I wrote about James Hamilton-Paterson in Boston Review in 2002, here. He's a remarkable, reclusive artist, an Englishman who once divided his time between homesteads in Austria, the Philippines, and Italy but now, I believe, lives mostly in Austria. His novel Gerontius, about the great English composer Sir Edward Elgar taking a cruise up the Amazon (true story), is a masterpiece. ("Oh Edward," says his Elgar to himself, "what a stupid doltish ass you've been to waste your life on the idea that art--in its small way--can make the least difference to things.") I praised it highly, and he was good enough to write me a warm thank-you note, making of me a lifelong fan.

Since then J. H.-P.'s come out with a brisk series of books, including a pair of effervescent comic novels, Cooking With Fernet-Branca and Amazing Disgrace, and quite a few on scientific subjects; now (he's quite the renaissance man, needless to say) he's publishing Empire of the Clouds, an account of the decline and fall of the British aviation industry, which–like so many British industries of the past–used to be the envy of the world, but which fell victim to the UK's inimitable combination of self-doubt, bureaucratic interference, inept business models, and politics. Too bad; those Comets and Britannias were magnificent planes; I had the good fortune to fly in several.

All credit to J. H.-P., though, for his enviable self-sufficiency and continued dedication to the myriad aspects of what we call civilization.