Wednesday 7 March 2012

My Silent War, the Autobiography of Spy Kim Philby: a Review of the True First Edition (MacGibbon & Kee, 1968)

Trawling through the charity shops of Lewes, Brighton and Sussex for top flight first editions – something I do, as this blog attests, on a regular basis – tends to be a fairly fruitless exercise. By and large what you turn up are relatively recent books, the true gems proving few and far between. But every now and then a real find presents itself, and such was the case with this book, bought in the Brighton branch of Oxfam Books for £6.99:


This is the British hardback first edition of My Silent War, Cambridge spy Harold Adrian Russell "Kim" Philby's autobiography, published by MacGibbon & Kee in 1968 under a dustjacket designed by Michael Jarvis. Crucially, however, it's also the first impression, which makes it really rather special: most of the copies listed for sale on AbeBooks are later impressions, in which two catty references to Lady Kelly, wife of Sir David Kelly, British Ambassador to Turkey and then the USSR, have been removed (the 1968 US Grove Press edition retains the references); among other disparaging remarks, Philby describes Lady Kelly as "an appalling female... distinguished by a mind both pretentious and pedestrian".


I've blogged about Kim Philby – probably the most famous of the five Cambridge spies – a fair few times before, most recently in this post on spy novelist Anthony Price (as was established last year, Price was one of the authors Philby read during his Russian exile), but also this post on Philby's wife, Eleanor's, autobiography (also published in 1968); this one on Patrick Seale and Maureen McConville's 1973 biography of Philby; this post about Graham Greene's The Human Factor (Greene, a firm friend of Philby's, provides an introduction to My Silent War – more on that anon); this one on Alan Williams's speculative novel about Philby; and of course this review of John le Carré's Tinker, Tailor, Solider, Spy, Philby's treachery having inspired le Carré's masterwork. I suppose I keep returning to him because of my interest in spy fiction and espionage, but of all the Philby-related books that have been published over the years, My Silent War was the one I most wanted to read.


As it turns out, however, it's something of a mixed bag. It's elegantly written, and interesting in respect of the inner workings of British Intelligence during and after the war, but it's not especially revealing as regards how and when Philby was recruited by the Russians – he became a Communist supporter at Cambridge – or how he interacted with his Soviet handlers. To my mind the biggest revelation comes in Philby's foreword, where he argues that he was not, as is often stated, "a double agent, or even... a triple agent... working with equal zeal for two or more sides at once", but "a straight penetration agent working in the Soviet interest". Philby continues: 

The fact that I joined the British Secret Intelligence Service is neither here nor there; I regarded my SIS appointments purely in the light of cover-jobs, to be carried out sufficiently well to ensure my attaining positions in which my service to the Soviet Union would be most effective. My connection with SIS must be seen against my prior total commitment to the Soviet Union which I regarded then, as I do now, the inner fortress of the world movement.

It's striking, then, that much of that "service to the Soviet Union" is dealt with in the book either by inference or obliquely. The first half of My Silent War details Philby's recruitment to SIS and the war effort, with attendant office politics, training, organisation, reorganisation and gossip, with nary a mention of Philby's "other" career. It's only once British attention turns away from Germany at the close of the war and instead towards Russia that Philby really mentions his "Soviet contact", but even with Philby's arrival at Section IX, which targeted the USSR, he seems more interested in departmental hierarchy than in his KGB spying duties – although since the configuration of Section IX directly impacted SIS actions against the Russians, that's perhaps a good example of Philby's oblique approach to his extracurricular activities.

Indeed, the picture Philby paints of SIS isn't especially flattering – "shambolic" would be the best word to describe the service Philby depicts – something which has been identified by E. D. R. Harrison in his 1995 Intelligence and National Security article "More Thoughts on Kim Philby's My Silent War" as Philby's "vendetta against the West". The accusation is that Philby's memoir is KGB propaganda, pure and simple, and there may well be a large element of that in the book. But in his earlier Intelligence and National Security article "Some Reflections on Kim Philby's My Silent War as a Historical Source", Harrison betrays his own politics when he notes that Philby's "praise of the USSR at times verges on the ludicrous". I'm sure it strikes Harrison as such, but since Philby himself states that he was "a straight penetration agent working in the Soviet interest", it's a little disingenuous to criticise the book in that light, however mistaken or misguided one might feel Philby was.

Of course, the ideological clash between East and West was titanic, and arouses strong passions still. And given the scope of Philby's treachery, it's understandable that that, too, provokes profound distaste. But as the book enters its final phase, with the unmasking of Donald Maclean and Maclean and Guy Burgess's defection to Russia, and the subsequent interrogation of Philby by MI5, it's hard not to get swept up in the drama of it all. These were the highest stakes Philby, Burgess, Maclean et al were playing for, and though they were, in my opinion, wrongheaded, the manner and method by which Philby – and by extension his fellow Cambridge conspirators – maintained the deception over so many years is almost, dare I say it, admirable. As Philby puts it: "Thirty years in the underground is a long stretch, and I cannot pretend that they left no mark."


Philby himself defected in 1963; My Silent War was written during his Moscow exile, and was therefore almost certainly vetted by the KGB – hence Harrison (and others') accusations of propaganda – in which context the withholding by Philby of information about his handler(s) becomes more explicable. Philby is well aware of his omissions – of one appointment with his "Soviet friends" he notes wryly, "What passed there is no concern of the reader" – but here again, Philby has an answer for his critics, particularly concerning the seven years he spent in the Middle East prior to defecting, which he largely glosses over in the book: "If the British Government can use the fifty-year rule to suppress the publication of official documents, I can also claim the right to veil in decent discretion events that took place as little as ten or five years ago." Conversely, this explanation comes in the epilogue, which is actually more open about Philby's "career in Soviet service" than the preceding 150 pages.

There's no doubting the sincerity of Philby's conviction and commitment to his cause – in his introduction he mentions his "persisting faith in Communism" and states "as I look over Moscow from my study window, I can see the solid foundations of the future I glimpsed at Cambridge" – which is something Philby's friend and SIS colleague, Graham Greene, makes the central point in his introduction to the book. Greene writes:

We were told to expect a lot of propaganda, but [the book] contains none, unless a dignified statement of his beliefs and motives can be called propaganda. The end, of course, in his eyes is held to justify the means, but this is a view taken, perhaps less openly, by most men involved in politics, if we are to judge them by their actions, whether the politician be a Disraeli or a Wilson. 'He betrayed his country'—yes, perhaps he did, but who among us has not committed treason to something or someone more important than a country? In Philby's own eyes he was working for a shape of things to come from which his country would benefit.

As for the denigration of SIS highlighted by E. D. R. Harrison, Greene, who had first hand experience of SIS, notes that Philby's "account of the British Secret Service is devastatingly true".


Graham Greene of course wrote a number of espionage novels in his career, among them the aforementioned The Human Factor, which he initially began writing ten years prior to its eventual 1978 publication, abandoning it "mainly because of the Philby affair" and not wishing the novel to be "taken as a roman a clef" (see the Greeneland website). And it's to The Human Factor than I'll be turning next, with a review of a very special edition of the book which, having already bought two copies of the novel early in 2011, I subsequently chanced upon in a Lewes bookshop...

Monday 5 March 2012

Sometime Never by Roald Dahl: Author's First Novel, British First Edition (Collins, 1949), Stephen Russ Cover Design

Here's a glimpse into how the mind of the hopelessly addicted, borderline unhinged book collector behind Existential Ennui works – as if you didn't already know.

Just under a week ago I posted a guest essay by my friend and former colleague Adam Newell on Roald Dahl's little-known debut novel, a 1948 work of adult fiction entitled Some Time Never – or to give it its 1949 British title, Sometime Never. It's a great post, and I urge you to go read it if you haven't already, but it had a (probably) unintended consequence in that shortly after it went up on Existential Ennui, Adam noticed that a couple of copies of the British edition of the novel – which is notoriously scarce in any edition, having only ever had one printing each in the US and the UK – had popped up on AbeBooks. Furthermore, both of those copies still had their dustjackets, and while one of the copies was listed for sale at £800 – admittedly it did bear Dahl's signature – the other was rather more reasonably priced.

You can see where this is going, can't you? Yes, I bought the reasonably – but still not exactly cheaply – priced copy of the British first – and only – edition:


which was published by Collins in 1949. And for its age, it's in pretty good condition. The dustwrapper has a few chips and minor tears, as well as a darkened spine and some loss at the head and tail of the spine, but it's otherwise bright and complete, and also unclipped – no doubt because it's unpriced anyway. That wrapper, by the way, was designed by Stephen Russ, a much-admired book cover designer who trained under painters Edward Bawden and Eric Ravilious – the latter of whose work I particularly love, especially the pictures painted around the South Downs area in which I live and work – at the Royal College of Art, and who designed a lot of covers for Penguin, among other publishers.


Judging by Adam's review of Sometime Never – and indeed the jacket flap blurb – the novel could have fitted quite snugly into last year's lengthy run of post-apocalyptic fiction posts: in other words, definitely my kind of thing. So it wasn't purely avariciousness which motivated me to buy this copy... although its scarcity – the three copies of the Collins first on AbeBooks appear to be the only ones for sale online – did, it almost goes without saying, play a major part. Even so, I like to think there's an element of altruism involved here too, on account of, heretofore, there have been scant few images of either edition of Some Time Never/Sometime Never available online, and now there are all of the ones in this post. No, no – no need to thank me: I live to serve.


Like a good many 20th century literary figures, Roald Dahl had a hand in intelligence during the Second World War, in Dahl's case supplying information to Canadian spymaster William Stephenson, who was instrumental in the establishment of the OSS, which would eventually become the CIA. And oddly enough, the author of the next book I'll be blogging about also worked with Stephenson... although this particular author's ultimate aim was rather different to his fellow Allied operatives. Before that, though, I'll be plugging another guest post, this time one I'll be posting on The Violent World of Parker blog rather than Existential Ennui...

Friday 2 March 2012

Notes from the Small Press 12: The Sky in Stereo, by Mardou; Mini-Comic Review

The last time I posted one of these Notes from the Small Press mini-comics missives, way back in October of last year, I remarked that it had been a while since the previous one. The gap in that case was six months, so the five-month gap between this post and October's isn't quite so bad... but clearly I must do better in future. Smack on back of hand with ruler. (Ouch!)


There's also the danger with this latest Notes that I could be opening myself up to charges of favouritism, or possibly even stalking, because the comic I'm reviewing this time, The Sky in Stereo, is by a cartoonist who's already featured twice in the series: British ex-pat (she now lives in the States) Mardou. In my defence, however, I do have an excellent reason for returning to her (again) – actually, two excellent reasons: this newly published mini-comic contains some of her best work yet; and it's set in a time and a place that's very familiar to me.


The time, or rather the year, is 1993, and the place is Manchester in the north of England, where, from 1989 to 1992, I lived and, at least in theory, studied; since I was a fine art student and it was the height of Madchester, not an awful lot of work got done. I'd left the city by '93, but the Manchester of The Sky in Stereo is recognisably the one I drank and danced and occasionally painted in – not so much in terms of drawings of well-known Manchester landmarks – aside from a cityscape on the title page, there are few of those in the comic, although the sequences set in beer-stained student nightclub The Ritz brought a smile to my face – but more the tone of the piece.


There's no real plot to speak of; evidently partly autobiographical, the comic follows Iris, a seventeen year old native of Manchester working a succession of dreary service industry jobs, going out to rubbish clubs, getting stoned once in a while, still hurting from the end of a recent relationship, and generally over-examining every aspect of her life. In other words, an angst-ridden teen just like I, and maybe you, used to be. After quitting her job at a clothes shop, Iris takes a position at a burger bar at the train station instead, in large part because she'll be working alongside Glen Hibbs, "poet, punk rocker, fry master". The two become close, and then Glen gets into smack and matters take a turn for the dark.

That's about the gist of the story – this first chapter of it, anyway; The Sky in Stereo is part of a longer work – but a straight recital of events really doesn't do justice to the comic. The beguiling artistry of The Sky in Stereo lies in Mardou's captivating command of character and mood, of her detailing of the disappointments, minor triumphs and minutiae of everyday life in a humdrum northern town. The cast is convincing and believable, the dialogue is naturalistic, and Mardou's cartooning has reached a level of confidence – similar to that of Gabrielle Bell's – where a few deft lines and a scattering of words can effortlessly conjure up an authentic sense of place, skewer with admirable frankness and clear-sightedness an emotional encounter, or depict a moment of supreme silliness that will make you laugh in recognition.


It's an evocative, beautifully drawn comic which should, in a just world, bring Mardou to a much wider audience, and you can order it direct from Mardou's Etsy store, currently with free shipping in the States (and not that much for the rest of the world). I can't recommend it highly enough. And if you're interested in exploring Mardou's work further, follow the links to the third and fourth instalments of Notes from the Small Press below, or check out her LiveJournal page or the Global Hobo store.


Notes from the Small Press 1: Fast Fiction Presents the Elephant of Surprise

Notes from the Small Press 2: Monitor's Human Reward by Chris Reynolds

Notes from the Small Press 3: Small Pets

Notes from the Small Press 4: Anais in Paris by Mardou

Notes from the Small Press 5: The Curiously Parochial Comics of John Bagnall

Notes from the Small Press 6: Ed Pinsent's Illegal Batman and Jeffrey Brown's Wolverine: Dying Time

Notes from the Small Press 7: The Comix Reader #1

Notes from the Small Press 8: A Help! Shark Comics Gallery

Notes from the Small Press 9: Some Gristavision Comics by Merv Grist

Notes from the Small Press 10: Some Sav Sadness Comics by Bob Lynch

Notes from the Small Press 11: a Review of Illegal Batman in the Moon

Thursday 1 March 2012

Westlake Score: Comeback, by Richard Stark (Robert Hale, 2001)

(NB: A version of this post also appears on The Violent World of Parker blog.)

Before we get into this latest Westlake Score, I'd just like to say a big thank you to Adam Newell for his excellent guest post on Roald Dahl's little-known first novel, Some Time Never... and shake a friendly fist at him as well: as a direct result of his post I ended up splurging on a British first edition of the book (under its slightly different title Sometime Never). Still, it's me birthday soon. Call it an early birthday present (er, to myself).

So, to business. And as we've repeatedly established over the years I've been blogging about the Donald E. Westlake/Richard Stark first-and-other editions I buy and collect, Westlake Scores comes in many shapes, sizes and levels of desirability. Some, like my most recent one (prior to this latest one, that is), are really quite special. Others, like this one, are nothing special at all. But most fall somewhere in-between those two poles, and that's probably where this newest Score resides:


It's the UK hardback first edition of Comeback, published by Robert Hale in 2001. The seventeenth Parker novel, Comeback is of course also the first book in the second run of Parkers, and arrived twenty-three years after the preceding novel in the series, 1974's Butcher's Moon. Or rather, it did so in the States: Comeback was published in 1997 over there; it took another four years for a British publisher – Hale, in case your attention span has degraded to the same level as mine – to acquire the rights to it and the subsequent Parkers.


Now, in many ways, there's nothing special about this edition of Comeback at all. It was, as I say, published a good long while after the Mysterious Press American edition – so long, indeed, that I actually bought a US first back in 2010 because the gap in publication really bothered me – an aversion I've since, evidently, come to terms with. Moreover, like all of the Parker novels Hale published, its dustjacket sports an illustration on the front by an artist – Derek Colligan – who is something of an acquired taste (although I must admit his style has grown on me). And furthermore, when this copy popped up on eBay recently, I was the only bidder.


Taking that last point alone, you might reasonably surmise that there's little, if any, demand for this edition. But in fact like most of the Hale editions of the Parker novels, Comeback has become really rather scarce. There's currently just one copy of the Hale first on AbeBooks, priced at over seventy quid, and a further four copies on Amazon Marketplace, the cheapest of those being £34. It's a similar story with others of the six Parker novels Hale published – either that or the only available copies are public library re-binds. (I've conjectured previously that the the bulk of the print runs of the Stark and Westlake books Hale published went to libraries, and the available evidence certainly seems to bear that out.) So while the Hale edition of Comeback may have lagged behind the Mysterious Press one, it's a damn sight rarer than its US cousin (there are umpteen copies of the Mysterious Press first for sale online).


Fascinating stuff, I'm sure you'll agree (ahem), but what about the novel itself? Well, funnily enough, Comeback will be the next Parker novel I'll be reviewing in my ongoing Parker Progress Report trawl through the series, so look out for that soon. Next up on Existential Ennui, though: Notes from the Small Press...