoning? - and it makes for a great read.

If you like your books with just that little extra something, this one's for you!

9/10