The pen is indeed mightier than the sword

The Racing Post recently gave us a few suggestions of books to buy/read.  Robin Oakley's book about Clive Brittain was understandably well reviewed, and I am sure that when I read it, as I surely will do, I will enjoy it.  I wasn't surprised to find that the book of letters written by Roger Mortimer to his son was well reviewed because I had already noticed that that book is a sacred cow; but if they were looking for someone to second that suggestion, they'd need to look elsewhere than in my direction.  I found it unreadable.  I suppose that I've been spoilt in that over the years I've enjoyed so much of Roger Mortimer's wonderful prose on interesting subjects, but I found myself deciding that life's too short to read his prose on an uninteresting subject (the internal politics of the Mortimer family).  It's rather like those 'recently-discovered-on-the-cutting-room-floor' albums which are released by the impoverished/avaricious heirs/former managers of deceased rock stars from time to time: one's spent so long enjoying the best versions of the best songs of a particular band that it's hard to be enthused by tracks which they had recorded a few decades ago, assessed and then decided were not good enough to be released.  I'm sure that poor Roger Mortimer would now be turning in his grave at the fact that his missives which were surely intended 'For your eyes only' are now held up for the world's titillation.

Anyway, I'll now pass on a couple of recommendations, not that I suspect anyone to be interested.  I'm currently whizzing through another hugely enjoyable Inspector Van Veeteren novel by Hakan Nesser (or rather the English translation of one such book).  As regards non-fiction, though, in recent weeks I've really enjoyed two books written by a couple of Australia's best turf writers.  Well, it's a gross disservice to Les Carlyon to describe him as a turf writer: he is a turf writer (Australia's best - and read 'Chasing The Dream' if you wish to see evidence to support that contention) but he is much, much more than that.  I recall touching upon his magnificent book on 'Gallipoli' while I was reading it, but I'll just touch on it again now that I've finished.  It's a wonderful book, enthralling, hugely educational, beautifully written, and very, very moving.  It's a mixture of fact and personal observation, both from the eyes of umpteen of the participants, major and relatively minor, and from the eyes of a modern-day visitor to the Gallipoli peninsula.
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How about this for a terrific aside?  General Stopford was seemingly the least competent of all the generals, and at one point General Hamilton goes to look for him and finds him "supervising the building of 'splinter-proof' huts for himself and his staff.  He was absorbed like a weekend handiman."  Carlyon's by-the-by observation is that, "Had the Turks discovered where Stopford's headquarters lay, they would surely have issued an order that on no account was it to be shelled."  Wonderful!  And of all the very many really moving parts, the account of the death of Dick Doughty-Wylie takes some beating.  If you're wondering about Rachel Hood's naming of Gertrude Bell and Dick Doughtywylie, you'd have some of the background filled in if you read this book.  And Dick Doughty-Wylie was clearly a hero outstanding even on a peninsula of heroes.  He was not warlike, but he was there because he knew that he would be useful to his country.   Leading his men into battle unarmed, a bullet knocked his cap off, prompting a Munster officer to observe, " 'I happened to be quite close at the moment, and remember being struck by the calm way in which he treated the incident.  He was carrying no weapon of any description at the time, only a small cane.' As he advanced into the village, Doughty-Wylie briefly carried a rifle, then discarded it. The Munster officer said Doughty-Wylie walked into houses that might contain Turks as casually as if he were walking into a shop."  Eventually he was shot, and "General Hamilton wrote that Doughty-Wylie's death had stripped victory of its wings. 'Alas, for that faithful disciple of Charles Gordon; protector of the poor and of the helpless ... He had no hatred of the enemy.  His spirit did not need that ugly stimulant.  Tenderness and pity filled his heart ... He was a steadfast hero.  Years ago, at Aleppo, the mingled chivalry and daring with which he placed his own body as a shield between the Turkish soldiery and their victims during a time of massacre made him admired even by the Moslems.  Now; as he would have wished to die, so has he died'."

Almost similarly special is the lovely book 'Peter Pan' written by another very talented Australian writer, Jessica Owers.  This book is subtitled 'The forgotten story of Phar Lap's successor'. Phar Lap, of course, guaranteed immortality for himself firstly by winning overseas and then by dying young, which latter tactic has worked for plenty of artists and musicians.  Peter Pan came along shortly afterwards and compiled a record nearly as formidable.  He lacked Phar Lap's phenomenal soundness, which meant that his record was less solid than it might have been (for instance, he won the Melbourne Cup as a three-year-old and as a five-year - under 9 stone 10lb and drawn 25 - but spent the spring of his four-year-old season on the sidelines as he was lame) but he was arguably as mighty a horse.  However, he didn't travel overseas and he didn't die (well, he did, but only after he'd been a stud for a few years) and thus couldn't quite manage to secure as prominent a place in the mythology of the sport.

Anyway, this lovely book has rectified this possible previous omission from the front rank of the equine pantheon.  And what is so lovely is that Jessica has made all the characters so human.  It isn't just a chronicle of Peter Pan's achievements: it's a proper story in which all the characters are properly three-dimensional. There's an element of speculation in the telling - things like conversations and thoughts can only be guessed at - but Jessica has clearly researched the subject so well that I have no doubts about her having brought the characters to life in a totally accurate and correct manner.  Just as Peter Corbett did with his excellent biography of Bayardo, which is a proper life and times of the horse and those around him, so has Jessica made this book a complete  story.  Peter Pan, Rodney Dangar, Frank McGrath and George Phillips probably had slipped from the general racing consciousness more than they deserved (with the horse's principal jockeys Jim Pike and Darby Munro having done so to a lesser extent) but what is lovely is that, now that  Jessica has written this book, they shall live forever.