Roy Jenkins – Twelve Cities (2002)
Memoir – 250 pages – my copy (hardback; 2002) bought for 50p from Plymouth Library during 2010
- 2 nods out of 5 -
Roy Jenkins was an outstanding man of notable ability: born the son of a Welsh coal miner, he became a leading light in the Labour party and one of the great parliamentarians of the twentieth century, serving as Chancellor of the Exchequer and Home Secretary. From 1977 to 1981, President of the European Commission, and upon his return to English politics he was a brief time the leader of the newly formed Social Democratic Party, that later merged with the Liberals. Jenkins ended his days as grandly named The Right Honourable Lord Jenkins of Hillhead; yet he was also an author of considerable talent and great output, including biographies upon Churchill, Gladstone and Asquith… as well as the little known, Twelve Cities, the very book under the Worm’s lens in this review.
Jenkins himself garnered no pretence as to the book’s aspirations; in the very first line of the preface he labels it ‘this little book’, stating how it was aimed ‘as a relief for those who found Churchill heavy to hold and long to read’. Twelve Cities is, he comments, his own holiday after the arduous slog of getting his excellent biography on Churchill from the research stage to print. And although Twelve Cities is dubbed a memoir, Jenkins too pulls back from an autobiography: ‘One navel-gazing is wholly permissible. Two would point to self-obsession’
So, what are we, the reader, left with? Twelve Cities is a collection of essays upon Jenkins’ favourite cities (minus London). British cities are most numerous, including his former parliamentary constituencies in Birmingham and Glasgow, as well as the “hometown” of Cardiff; whilst the author waxes lyrically about both New York and Chicago; yet the main cream of his attention is saved for the European mainland: Paris, Naples, Brussels, Barcelona and Berlin. Even little Bonn gets a look in, with these European cities surely showing Jenkins’ fond affection for his time as President of the European Commission.
Mostly, the book is a collection of scattered memories and dull conversations with Jenkins’ former acquaintances. The reader is left to hear about his numerous visits to New York, the years, the residences. Perhaps the strongest essays within the book are the cities Jenkins had limited intimate knowledge; including Chicago and Barcelona. Yet even here Jenkins struggles to put in little more than a typical historical run-through of the cities past achievements and stand-out events. At no point does Jenkins ever threaten to get into the psyche of these cities, to peel back the skin and flesh out some truths.
Sitting amongst Jenkins’ long bibliography – alongside the likes of his fantastic biographies of Gladstone and Churchill – Twelve Cities is a stunted infant who knows his place; dwarfed by his larger siblings, yet with little hope of ever growing strong. As a light relief for Jenkins himself, the tonic appears to have worked. However, for the reader, Twelve Cities is a collection best left to only the most ardent Jenkins enthusiastic. And perhaps Jenkins himself would be the first to admit there aren’t too many of those around.
Memoir – 250 pages – my copy (hardback; 2002) bought for 50p from Plymouth Library during 2010
- 2 nods out of 5 -
Roy Jenkins was an outstanding man of notable ability: born the son of a Welsh coal miner, he became a leading light in the Labour party and one of the great parliamentarians of the twentieth century, serving as Chancellor of the Exchequer and Home Secretary. From 1977 to 1981, President of the European Commission, and upon his return to English politics he was a brief time the leader of the newly formed Social Democratic Party, that later merged with the Liberals. Jenkins ended his days as grandly named The Right Honourable Lord Jenkins of Hillhead; yet he was also an author of considerable talent and great output, including biographies upon Churchill, Gladstone and Asquith… as well as the little known, Twelve Cities, the very book under the Worm’s lens in this review.
Jenkins himself garnered no pretence as to the book’s aspirations; in the very first line of the preface he labels it ‘this little book’, stating how it was aimed ‘as a relief for those who found Churchill heavy to hold and long to read’. Twelve Cities is, he comments, his own holiday after the arduous slog of getting his excellent biography on Churchill from the research stage to print. And although Twelve Cities is dubbed a memoir, Jenkins too pulls back from an autobiography: ‘One navel-gazing is wholly permissible. Two would point to self-obsession’
So, what are we, the reader, left with? Twelve Cities is a collection of essays upon Jenkins’ favourite cities (minus London). British cities are most numerous, including his former parliamentary constituencies in Birmingham and Glasgow, as well as the “hometown” of Cardiff; whilst the author waxes lyrically about both New York and Chicago; yet the main cream of his attention is saved for the European mainland: Paris, Naples, Brussels, Barcelona and Berlin. Even little Bonn gets a look in, with these European cities surely showing Jenkins’ fond affection for his time as President of the European Commission.
Mostly, the book is a collection of scattered memories and dull conversations with Jenkins’ former acquaintances. The reader is left to hear about his numerous visits to New York, the years, the residences. Perhaps the strongest essays within the book are the cities Jenkins had limited intimate knowledge; including Chicago and Barcelona. Yet even here Jenkins struggles to put in little more than a typical historical run-through of the cities past achievements and stand-out events. At no point does Jenkins ever threaten to get into the psyche of these cities, to peel back the skin and flesh out some truths.
Sitting amongst Jenkins’ long bibliography – alongside the likes of his fantastic biographies of Gladstone and Churchill – Twelve Cities is a stunted infant who knows his place; dwarfed by his larger siblings, yet with little hope of ever growing strong. As a light relief for Jenkins himself, the tonic appears to have worked. However, for the reader, Twelve Cities is a collection best left to only the most ardent Jenkins enthusiastic. And perhaps Jenkins himself would be the first to admit there aren’t too many of those around.
