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charleslambert's review against another edition
4.0
What a wonderful book this is, generous, thoughtful, unsentimental in its attitude towards creativity and value. It tells the story of a trip to the Amazon made by Elgar when he was 63, and if that puts you off, you'll miss an exceptionally stimulating read. The only reason I haven't give it five stars is that it's not quite as good as the same author's Loving Monsters
bookpossum's review
5.0
I loved this book. I am not sure how interesting it would be for someone with no interest in so-called "classical" music, with its references to Elgar's music and that of other composers. But as a study of a man who has almost lost his musical creativity, and has lived through the Great War and seen it shatter his world, it is very moving indeed.
Hamilton-Paterson's writing is beautiful. Here is a description of night falling on the Amazon:
It is the moment between dusk and dark when the forest stops breathing in and prepares for its night-long exhalation. With the vanishing of sunset's colour the water slides around the river bend like liquid slate, its surface scrawled faintly with poolings and involutions. The first fireflies blink over the mud among the rot and tangle at the jungle's edge. At the last moment of visibility a shadow comes and goes on the water although the air above seems to hold nothing more substantial than moths and midges - certainly nothing which could draw beneath it the outline of jagged wings. This slow flap as of membranes supporting a most ancient thing crabs its way upstream at an angle and is lost almost as soon as the eye thinks to have seen its shadow. A strange cry comes from invisible mid-river and at once a thousand frogs burst into steady unison.
Hamilton-Paterson's writing is beautiful. Here is a description of night falling on the Amazon:
It is the moment between dusk and dark when the forest stops breathing in and prepares for its night-long exhalation. With the vanishing of sunset's colour the water slides around the river bend like liquid slate, its surface scrawled faintly with poolings and involutions. The first fireflies blink over the mud among the rot and tangle at the jungle's edge. At the last moment of visibility a shadow comes and goes on the water although the air above seems to hold nothing more substantial than moths and midges - certainly nothing which could draw beneath it the outline of jagged wings. This slow flap as of membranes supporting a most ancient thing crabs its way upstream at an angle and is lost almost as soon as the eye thinks to have seen its shadow. A strange cry comes from invisible mid-river and at once a thousand frogs burst into steady unison.
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