For years, I have heard about this book. After reading it, I am not that thrilled. I would suggest purchasing the JR Ackerly biography, as opposed to this. It's a bit sanitized for my taste.

Ackerley, a subtle and unassuming writer, has lately been quietly adopted as a "gay" writer. The term seems to have had less meaning in Ackerley's time than in ours. "My Father and Myself" would perhaps have been, at the time it was written, a suspenseful tale; it is constructed almost as a mystery. The modern reader, alert to every faint whiff of suggested homosexuality, will have guessed the memoir's (un-)shattering conclusion well before he has reached the end. No matter: Ackerley could've written elegantly and compellingly about stock-car racing, or peeling paint; his material here--his father's past and his own youth--is of universal interest, and of particular interest to unhappy sons.

The NYRB Classics series pretty much started out with a slew of reprints of the cult writer J.R. Ackerley, including his three memoirs (this, MY DOG TULIP and HINDOO HOLIDAY) and his one novel (WE THINK THE WORLD OF YOU). This, I would say, is easily his finest work. Ackerley's masterful reconstruction of his father's mysterious lovelife (comprising two unwed households and several unexplained longterm "friendships" with wealthy men) and his own conflicted sex life as a gay man in early twentieth-century London. Ackerley's tone always seems extremely honest, and while the narrative never comes to any absolute conclusions about Ackerley's father you're left convinced that these omissions and gaps are meaningful in and of themselves. This is as about a fine and interesting a memoir as I can imagine.

The mistake that's always made with this book is to see it (or worse, market it) as a cute little study of dog love--a kind of non-fiction equivalent, say, to LASSIE COME HOME. Ackerley's MY DOG TULIP is much better than that, and it's about as far from cute as you might imagine. Tulip does not emerge as very lovable at all: she barks and rushes and she makes messes and she seems to be constantly in heat. Ackerley's narrator, however, loves her no less for all this, and indeed seems wedded to her not only in spite of but because of her distressing physicality. The point this study is making is that to be an animal--like Tulip, or like her master--is to have a very unloveable body that needs to defecate and mate and bump into things. As we read further, we notice how the narrator's manners are not only at odds with these aspects of Tulip, but also with his own less-lovable traits: his jealousy, his snobbishness, his sense of entitlement. This is, in the end, largely a study of manners--and what manners must conceal in both dogs AND humans. If you take it as its meant, this is a very compelling little book.

It's hard for me to understand how some of the reviewers could have failed to appreciate Ackerley. If you've ever owned any kind of pet at all, this book is a must. To be sure, it's not for the squeamish--Tulip's romantic life is the one of the chief topics, and the author minces no words describing the tactics deployed by Tulip, her many canine suitors, and even her owner himself in his attempts to produce true-blooded offspring. But Ackerley approaches even this sensitive subject with both humor and a strange sweetness. He once wrote that Tulip was his true love, the only creature who loved him and whom he could love unconditionally, and after you read the book, you understand why. Tulip's character--defensive, offensive, protective, delicate, beautiful, affectionate, and ever-so-vital--is as moving as any portrayal of a mere human. Unmissable.

So much more than a book about a man and his dog--I laughed, I cried. I laughed more than I cried as the author's way with words grew on me. Several months ago I heard about this book and author for the first time. The book was out of print and I could not find a copy online. I stumbled upon this new edition while browsing online and am so glad that I "waited" for this new version. The book is very attractive and unusual and I enjoyed the introduction which is new too. I'm now reading another book in this same new collection about the author's life--My Father and Myself--it puts My Dog Tulip into a new perspective and I may have to re-read it and if I do, I think I might cry more than I laugh this time around. Although when I looked again at the cover I had a private laugh. I'd recommend this book to almost anyone of any age. Parental guidance perhaps for My Father and Myself.

Mostly bereft of scenery or any notice of local lifeways, hardly a travel book at all, Hindoo Holiday strikes me as being a vicious portrait of his host and benefactor, a maharajah who, like Ackerley, was on the self-defeating quest for the devotion of an Ideal Friend, and, like Ackerley, looking in all the wrong places for love. Ackerley's book is condescending to Indians in the colonial British manner that was abhorrent to Foster both in his time in India and in his masterpiece A Passage to India, Hindoo Holiday is notable for a lack of empathy on Ackerley's part, but, then, in his entire oeuvre, it is only the irritations and heartbreaks of his surrogates that matter. Ackerley was far too solipsistic to be a novelist.

E. M. Forster, whom Ackerley emulated in going to India in the 20s to work as private secretary for a maharajah, has a character in A PASSAGE TO INDIA named Miss Derek, who is private secretary to a rani and who "regarded the entire peninsula as if it were a comic opera." That basically describes the attitude Ackerley adopts in HINDOO HOLIDAY, which treats an indian princely styate as if it were wildly wacky. No doubt that might have been true to Ackerley when he visited in the 20s, but this book's humor has worn somewhat over the years and seems at times a bit condescending. What has remained interesting and vital are Ackerley's observations about Indian (particularly Hindu) customs and manners, and his deft sensitivity and understatement in his portrayal of the maharajah's (and his own) homoerotic desires: Ackerley's keen observational intelligence, fortunately, outweighs the dated cross-cultural comic aspects of the narrative. While this isn;t nearly at the level of one of his later works like MY FATHER AND MYSELF, it's an intriguing read for anyone interested in India during the raj or early 20th-century homosexuality.

I'm a great admirer of Ackerley's writing, and this book is beautifully written, but I failed to get the point. That could be my fault, but since in his other writing he made his points forcefully I suspect that maybe there isn't one to Hindoo Holiday.