47th book of 2020.
I've always struggled with memoirs. Recently, in my MA a woman sent me her work to read (a memoir) and I told her frankly that on the most part, I don't enjoy memoirs. They are too self-indulgent, the writing (in my experience) never seems as good as fiction...I'm thinking specifically of Educated, which everyone seemed to love, but I thought was, well, terrible. It is difficult when talking about a real person and their real life, but I found the voice whiny, irritating and the writing was poor. That's not to belittle the things she went through, just the way she tells them.
Anyway, enough of ranting. This has been a long-winded way of saying, Newby has impressed me. Set in Italy during the War, his capture, and subsequent escape, Newby has written a compelling novel. His voice is perfectly balanced. In fact, I got the impression that he rarely used the word 'I', though he probably did. A large portion of the novel is spent describing Italy in a travel-writing fashion, and the characters he meets. The moments where Newby does talk, I like him. I think he would have been great to have a cup of tea with: witty, sensitive, the old style English gentleman. The writing was brilliant and his journey, though real, was fantastic to read.
The one thing I want to say - the title is terrible. I don't Newby helped himself very much. If someone hadn't recommended it, I would never read a book that begins with Love and War. There isn't a awful lot of love in this at all. There is certainly War in the backdrop, and the beginning and end. The title doesn't do the book justice, I don't think. Here are some quotes to capture Newby's voice and his writing.
Mostly they were cowardly spies whose legs gave way under them, so that they had to be carried, shrieking, to the place of execution and tied to stakes to prevent them sinking to the ground, and although I hoped that I wouldn't be like this, I wondered if I would be.
He was the one who proposed that we should dig a tunnel, the most dreary and unimaginative way of getting out of any prison.
Like most men he didn't like his wife to come up with the ideas he felt he ought to have had himself.
It was very dark, the water was surprisingly cold and I was very frightened, more frightened than I had ever been. What upset me more than anything, quite irrationally, was the thought that if we drowned - which seemed more than probable - none of our people would ever know what happened to us and why.