This book uses both sound research and imaginative intelligence to reconstruct the life of the writer Thomas Nashe, active in London throughout the 1590s.

Nashe was a friend of Marlowe and probably knew Shakespeare, he made an important contribution to the development of English prose and the novel, and at a time when government controls on publishing were strict he attempted to comment on abuses of power and political affairs in general. Too often, because of his notorious feud in print with Dr. Gabriel Harvey, he is dismissed as an amusing but lightweight pamphleteer. Reading 'A Cup of News' will correct any such impression. It shows Nashe as an eager participant in the growing intellectual and literary life of the nation at a time when English culture was at its most interesting and creative.

No-one who has read Nashe or takes any interest in the late Elizabethan period can fail to enjoy this book.

This is a very nice little book of portraits and engravings of Elizabethan writers flanked by superb commentaries and mini-biographies by the author of "The Reckoning." The writers featured are Shakespeare, Christopher Marlowe, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Sir Philip Sidney, the Countess of Pembroke, John Donne, Michael Drayton, Sir John Harington, Sir Thomas Overbury, Sir Henry Wotton, the Earl of Oxford, Sir Walter Ralegh, Sir Francis Bacon and three patrons: Lord Hunsdon and the Earls of Southampton and Derby. I recommend highly.

Nicholl's story is at turns entertaining and informative, and he tells it well. (This reads more like fiction than a travelogue.) It's a light, quick read. My only criticism is sometimes it feels Nicholl is trying a little to hard to be a novelist rather than a travel writer when he circles back to the title, which feels contrived.

But that doesn't detract from the story, and paired with Lily Tuck's "Siam", and a couple "Rough Guides", you'll be itching to buy your ticket to Chiang Mai.

I was in Sidney enroute to Bangkok maddly looking for SOMETHING to orient me when I landed, when I stumbled across this gem. It was the cover that attracted me at first - crimson red earth, lush green foliage, searing blue sky, white clouds. Beautiful - but at odds with the title - Borderlines, which seemed to imply a vaguely psychotic, marginal subsistance kind of place that didn't square with what I was expecting from the beach holiday image I had been assured of.

What was "Borderline" about Thailand?

As I found out - everything.

A remarkably insightful "traveler's classic" which explores the country, its people and ones state of mind as you travel through it being seduced. Prose that remind one of a cross between Somerset Maugham in "The Comedians" and gonzo journalist R.H.Thompson. Where did he learn to write!

Then a couple of years ago I was mentioning this trip to a buddy who teaches Elizabethian Drama - he knew Charles Nicholl for his remarkable sleuthing done in "The Reckoning" which showed some hitherto undiscovered facts that support his contention that Christopher Marlowe may have been eliminated for his spying activity rather than in a chance brawl in an obscure tavern on the outskirts of London in 1594.

This is a talented man.

A lyrical, vivid, picaresque account of one adventurous man's oddyssey through Thailand and Burma. Nicholl is able to evoke the beauty and mystery of South East Asia without succumbing to the usual, "exotic" cliches and mushy prosody. His is a rational, discerning eye dazzled by the grandeur of an alien land.

Almost every detail of his account is fascinating, every character vital, astonishing, yet believable. Reading it was a huge inspiration in the days before I made my own, reckless trek through Asia. One of the most down-to-earth, poetic and enthralling travel books ever.

Please, Amazon, urge the reprinting of this book, or find an alternate source so that others can enjoy it as I did.

This was a very interesting book about Columbia, a bizarre bit of journalism involving drugs and a mad celtic friend of his who lives in Columbia.

It describes Columbia very well whilst having an almost novel-like grip as a result of the underlying reason for him being there and also for some of the things that he did.

He describes well the culture of Columbia at the time. It might have changed. He also compares how it had changed from when he was there 12 years previously. Overall a gripping book that took me less than 4 days to read as I was so entranced in it.

I first read this book several years ago whilst travelling through Columbia and could hardly put it down. All the travellers that I met were asking for copies and it has taken on an almost cult status down there. The book is very well written and adds an extra dimension for those intending to take time out and explore this wonderful country. I can't believe that it's out of print!

I adore this book! I've read it several times and have given copies to everyone I know -- that is, I did so until it went out of print and I could no longer find it. What idiot publisher made that decision? This is one of the greatest travel books of all time. My bookshelves are not complete without my very own copy. Please find me one! (P.S. It's a slice of life in Colombia, in South America, not Central America, as another reader claims.)

Dood, he's been dead for like a thousand years, who cares how he died? It's not like they can arrest his murderers or nething.

Nicholl uses exhaustive research into the very deadly crosscurrents of Elizabethan spycraft to point the reader to a plausible, nay, probable explanation for the death of Kit Marlowe.
It's a long read, and the list of players can be tedious,
but you will gain insights into an age that spawned great writers, as well as lethal consequences for some of them.

Contrary to what one reviewer (if we can use that word, since he or she obviously didn't read the book) says, the mystery of Marlowe's death has not ceased to be fascinating. There are several reasons for this, as Nicholl makes abundantly clear: first, the debt owed to any human being whose death has not been clarified; second, the light this murder throws on the workings of the Elizabethan espionage system, and Marlowe's relation to it; third, the fact that he wasn't just anyone - he was a gifted writer, and we all lost something by his dying so young.

Nicholl's work leaves nothing to be desired: it is at the same time scholarly and awfully entertaining. The man obviously knows his subject. The Marlowe that emerges is not the brilliant if somewhat rebellious youth that we used to think of, but a less likeable, more unsavoury character. But, as Nicholl says somewhere in the book, can we really burden him with the weight of our own expectations? He was a man of his time, and, although we might regret having to put the spy side by side with the playwright, he may not have seen it that way: it was a question of going or not going hungry. I would say that I altogether prefer the fuller picture, even if it's not the most pleasant one.

"The Reckoning" is abundantly researched and very well written, and is one of the few books I have lately read, which I did not want to finish.

As another reviwer has already stated, this book will not definitively answer the question that so many lovers of Rimbaud ask. To wit, "Why did he stop writing?"-But the book is a well-researched and well-written account of Rimmbaud as "un autre," somebody else than a poet...But it's all so grindingly depressing. Yes, Rimbaud had incredible endurance and will and courage. But he had no business acumen as the accounts of his many endeavors in the world of commerce amply illustrate. The book is essentially a tale of his slow degeneration in body, if not spirit.-I used to have a friend who loved Rimbaud more than I do who would call me in the middle of the night drunkenly, tearfully asking me why he quit. Well, there was nothing I could say at 3 A. M. that he would remember the next morning.-But what I feel is that the answer lies in Rimbaud's most famous poem, "Le Bateau Ivre." At the end of the poem, he says that, after all the exhilarating and mystical insights, after all the rapturous visions amidst the mad seastorms, there is nothing he would like better now then to return to being a litle boat being pushed across a placid pond by a little boy. Rimbaud had been through more hell in his life by the end of his teens than would fit in the lives of many a tortured soul.-It's really not so remarkable when you consider it that, his poetry unrecognized, his soul tortured by the relationship with Verlaine and the other atrocities and privations he endured that the young man would flee the literary world that had given him nothing but anguish in the end.-Unfortunately , the world to which he fled offered little in the way of compensation, as this book sadly chronicles. I recommend this book to those who, like myself, had no clear idea of exactly what Rimbaud DID after he stopped writing besides vague ideas of his being a gun-runner, slave-trader and amputee (This book, by the way, casts serious doubts over whether he was ever either of the former two, except perhaps when forced to do so by bad luck and necessity).-So, all in all, a sad but informative work.-I still think the last lines of "Le Bateau Ivre" are the key to why he stopped writing. But, as is commmonplace, you can't go home again, as those last lines express a yearning for. This book is an excellent chronicle of the alternative Rimbaud was forced to accept.

Arthur Rimbaud was one of the most brilliant poets the human race has ever seen. He belongs in the company of Callimachus, Sappho and Catullus, the spoiled child from the north whose frank and erotic poems scandalized Rome: odi et amo, Catullus had written. I hate you and I love you. That says it all. About Rimbaud as well.

Rimbaud was an illusion, a ghost, someone we conjure up and then spend the rest of out lives trying to shake off. Dead for more than a hundred years now, Arthur Rimbaud wrote poetry for a few brief years, while he was still in his teens, from about 1870 to 1873. He could never have imagined the extraordinary influence his slim collection of poems would have over the following century. Rimbaud. however, abandoned the world of literature at a very young age. When he was nineteen, he gave in to a mixture of rage and pride, and threw his marvelous talent onto a bonfire, along with his manuscripts. By the time his anger had eaten its way through his soul, he could not speak of poetry without contempt. He lived another eighteen years, wandering from one end of Europe to the other and as far afield as the East Indies. He joined the Dutch Colonial Army and was sent to Java, but deserted and returned to France. He got work in Cyprus, as an overseer of a stone quarry, but his temper got the better of him, "I have had some quarrels with the workmen," he wrote, "and I've had to request some weapons." He collapsed with typhoid and hurriedly returned home.

In March 1880, when he was twenty-five, he left France for the last time. He found work in Cyprus again, as foreman of a construction gang in the mountains. He got involved in another quarrel and, it seems, threw a stone which hit a local worker and killed him. Rimbaud fled, traveling through the Red Sea, ending up in the British port of Aden, a sun-baked volcanic crater perched at the gateway to the Indian Ocean on the coast of Yemen. He spent the next eleven years in exile, working as a trader in Aden and Abyssinia.

Charles Nicholl's book is chiefly the story of those years, from the time Rimbaud disembarks at Aden in 1880 to his death in Marseilles in 1891, at the age of thirty-seven, from the cancer which had started in his right leg. It is very stylish, thoroughly researched, and shows a great deal of insight into the character of this angry and bitter man. Arthur Rimbaud's adolescent rebellion was so brief and the flowering of his talent so violent and astonishing that it has overshadowed his essential character. His life is often seen through a romantic blur, and the astringent view of his career that Nicholl presents in this book is a useful corrective.

Rimbaud was born in the northern French town of Charleville in October 1854, the son of an army captain and a farmer's daughter. There were two younger sisters and an older brother. The father, who had spent some years in Algeria and in different parts of France, found provincial life stifling and family life difficult. He was often absent. Rimbaud was six when his father left for the last time, never to return.

His mother was a dour, hard-working woman of peasant stock, impatient with her husband's fecklessness, and embittered by his final desertion. For most of his life Rimbaud was like his mother--devoted to hard work. As a child he was obedient, studious and even rather prim. In his final school examinations he swept the board, winning all the prizes in his form except for two.

In his sixteenth year, everything changed. Two catastrophic public events shook France, and a private calamity changed Rimbaud forever. The French emperor Napoleon the Third declared war on Prussia in July 1870. The German armies swept through north-eastern France, the countryside where Rimbaud had grown up, and within six months the French had been defeated.

In the aftermath of the Armistice in January 1871, the people of Paris, republican to the core and disgusted with their government, set up a Commune. Eventually French government troops put it down, killing twenty thousand French men and women in the streets of Paris in a single week in May. Rimbaud had run away from home to join the Commune, though it's unlikely he was there during that week of horror.

Rimbaud though, had his own, personal nightmare to live through. At some time during this visit to Paris he was raped, perhaps gang-raped, probably by a group of soldiers at the Babylone barracks. The evidence is indirect but, as Charles Nicholl says, and most biographers agree with him, it is persuasive. Rimbaud went home to Charleville in a state of profound shock and confusion. He sent batches of his poems to important poets in the capital, Banville and Paul Verlaine among them. Verlaine summoned him to Paris and to his fate. It was September 1871 and Rimbaud was sixteen; Verlaine twenty-eight. The two men--rather, the man and the schoolboy--became lovers. The older poet Banville lent Rimabud an attic flat for a while as a favor to Verlaine. Rimbaud became friends with the musician Ernest Cabaner, who also put him up for a while, the novelist Jules Claretie, and the poets Charles Cros and Germaine Nouveau. These bohemians were scandalizing the bourgeoisie with their sexual indiscretions, their immodest writings and their indulgence in absinthe and hashish and opium. Rimbaud outdid them in every respect.

He made many enemies. Verlaine's future biographer Lepelletier disapproved of his influence on his old friend Verlaine, and Rimbaud responded by calling him an obscenity. When Lepelletier told Rimbaud to shut up, the boy threatened him with a table knife. He called poor Banville yet another obscenity, he stabbed the photographer Carjat with a sword-stick, he repaid the hospitality of Cabaner by going into Cabaner's room when he wasn't there and committing an unspeakable act. In short, Rimbaud was as arrogant and bad-tempered as one could get.

In July 1873, less than two years after they had first met, Verlaine shot Rimbaud in a fit of drunken jealousy. The boy was wounded in the wrist, and Verlaine burst into tears and begged his forgiveness. The next evening while they were out walking in the street Verlaine turned ugly again and pulled the revolver from his pocket. This time Rimbaud called out to a passing policeman. They were in Brussels; the police discovered evidence of their homosexual relationship, and incriminating letters. Rimbaud tried to take back the charges, but it was too late. Verlaine was sentenced to two years' hard labour in a Belgian jail.

Odi et amo. It is a phrase that sums up, not only Rimbaud's work but his life as well.

I have been influenced by Rimbaud since I was about 15. I learned of him through reading "No One Here Gets Out Alive", the biography of Jim Morrison. That led to Rimbaud which was a huge turning point in my life. It was when I decided to become a poet. The Rimbaud influence retains its lustre two decades later. One thing I always had a hard time dealing with was his renunciation of literature. It always seemed inexplicable to me that someone with that kind of gift could just suddenly turn his back on the muse. It is a dilemma that always conflicted with my reverence for Rimbaud's writing. This is what piqued my curiosity for this book. I immediately placed it on my 'to read' list. I wondered if it could shed some light on this startling decision. I ordered my copy and devoured it once it came in. This book is an enthralling read. It is a fascinating tale of travel and adventure. Rimbaud was certainly living on the edge during these years. His caravans through East Africa are truly the stuff of legend. His ventures from Aden to Harar and Dhibouti et al are amazing. It is interesting to learn how he mastered languages and became like a native. His business savvy is also intriguing. Who would expect the same infidel who spent a season in hell could possess such a degree of business acumen. I was surprised when I learned that he developed an interest in photography during his stay in Africa. It is a shame that he did not get to develop his photography skill before his illness. It reveals that perhaps some interest in the arts still beat in his heart. This interest does suggest that he might have ultimately returned to literature had he not fallen ill and died prematurely. It is tragic that he wasn't able to live longer. This book was an eye opener in a lot of ways. Charles Nicholl did an outstanding job writing this book. I still do not fully understand his renunciation of literature but this book did illuminate many points on his quest for adventure and his desire to become somebody else. This book is a great adventure story and an essential read for anyone who wishes to learn more about Rimbaud.

This book is about Sir Walter Ralegh's first Guiana Voyage of 1595. Having read and admired Nicholl's earlier book, The Reckoning: The Murder of Christopher Marlowe, I picked up this one with great expectations. And, although not as good as The Reckoning, it was well worth the read. The chief flaw to this book is that Nicholl's deconstructionism is often overplayed here, leading him to conclusions or hypotheses that just aren't supported by the documents. He often reads more into Ralegh's and others' words than I think they meant. I do recommend this book, although don't accept all Nicholl's "readings" at face value.

This is not a bad book. The author's writing style takes some getting used to.