Slightly Foxed > An Index to Slightly Foxed > Law, Jonathan

Law, Jonathan

Jonathan Law is a writer and editor living in Buckinghamshire. His recent books include The Whartons of Winchendon, a short study of one of the strangest families in English history, featuring incest, treason, fairies, diving and the self-proclaimed Solar King of the World.

The numbers in square brackets refer to the issue of the quarterly in which the article appears.
The unbracketed numbers refer to the starting page of the article.
For entries in multiple issues of the quarterly, the occurrences are separated by semi-colons.

articles by, [35] 7; [48] 7; [61] 45; [76] 79; [80] 71

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20221201101831 Jonathan Law on Bernard Wasserstein, The Secret Lives of Trebitsch Lincoln, Slightly Foxed Issue 76

An Olympian Scoundrel

Jonathan Law on Bernard Wasserstein, The Secret Lives of Trebitsch Lincoln

It’s a funny thing, humour. What makes you laugh out loud may leave me with a face like an Easter Island statue. In my own experi­ence the funniest books are non-fiction, and most of these are biographies. There really is nothing so strange or funny as real peo­ple. If I had to present my case, then Exhibit A would surely be Bernard Wasserstein’s The Secret Lives of Trebitsch Lincoln (1988), the extraordinary, meticulous, marvellously funny biography of a man who was – well, what exactly?
20220106105522 W is for Warner, Sylvia Townsend | From the Slightly Foxed archives

W is for Warner, Sylvia Townsend | From the Slightly Foxed archives

Greetings from Slightly Foxed, and a very happy New Year to you all. Before we look ahead to this year’s crop of new publications, we’re taking stock, delving through our bank of back issues and sharing some good reading from the archives. Sylvia Townsend Warner’s joie de vivre – evident in her diaries and described by Jonathan Law in his article from Slightly Foxed Issue 48 – is especially appealing this January.  ‘In 1927 Sylvia Townsend Warner was given a smart notebook by a friend; a day out prompted a few hesitant jottings and, before she knew it, she was off . . .’ If you have received a new diary this Christmas, or if we can tempt you with our selection of smart Slightly Foxed notebooks, then perhaps Sylvia can provide inspiration when faced with the blank page. Whatever the case, and wherever we find you, we do hope you’ll enjoy dipping into her life and writing.
20190301151446 Jonathan Law on Alistair MacLeod - Slightly Foxed Issue 6

Just Staying

Jonathan Law on Alistair MacLeod

In forty years MacLeod produced just sixteen short stories, later collected in Island (2002), and one not very long novel, the extraordinary No Great Mischief (1999). Notoriously, he wrote at glacial speed, toiling over each sentence by hand until its shape and heft and tune were exactly so. You could read the life’s work in a weekend, but you mustn’t: the stories demand to be savoured slowly, the way they were written. A MacLeod sentence is a tactile thing, with the hard but polished feel of a pebble in the hand. Yet the prose is not ‘writerly’ in any tiresome way: ‘I like to think that I am telling a story rather than writing it,’ MacLeod once said, and his work retains a strong sense of the speaking or even singing voice – of folk tales or Gaelic balladry.
20151201145833 Jonathan Law on The Diaries of Sylvia Townsend Warner, SF Issue 48

Surprised by Joy

Jonathan Law on The Diaries of Sylvia Townsend Warner

It’s always strange to think how easily you might not have met that someone: a bus that arrived on time, or a last drink at the bar, and it might all have been quite different. Our meetings with books can be equally subject to fluke. I was in the queue at Barter Books in Alnwick, a clutch of holiday reading under my arm, when for no reason at all I picked up a green Virago paperback: The Diaries of Sylvia Townsend Warner
20120901101751 Jonathan Law on Henry Williamson, Slightly Foxed Issue 35

Tarka the Rotter

Jonathan Law on Henry Williamson, Tarka the Otter

If we’re honest, most of us have at least one friend who we would hesitate to bring into civilized company – someone too strange or socially awkward, full of crazed notions about God or politics, given to boring on or making horrible scenes: unspeakable when drunk. Something similar holds with writers: there are books and authors that we love quite unreasonably but would hesitate to introduce to anyone nice. Often, these are the authors we read and read again, however many times we’ve given them up in despair or disgust, promising ourselves that we won’t soil another moment in their company. As with many a difficult friendship, you can end up wondering who is abusing whom. Some knotty thoughts arise: doesn’t allowing ourselves to feel ashamed of someone, anyone, always make us feel a bit ashamed of ourselves? Doesn’t it imply a priggishness – at worst a kind of treachery?

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