There are, broadly speaking, two types of artist: the explorer and the miner. The explorer keeps moving on, staking out new aesthetic or thematic terrain, while the miner keeps returning, digging deeper into the same earth each time. Patrick Modiano, the French Nobel prizewinner for literature in 2014, is an artist firmly of the second camp.

Pally with Bertrand Russell and Mick Jagger, begging to get on the roof of a house in Hanoi to shoot at the final futile waves of Operation Rolling Thunder, wiping the floor with Henry Kissinger at the Oxford Union, mistaken for Che Guevara’s bodyguard and arrested in Bolivia, nearly breaching the citadel of the US embassy in Grosvenor Square – the writer and activist Tariq Ali had, you might say, a pretty good Cold War.

Connecting mass political movements with parliamentary representation is a perennial issue for the left in Britain and, indeed, elsewhere.    It is correct to say that the former — the struggle beyond the Palace of Westminster — is the determining factor in political outcomes, but also true that parliamentary articulation can help shape and empower the movement, even as MPs draw strength from it.

One hundred years ago this summer, from high above Daventry in Northamptonshire, voices began to beam into the homes of 20 million people. They came from the 500ft tall Borough Hill transmitter – truly revolutionary technology in 1925 – which opened with a new work, Daventry Calling, by the poet Alfred Noyes.

This book is billed as providing a ‘fresh’ look at its subject. It needs to, since the pairing of Turner and Constable is a hoary one, dating from their own lifetimes and repeatedly – even tediously – proposed since. To her great credit, Nicola Moorby manages never to be tedious. She orchestrates this well-worn theme with thoughtfulness, tying her analysis to close observation of the works.

Neither John Maynard Keynes nor Friedrich von Hayek wanted to see the devastation of the Great Depression or the second world war again. Both understood how economics and politics could tear societies apart.

When Charles-Marie-Georges Huysmans published his novel À rebours in 1884, he was still a part-time author. By day, the thirty-six-year-old Parisian was a civil servant. At night he wrote, visited his long-suffering lover and attended salons with Émile Zola, his literary mentor.

In March 1941, Labour Monthly, the semi-official magazine of the Communist Party of Great Britain (CPGB), published an apology for a recent review of The English Revolution, 1640 by the up-and-coming historian Christopher Hill.

When I was studying for my A-Level History exams, I sometimes used to pop into Foyle’s bookshop on London’s Charing Cross Road to browse the voluminous History shelves, and on one of my visits I came across The Century of Revolution 1603-1714 by Christopher Hill, published in 1961.

The role of personality and charm in running a state is one theme of Richard Bassett’s superb book, the first English biography of the Empress Maria Theresa since Edward Crankshaw’s in 1969. The different parts of the Habsburg monarchy – Austria, Tyrol, Bohemia, Hungary, Croatia and Milan – had little in common except dynasty, geography and Catholicism.