Having just finished Philippa Pullar biography of Frank Harris, I am disappointed. The book is a blob of Polyfilla splattered over the fine cracks of an old masterpiece. The first part is an exercise in finding what did he (not) tell us wrong, whereas the second part is a thorough and condescending bookkeeping account of Harris’s menial activities.
Who cares if an event really occurred in June 1874 or January of the next or the previous year? So what if he never met Marks, Wagner, General Skobelof or the Emperor of China? Do lengthy, tedious quotes of letters of Y to Z or his unpaid laundry bill make either a good story or shed new light on the man’s work?
This book adds little or nothing to our understanding of Harris’s work or theory. Not a sausage regarding his opinions (except ‘The Speech’ at the end), his ideas and his legacy. Acres and acres however, of his bank balance sheets and Nelly’s moaning.
A waste of time really.
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