All the wisdom not on Google


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It is often suggested that we now have access to all the world’s knowledge through the internet.  This is said or implied so frequently that I find myself seeing Google not as a supplement to my once-favoured libraries, but as an alternative to them.  The information and wisdom that previously would have been found within books is now available at the click of a mouse.

A happy afternoon of serendipitous discoveries in the British Library reminded me why this view is wrong.  This huge institution receives a copy of every book published in the United Kingdom: about 184,000 each year.  The contents of these books largely do not exist on the internet.  A Google search will not reveal the full information they contain.  So if you think we can rely on finding everything we need online, then you will miss most of the conversations between author and reader that are happening every day.

The British Library, in London’s St. Pancras

You might argue that this does not matter, because the most important ideas will be brought out of those books and discussed elsewhere too: in newspapers, magazines, blogs, television and radio.  You could find evidence of all this on the internet, and therefore do not need to worry about missing the books themselves.  Surely this is enough for the lay person.

I disagree, because it is not just the current conversation that you would be missing.  The British Library’s total stock comprises more than 25 million books.  The further back in time a book was published, the less you are to find its contents on the web — even with the laudable efforts being made to digitise the most venerable of our ancient tomes.  These books, accessible in libraries but not via Google, let you see the world from long-forgotten perspectives.  They can lift you above the inward-looking concerns of the 21st century, and let you see our modern life again, as if from the outside.

This post is partly an excuse to share an example which I think neatly illustrates my point.  In today’s 180-character political arguments, we tend to regard patriotism as the hobby of jingoistic reactionaries who wish we could return to a fantasy past of red phone boxes, grammar schools and imperial measures.  But during my afternoon in the British Library I happened upon a speech that is more helpful.  It shows how we might channel patriotism and tradition to help us flourish in changing circumstances, without getting stuck in the ways of the past.  It is a view that we do not tend to hear in our daily peregrinations across digital and social media.  Nor is it a speech that you could have found online; at least I could not find it even by entering direct quotes into Google, or by searching with related terms or exact details.  Yet it is hugely relevant for us now, as we rethink how Britain should re-form itself as an independent nation after Brexit.

By typing the speech into this blog post, I am immortalising it for our internet age.  In future, a lucky browser could find these words.  But I also hope that this entry will inspire you to wonder what else might be found in those dusty old books beyond the internet.

Extract from a speech by Lord Rosebery to the Seaforth Highlanders, circa 1931*:

A great past is the inspiration of the present.  Memories are among man’s finest possessions.  A splendid achievement never dies.  It lives on in the memory of one generation after another, and it fructifies in the hearts of men, becoming the parent of other fine deeds.  

A boy goes to school and a man joins a regiment, and at once they are faced with the obligation to carry on the traditions.  To allow today to be unworthy of yesterday is shameful.  If their admiration is stirred by recalling what has been done, their ambition is also roused to be worthy to be counted among the giants of the past.  It is for them to hand along the record to the next comer unsullied, and maybe with added lustre.  

Tradition is the basis of patriotism.  Great Britain is no mere island on the west coast of Europe.  It is not only the place where we ourselves happen to live.  It was the birthplace of mighty heroes, great poets, splendid statesmen, who made England and the English famous in the world.  It is for us to maintain what our forefathers have won.  It is for us to be jealous for their and our country’s good name.

But traditions may be a hindrance as well as an inspiration.   It is the spirit that matters.  Rigid adherence to the letter means disaster.  Each generation must discover its own methods.  The lives of those who have gone before teach us that success depends on thoroughness, industry, enterprise, experiment.  

These all remain necessary.  But if we stand content with the out-of-date machinery of life, urging as a plea that it was ‘good enough for our fathers’, we are making failure certain and are prostituting their memory, because we are using tradition to cloak lack of courage, lack of initiative, lack of persistence!  When the next naval battle is fought, if it ever be fought, it will be splendid to recall the spirit of Nelson and Nelson’s men, but it would be absurd to fight it in Nelson’s ships.

* Quoted in Lewis C. Rudd, 1935: The Duke of York’s Royal Military School: Its History, Aims and Associations.  This Lord Rosebery was Harry Primrose, 6th Earl of Rosebery (lived 1882-1974) – son of Archibald Primrose, the 5th earl and Liberal Prime Minister from 1894-1895.  He served in WW1 as a Grenadier Guards officer, played as a professional cricketer, represented Edinburghshire as a Liberal MP, and served as Secretary of State for Scotland.




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For twenty seconds now, try doing absolutely nothing. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t fiddle with your phone or with your keys. Absolutely nothing. Experience complete silence.

Difficult, isn’t it? If that’s the first time you have experienced silence in a while, then this piece is for you.

I first shared these words as a school chapel talk, where our reading was from 1 Kings 19.  That chapter illustrates the power of silence amid chaos. The story begins with Elijah standing alone on a bleak mountainside, awaiting God.

Think about the terror this implies. Nowadays we are more used to regarding Christianity as offering some kind of comfort. C.S. Lewis, in his book Mere Christianity reminds us otherwise:

“[God] is our only possible ally, and we have made ourselves His enemies. Some people talk as if meeting the gaze of absolute goodness would be fun. They need to think again… Goodness is either the great safety or the great danger.”

Meeting God, when you really think about it, is a terrifying prospect. If Elijah was expecting God to be terrifying, then what came next matched the description. Waiting for God, nature around him suddenly burst into chaos. He cowered to witness a hurricane, an earthquake and a firestorm. Rocks broke before his eyes, the very earth shook, and flames raged onwards.

And then nothing. After the fire came “a sound of sheer silence.” Elijah realised that powerful though God was, he could only be heard in the silence.

I think we can treat Elijah’s story as an allegory: one that applies to our lives today.

Sometimes we allow rage to drive us. Like the wind and the quake and the fire, we let our anger out and expect that whirlwind to change things. I’m sure you can think of such a situation in your own home or school life.

Those who believe in God find themselves railing against the injustice of the world too: why doesn’t God stop all the suffering? The Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, said that he feels the same. Indeed, that rage is a regular part of his prayers. He explained, “You see psalms where the psalmist cries out against God with an anger that we would never dream of in our churches. And it’s right, it’s the right way to talk to God in those moments.”

But then, just like Elijah found, after all the raging comes the silence where God is found. Justin Welby says, “When that happens, God is there…. In the moments when I’ve wanted to get away from God, like a child running away from a parent I find myself embraced in arms of love that are more powerful than I am.”

In modern life we certainly have the rage. But do we have enough of the silence that follows it? What can we learn from Christianity?

Christianity has a long history of seeking God in the silence. The historian Diarmaid MacCulloch’s book Silence: A Christian History tells us of those who quietly looked inward before advancing into the world around them. Some early Christians perhaps went too far. For example, the hermits who retreated deep into the Saharan desert. Or the Syrian stylites, who actually lived their whole lives sitting alone on top of a tall pillar.

Some ancient non-Christians took silence to extremes too. The Athenian philosopher Diogenes the Cynic spent much of his time living a life of contemplation inside a barrel. His reputation impressed Alexander the Great, who was at that time king and leader of the world’s biggest empire. Alexander came to visit Diogenes, and asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?” Imagine that. A military conqueror so great that we still remember him nearly two and a half thousand years later. Visiting one poor and humble philosopher. And do you know how Diogenes replied to this dream offer? “Yes,” he said. “There is one thing. You can get out of my sunlight.”

Even if some take the notion of silence too far, that just goes to emphasise its spiritual power. Silence is where spiritual growth happens. In the fourth century a Christian theologian Evagrius was caught sleeping with the wife of a senior official in Constantinople. He fled the city. This Evagrius certainly had a lot of turmoil to think about. He later wrote that silence helped him explore those troubling inner thoughts: first it gave him serenity, and then knowledge. In that silence, he was redirected back on to the right path. He is now remembered in history by the name ‘Evagrius the Solitary’.

I recently spent a year living in a theological college, where priests are trained to join the Church of England. For a few days in Advent, we ‘retreated’ – not away from each other, but into silence. It was silence together. We ate together, prayed together, and enjoyed each other’s company while sharing the life of contemplation. Silence need not be lonely. We all came out of the Advent retreat closer, humbler and more thoughtful about our beliefs and actions.

I think all of us can enjoy the benefits of silence. It challenges you like the stereotypical psychiatrist in his chair, patiently just listening while we reveal not just our thoughts but our thoughts about our thoughts. C.S. Lewis again, in his satirical Screwtape Letters warns of all those times we mistake our own motives: when what we told ourselves were good deeds, actually turn out on closer inspection to be self-serving. Only where we have the space and time to carefully study our thoughts can we possibly realise this. While the hectic world is spinning with all its rage and busyness, there is no time to look inwards at ourselves. But we need it if we are going to do the right thing.

Silence can be disturbing. Last year I taught in a school where an unusually high proportion of the students came from deprived backgrounds. Usually we teachers ask for periods of silence in the classroom, because it helps you think clearly without distraction. But in that school, I was advised not to risk silence, because the students were not used to it. Being left alone with their troubled thoughts for the first time might panic them.

It sounds unbelievable that those students had really never dwelt in silence. Bur we know that in modern life it is increasingly difficult to obtain it. There is always something to occupy our minds. Even when we think we have silence, say when we are alone in our rooms, or even out in the fresh air, still we feel the urge to check our phones and our social media – a kind of inner noise caused by our impatience.

You do not have to be a Christian, or even a believer in God to benefit from silence. Taking the time to judge our own inner motivations, and to think carefully helps us choose the right path whether God is there or not. Mindfulness, a kind of meditation, is increasingly popular in business and schools, and enthusiasts report benefits that continue long after the silence ends.

By the way, silence does not stop us seeking positive change in the world, or for ourselves. Elijah is spurred into action after his silent encounter with God. He takes God’s message back out into the world. But before he did that, he needed silence. Only once the raging terrors had stopped was he able to hear God speaking to him, to find out what was right.

So whatever you believe, silence is the place where we find answers, see our real selves and prepare for what needs to be done. And maybe it is the place where we meet God.

Bach’s passionate challenge


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Lots of us find Bach enchanting. His mathematically complex music seems to satisfy a dual need for order and feeling. So I booked a ticket to hear his St John Passion performed in the glorious Sheldonian Theatre last night, fully expecting to be moved.

I got something more. It was the first time that I have really paid close attention to the words. I heard that familiar story of Jesus’ trial and execution, but found that the soaring music amplified its meaning to send a shiver down the spine. A spiritual challenge, but a joy too.

If you have time today, then ignore all other distractions and join Bach to meditate on some of this:

“My soul, think how a heavenward-guiding flower springs from the thorns that pierce the Saviour’s head. Consider in anxious relief, in bitter joy, with a heart torn between grief and consolation, how his suffering is your most precious treasure.”

History is valuable. Don’t let students censor it.


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History. That shared memory, sustained by the written word and whispered back to life by its remnants all around us. Did you know, as you stand with your Friday pint of craft beer upon the pavements of Southwark, that William the Conqueror’s men were burning, raping and killing on that very spot nearly one thousand years ago? Or that another thousand years earlier, Roman settlers prayed and traded and loved on a crossroads where you now ponder your own week? Do you think about how the Elizabethans – not so different from us – enjoyed the darkly unsavoury life on this freer side of the Thames? These people lived in the past, but they are right beside you. What does the separation of time matter, when you share the same space with your ancestors?  If you are aware of history then you can enjoy the present even more.

Bomb damage to Bank tube station.

Bomb damage to Bank tube station on 11th January 1941, which killed 111 people. Here it is merged with the same spot today.

Yes, I am being romantic. But not too romantic. This aesthetic experience of the past is a real phenomenon. In his book The Aesthetic Brain, neuroscientist Anjan Chatterjee describes how “bringing knowledge to bear on whatever we are looking at has a huge impact on our experience of seeing.”  Specifically, we find the experience more rewarding:

“Late visual processing recognizes objects and the meanings and memories and associations triggered by these objects. Along the way from sensations to meaning, emotion and reward systems are activated.”

Antler comb, 10th-11th century. British Museum

Antler comb from the British Museum. 10th-11th Century.

History adds this meaning, and we love it. The British Museum attracts seven million visitors each year, yet it contains mostly everyday objects. We do not usually take much interest in combs, but the one pictured above is different. There is nothing visually exciting about it. Its aesthetic value lies in its provenance: it belonged to someone living in the 11th century. And so this comb sits proudly inside a glass case at the British Museum, to be viewed at our pleasure. We find it rewarding to see simple objects knowing they passed through the hands of our forebears.

Portrait of John Ruskin

Portrait of John Ruskin in Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum.

Even things which are beautiful in themselves can gain added value from historical meaning. For example, look at the little portrait pictured above. It depicts Victorian art critic John Ruskin, and holds two levels of fascination. First, examine its surface features, and it is a beautiful painting. The artist, John Everett Millais, took care not just to represent Ruskin himself, but also to achieve absolute realism in his rendering of the rocks and water that make up his surroundings. The result is perhaps more pleasing than reality itself. This is not all, though. It gets better. The second level of fascination lies in the peculiar history of this portrait. The artist described painting it as “the most hateful task I have ever had to perform.” The reason? During the many hours spent finishing the fine details, the artist Millais had fallen in love with John Ruskin’s wife, Effie. Sitting in the same room as this man who had vocally and financially supported his struggling beginnings as an artist, Millais was left to ponder the dark betrayal he was about to inflict by destroying his marriage and taking Effie for himself. Everyone involved in the affair is long dead, but this portrait remains. It was there, its very brushstrokes moved by perfidious hands. We are left viewing the same portrait as before. But this time mere historical knowledge has enhanced our experience of it.

Being near the objects our predecessors touched is the closest we can get to meeting them in person. Places too. The Victorian novelist Thomas Hardy once described himself as a kind of ‘ghost-seer’. The same expression appears in his writing, to describe those who dwell in romantic connection with the past. Reading the way Hardy renders yesteryear into near-poetry, it is hard to resist becoming a ghost-seer oneself. He describes the experience of first seeing Oxford’s medieval architecture:

“The saints and prophets in the window-tracery, the paintings in the galleries, the statues, the busts, the gargoyles, the corbel-heads – these seemed to breathe his atmosphere. Like all new comers to a spot on which the past is deeply graven he heard that past announcing itself with an emphasis altogether unsuspected by, and even incredible to, the habitual residents.”

History is everywhere. As Peter Ackroyd writes in his new history, “There is scarcely one spot in England that does not contain memorials of an ancient past.”  But knowledge is the thing. We need knowledge to experience its allure. The late historian Arthur Marwick underlines the importance of history by appealing to the emptiness of life without it:

Without knowledge of the past we would be without identity, we would be lost on an endless sea of time. The simplest answer to the question, ‘What is the use of history?’ is: “Try to imagine what it would be like to live in a society where there was absolutely no knowledge of the past.’ The mind boggles.”

None of us has a comprehensive historical knowledge which would enrich our experience of every place we visit. That is why we have statues, memorials and blue plaques. They gift us that knowledge, adding meaning and enhancement to otherwise plain spaces. We are enriched.

Must Rhodes fall?

A disturbing student movement puts this enrichment at risk. With a 2,500-signature petition, the group Rhodes Must Fall seeks to remove a statue of Cecil Rhodes from one of Oxford’s oldest colleges. They claim that its presence is “an open glorification of the racist and bloody project of British colonialism… As long as the statue remains, Oriel College and Oxford University continue to tacitly identify with Rhodes’s values, and to maintain a toxic culture of domination and oppression.”  The principle is that we should censor these representations of history to prove we have moved on from it.

Oriel College Oxford High Street facade

The statue (top) which ‘openly glorifies’ a ‘racist and bloody project’.

It would be a dangerous precedent. History is full of imperfect characters who deserve destruction under the same principle. We commemorate them with statues, memorials and plaques all over the country. But for the most part these statues were erected by admirers long dead. So their survival does not imply continued endorsement of their actions or philosophies. Instead, they serve a different purpose now. Even though those men and women who were respected in their own time might look bigoted to modern eyes, knowledge of them adds depth and texture to our experience of the history-infused world around us.

We have lived through a period of censorship not dissimilar to the kind proposed by Rhodes Must Fall. During the 16th Century Reformation, churches were sacked to enforce conformity with the new theology. Gloriously coloured windows smashed, sublime artwork burned, and precious tombs vandalised. We mourn that destruction now. Just when we could be enjoying a profound link with the beauty of our ancient past, we find that long-forgotten politics has snatched it from us.

Much better to live with our history. Today’s peaceful and prosperous existence is the unlikely result of a long, juddering journey. Representations of our imperfect past remind us of that, and enhance our present. Leave Rhodes standing. And everyone else for that matter.

The inequality of Facebook?

Here’s a dilemma. Why do we worry about economic inequality? Some argue that it is psychologically harmful to have a large gap between the richest and the poorest. It causes status anxiety. This kind of anxiety leads to social problems too. (See the book The Spirit Level: Why Equality is Better for Everyone for this argument.) So what matters is the size of the gap, not just whether the poorest have their basic needs met.

Does this gap have to exist in reality for it to be harmful? What if it is only perceived? If we think that other people have a higher status than we do, then we become anxious about it. We might turn out to be wrong, but at that point it is too late to avoid the anxiety we felt earlier.

Look at your Facebook news feed. All those photographs of expensive dinners. The weddings, engagements and babies. Parties and perfect-looking friendships. Facebook presents a polished version of our friends’ lives. The reality is probably more up and down, but it is mostly the ups that are posted on Facebook.

We therefore perceive a wider inequality. Unequal because our Facebook friends seem happier, more successful, less troubled than we are. It is irrelevant that they are not the same in reality. It does not matter if in secret they live lives more like our own. We feel status anxiety nonetheless.

Below I link to a study that suggests this effect is real. People are happier without Facebook, and it seems to be because they stop comparing their own lives with the synthetically polished lives of their friends. So should we start worrying about social media inequality alongside economic inequality? If not, then to be consistent do we need to drop the ‘status anxiety’ argument as a good reason for fighting economic inequality?

The study:


A ticking clock that puts our short lives in perspective


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This clock is 300 years old. It ticked as the French Revolution tore its bloody way through Paris. It ticked as the first steam train emerged from a Welsh valley. It was ticking still as the telegrams started arriving from the Western Front. It ticked while each of its owners toiled about his daily worries, unaware that none of them would matter three centuries later.

It ticks now for you – briefly. It will tick for others soon.

Tories: how can we be so uncaring?


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The general election revealed the worst side of the British people. A quarter of the electorate voted Tory. One thing is clear: whole swathes of the population lack basic empathy.

I know what you’re expecting me to say here. You are ready to read the kind of angry anti-Conservative rhetoric that seems to have taken over our social media feeds, our workplaces, and even our streets. Perhaps you expected me to write something like this:

“What upsets me more than anything is that millions of people actually voted Tory. This election was about morality… That is what’s heartbreaking – that millions of people didn’t care about the lives of society’s most marginalised.”

Or this:

“To those who are arguing that high levels of anger are ‘unnecessary’ and an ‘overreaction’: f**k you. Do not belittle people’s genuine despair and fear at the general election result… This is people publicly and vocally saying that they cannot and will not take 5 more years of this life-destroying s**t… We’re talking about a party that has literally driven people to suicide through their brutal cuts to public services. And you want people to calm down?… If that doesn’t make you angry, why the f**k not?”

Or maybe even this: #FucktheTories I am not going to write anything like that. Instead, here’s my contention: It’s not the Tories who are lacking empathy here. The ones lacking empathy are those who really really, truly truly, cannot understand why anybody would vote Conservative. Those who shout loudly that Tories want to hurt the poor, drive the disabled to an early death, and redistribute more wealth to the yacht-owning mega-rich.

Nobody is like that.

As the journalist Isabel Hardman expressed pithily, “If you genuinely can’t understand why someone voted for another party, the problem might be that you spend too much time talking to yourself.” Isabel is assistant editor of the Conservative-leaning Spectator magazine, so of course she would say that in the smug afterglow of election victory. But she is not the only one. Even Guardian columnist Suzanne Moore criticised the self-satisfied ‘echo chamber’ of social media: “If you can’t even have a conversation with someone who votes differently to you, how do you begin to imagine you might bring them back to your way of thinking?”

It is easy to understand why people vote Labour. For example, in the 2015 book ‘Why Vote Labour‘, Dan Jarvis MP wrote this about their conception of deep freedom: “A genuinely free society is achieved not only through absolute rights like freedom of speech and freedom of worship, but when everyone has the opportunity to lead the lives to which they aspire without being chained to forces that restrict peoples life chances like ill health, substandard education and poverty pay.” Labour governments tend to be more interventionary. They seek to obtain this kind of freedom through direct measures. These measures are easy to see and popular. Labour seems ‘nice’, irrespective of the less visible consequences further down the line.

It is harder to understand why people would vote Conservative. Just after Margaret Thatcher’s funeral I wrote about ‘Why your Conservative friends are so nasty’. I argued that they’re not nasty at all, but the difficulty in explaining their policies makes them seem that way. Conservative governments tend to avoid instant but clunky intervention.  The ‘niceness’ of their policies depends on their long-term effects. For example, “Thatcher’s government privatised industry where possible, so that the profit motive would act as a guarantor of efficiency; they limited the power of unions, believing that short-term resistance to reform in unprofitable industries led to longer-term decline; they sought to lower direct taxes even on the wealthy, arguing that the effect of individuals freely spending their money was more effective than government spending in creating economic growth and therefore jobs too.”

If you cannot understand the intentions behind Conservative policies, then they just seem like cold-hearted actions. Add to that some genuinely difficult short-term consequences, and no wonder it’s so easy to think the Tories are evil. And if you really believe that, it is easy to be whipped up into synthetic indignation. The kind of spewing rage that we saw on the streets of London this weekend.

A mature society cannot let its understanding remain that superficial. Dig deeper! Try to comprehend a politics that is not always instantly ‘nice’, but nonetheless well-intentioned. Get beyond the echo chamber of social media. Ask questions without presuming the answers.

In the meantime, thank goodness the real world is not as cold and inhuman as the anti-Tory protesters think it is.    

Political parties are not all the same. This book will help you prove it.


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‘Edmund Burke: The First Conservative’ by Jesse Norman

Political parties: “They’re all the same!” runs the familiar refrain. I understand why you might say that. It’s hard to find out what our politicians are really thinking. We rely on the kind of superficial, agenda-driven media coverage you can digest with your cornflakes. Eventually we get hold of election manifestos, but they are a mere shadow of the real thing, the result of unseen compromise and populist calculation. We scrabble around in the dark, guessing at motives. Without further enlightenment the politicians all feel pretty similar.

Are you thinking what we're thinking?

No wonder Michael Howard failed so dismally with his 2005 election campaign: ‘Are you thinking what we’re thinking?’

There is a solution. Modern political parties are philosophical groupings. They gather people who hold similar values; people who tend to agree on the kinds of policy that are best for society. If you can understand what brought them together, then at last you have proper insight into what their politicians might be thinking. You’ll see gut politics, before calculation and compromise take their toll. Political parties don’t all look the same once you understand their diverging philosophies.

Edmund Burke book front

‘Edmund Burke: The First Conservative’ by Jesse Norman

This book will help you understand the Conservative Party. The author drops you straight into the commotion of 18th Century life, and shows you Edmund Burke: “the greatest and the most underrated political thinker in the last 300 years.” Burke’s energetic writings and magisterial rhetoric championed an intellectually robust conservatism before the movement was properly born. Forget about the lazily false accusation that conservatives are nasty supporters of the rich at the expense of those in need. For Burke, the nation is a “partnership not only between those who are living, but between those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are to be born.” He believed in “personal liberty but not individual licence,” bounded by social order. He believed in careful political reform that makes progress without jeopardising what we have already achieved. And he believed in a strong society of balanced institutions, within which everybody has the safety to flourish. It’s the antithesis of today’s liberal individualism.

We discover that Burke is a deeply caring man, but one who was led by considerations of practicality and consequence before token political posturing. “Men little think how immorally they act in rashly meddling with what they do not understand. Their delusive good intention is no sort of excuse for their presumption.”

But of course the long-dead Burke cannot tell you everything you need to know about conservatives nowadays, no matter how well the author colours him back to life. History moved on, and philosophy matured through Burke’s intellectual legacy. Even liberal individualism pops up in the modern Conservative Party. Today’s Conservatives are a patchwork coalition with three overlapping philosophical strands: free market ‘Thatcherite’ conservatism, one nation conservatism, and traditionalist conservatism. This May’s election manifesto will reflect at least some thought from all of them. Better get reading then…

See ‘Edmund Burke: The First Conservative’ on Goodreads

Like what you hear? For a modern treatise that owes much to Burke’s ideas, enjoy Roger Scruton’s A Political Philosophy: Arguments for Conservatism.

Tony Blair: a vulnerable role model


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‘A Journey: My Political Life’ by Tony Blair

Tony Blair’s autobiography is a work of fascinating dissection. The slick and latterly despised figure we knew from newspapers and television bulletins peels away to reveal someone on the same journey of self-improvement as we are. “I was the same jumble of failed dreams, thwarted hopes, and disappointed expectations as well as the achievements. I used to look at successful people and think: I’m not sure I could ever be like that.” Viewed with an eye to his ever-vulnerable development of character and leadership, plainly controversial decisions become finely nuanced personal challenges. Whatever you think of Tony Blair’s politics, this book leaves the ambitious reader with plenty to learn from.

Rating: ****

See ‘A Journey: My Political Life’ on Goodreads.

The strength of quiet people: Susan Cain’s advice for introverts


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‘Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking’ by Susan Cain

For a long time I resisted buying this book. I have spent years refusing to admit to a deeply introverted temperament, considering it a personal weakness. And it turns out there are millions more people in the same quiet position. Yet Susan Cain argues that introversion need not be a weakness. Deployed well, qualities common among introverts (perception, analysis, persistence, concentration and sensitivity) can be of great benefit in life, leadership and work. On a practical level, Cain offers guidance: on maintaining the necessary bursts of extroverted behaviour, on managing the resultant social fatigue and craving for ‘downtime’, and on playing to our strengths wherever possible. What a relief!

Rating: *****

See ‘Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking’ on Goodreads.