The London Review of Books and Me

The London Review of Books and Me

I used to write regularly for the London Review of Books, beginning in 1985 with a piece on Donald Davidson. At that time Karl Miller was the editor (I used to spot him around UCL where we both then worked). I liked Karl (also his brother-in-law Jonathan Miller—no relation). I then wrote several reviews for the magazine, on Russell, Wittgenstein, Ayer, Collingwood, Putnam, Strawson, Warnock, Singer, Sacks, and others. I also published a short story there (“The Bed Reptile”) and a diary piece from America. I was what you would call a regular contributor; it was a mutually agreeable arrangement. But it all came to a sudden halt in 1995, under a new editor, Mary-Kay Wilmers. I had been asked to review a collection of essays on Philippa Foot (Virtues and Reasons), which I duly did. For some reason, there was a long delay between submission and publication, which is apt to give an impression of dilatoriness on the part of the reviewer (which I have never been guilty of). Occasionally I would ask when it would appear and got vague answers. The editor hinted to me that they felt it was perhaps too academic for them and might be dropped. Let me make something clear: all that reviewing took serious time away from my own research and writing, producing a tremendous amount of ambivalence in me. Still, I thought it was worthwhile (just about). But not if the piece would be dropped. That would mean I had wasted my time and I would not wish to write such reviews if there was a good chance they might not be published. Nor did I agree that my review was overly academic—I was quite capable of judging what kind of review would be appropriate. Also: don’t ask me to review books with serious academic content if you don’t want to publish reviews geared to such content. Eventually, late in the day, they published it, tucked into the back of the paper. The experience discouraged me from writing for them in the future, and I told them so. I even wrote a letter for their correspondence column informing readers that they should not expect to see my reviews again (I gave no reason). The magazine never asked me to write for them again and I don’t believe they ever reviewed any more of my own books. As it happens, I soon started writing for the New Republic, and later the New York Review of Books. Such is the life of a jobbing reviewer. These days I write no reviews and am not invited to. I suppose I should be grateful, but the reasons don’t bear examination.