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The Enlightenment is one of Oxford University Press’s “Very Short Introductions” series; there are over 400 volumes. Written by experts, they “are for anyone wanting a stimulating and accessible way into a new subject”.

Professor John Robertson’s treatment of the Enlightenment is at times neither.

Robertson’s framework is a valid one -- that the Enlightenment was a philosophical construct more than a historical event.

But the way he goes about explaining and describing this is dry and laden with detail.

For example, while print culture is undoubtedly important (nay, crucial), here we also learn the licensing deals between Charles-Joseph Pancoucke and Le Breton of Encyclopédie by Jean D’Alembert and Denis Diderot (pp. 92-98). Repeated episodes like this make it a not very short introduction.

I will synthesise Robertson’s arguments on the Enlightenment and freedoms of religion and expression, along with the role of public opinion, not only because they are important to me but his fine concluding chapter underlines their relevance in our present less certain political world.

Robertson explains well the philosopher Locke’s argument of toleration, a defence of Protestant Dissenters’ freedom to worship (as separate from the established Church of England) (p. 38). Locke’s argument excluded Catholics (subjects of a foreign power) and atheists (no salvation). Philosopher Voltaire's Traité sur la tolérance (1763) resolves this, removing theology so that toleration itself will lead to ‘the physical and moral well-being of society’ (pp. 41-42).

The American colonies implemented the theory by repudiating the Church of England and codifying the separation of church and state in its constitution. In England, the church wasn’t disestablished, but Catholics were deemed to be not so much a threat to the state; the idea of toleration was deconfessionalised (p. 42). (This may help explain why some Protestants in Northern Ireland are less tolerant of Catholics, deeming them subjects of a foreign power and a threat to the state.)

Robertson provides a good (but complicated) review of the philosophical arguments of the nature of society and the state (pp. 52-54). The debate is on the sociability of man and whether this is natural or must be guided (and enforced). Enter philosophers Grotius, Hobbes, Pufendorf, Thomasius, Locke, Carmichael, Pascal, Nicole, Mandeville, Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, Hume, and Smith.

The Irish Presbyterian philosopher Frances Hutcheson (1694-1746) argued that ‘natural social affections were the precondition of entering a civil society’ (p. 56). The natural affections were God’s ordering of the world, but the sanction of the afterlife was only ‘an additional inducement to moral culture’. Some stricter Scottish Presbyterians noted this, and would have deemed Hutcheson with suspicion. (This reminds one of the internal Presbyterian debate over the Westminster Confession of Faith.)

An evolution of this argument is political economy, which Robertson suggests was the core of the Enlightenment’s contribution to Western thought: ‘the prospect of human betterment, in this world rather than the next, in the present over the past’.

Yet this is one framed in historical experience, that while a society’s economy may not grow forever, no state could control the diverse and varied activities of a modern commercial economy; governments needed to listen and respond to society.

In other words, the Enlightenment’s perspective on the role of public opinion was made more important. But would it confirm or undermine its philosophical principles?

For example, philosopher David Hume made the observation (‘Of the first principles of government’ (1741)) of how easy the many are ruled by the few: “[The] governors have nothing to support them but opinion. It is therefore on opinion only that government is founded; and this maxim extends to the most despotic and most military governments, as well as to the most free and most popular.”

This acknowledges a destablising power of opinion on the state, with those in authority wishing to defend affairs of state as a ‘reason of state’ and not to be rendered part of the public realm. How thus to manage opinion?

In some cases, opinion management failed -- American and French revolutions immediately come to mind. So a triumph of the Enlightenment or something altogether different? Robertson argues the latter, defining revolution as ‘the revenge of political agency upon the impersonal, gradual process of change’ as envisaged by the Enlightenment.

But Robertson goes too far is describing the French Revolution as the antithesis of Enlightenment (p. 116). Through the book you can’t describe the evolution of the freedom of expression and power of public opinion upon government, and then deny revolution as a logical outcome. Perhaps revolution may not be the ideal outcome -- lives are lost through political violence -- but revolution reveals that society’s limit of frustration with what it deems as acceptable levels of progress. (A government could alternatively try to suppress societal expectations, but that to me would be the antithesis of Enlightenment.)

In the final chapter, Robertson describes the debate among philosophers of the contemporary relevance of Enlightenment. An important question that defenders of the Enlightenment have to ask themselves was whether its universal, rational formula for true knowledge and morals actually lead to betterment. Update Hume’s observation above with a populist rise to fascism.

The answer has been provided more by historians than philosophers, as Robertson explains (pp. 124-126). The main defence is to associate Enlightenment with modernity, citing the collapse of Marxism, the revival of religion for political argument, and finally dismissing postmodernism as a relativisation of truth. The corollaries are that Enlightenment provides a better framework for political economy, secularism is a better form of civic politics, and the morality of diminishing cruelty remains valid.

Philosophically, the argument can go both ways (see critiques of Kant). Robertson concludes by suggesting that what could be best worth remembering about Enlightenment is not that it offers a fixed view of what progress is, but to learn from the process that its thinkers took in understanding the problems they faced, and how their imagination led to original proposals.

I find this especially relevant in light of debates about the West and so-called ‘clash of civilisations’ as well as resurgences of populism in Western democracies.

My humble suggestion is to highlight the value of engagement with the public, so they themselves agree how progress will be achieved without violating rights of others, and while maintaining principles of tolerance. The blind spot among Modernisers is that this need not be under capitalism, secularism, or Western notions of morality.

To paraphrase Kant, if we wish Enlightenment to forge a world citizenship, our imagination needs to go visiting, to learn from our collective catastrophes as well as how we have achieved our futures.

I have read most of de Botton’s books, and The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work took me the longest to finish, partly because I am a slow reader, but I blame more on the editing. The chapters are his brief immersions in ten jobs, across the professions.

While absorbing his philosophical reflections was at times illuminating, often his presentations was one of the mundaneness of it all.

Yes, work can be mundane. But for many (if not most), it provides an important sense of worth.

de Botton didn’t ask workers what they enjoy about their work, if they derived any pleasure, even if only social.

Because most work brings people together — colleagues we call them — and for some the proverbial water cooler gossip or post-day pint makes the toil bearable.

Indeed, I would have liked to learn de Botton’s thoughts on the increasing remoteness of work — hot desking, meetings in coffee shops, virtual meetings via Skype calls.

Here, the first two chapters — on cargo shipping and logistics — speak to the physical dimension of our consumption.

But they also provide scope to ponder about how we make those purchases, frequently from our beds tapping an iPad rather than a journey to a town centre.

de Botton serendipitously finds himself in a graveyard of jumbo planes, and he uses the metaphor fittingly to conclude the chapter and the book.

Perhaps this was his intention all along — to make the reader endure the tedium, to learn that our jobs are just ‘matchstick protests’ in the wave of life.

Women of Vision accompanies a travelling exhibition of the same title, curated by National Geographic. Both celebrate the work of eleven inspiring female photojournalists, featuring nearly 100 images, ranging from social issues, effects of war, and changes in our natural habitats.

Renowned American news journalist, Ann Curry, begins the foreword with words, “Henri Cartier-Bresson, considered the father of photojournalism…”, explaining how a photographer’s vision is influenced by one’s experiences and emotions. And how these will be different due to gender.

To a degree, that is certainly true. For example, I cannot imagine a male photographer gaining access to record moments such as young girls and their adult husbands (“Too Young to Wed”, Stephanie Sinclair), a woman-owned beauty shop in Zambia with a customer breast-feeding a child (Lynn Johnson), or a girl in diaper and makeup in advance of a beauty pageant (Jodi Cobb).

But none of the photographers fit any female typecast. Some may have had to accept a “girl’s” work assignment from their editors during their career. Indeed, Lynn Johnson stills sees a gender divide: “It’s an issue at every level: with what you decide to shoot and how you’re received. Then you have to decide, are you going to make it an issue?”

But all excel in the outstanding quality of their work on display here.

Indeed, this edited selection reveals the diversity of approaches and subject matter that one would expect in the wider genre. Why wouldn’t it?

For example, as Lynsey Addario explained: “Everyone covers wars for different reasons. Some are in it for the adrenaline rush, some for the exciting lifestyle, and others because they care. For me, it’s about telling the story of human suffering and getting those images to policy makers. I hope to effect change.”

Likewise, Maggie Steber said: “To me, the story of Rhodesia was not about the front line, where I would have gotten killed. It was about how the society was changing.”

Storytelling is a compelling motivation for several of these photographers.

Describing her project photographing immigrant broccoli pickers in northern Maine, Amy Toensing said that it was the first time she realised that she could tell a story through a sequence of images.

Several others describe their method of familiarising themselves with the subject matter. Erika Larsen, for example, spent three years immersed with the Sami people of the Arctic Circle for that project.

Meanwhile, I identify with Carolyn Drake’s midpoint approach: “The most interesting time on a project is when you’re on the border between being an outsider and an insider — able to separate from it, but also identify with it.”

Regardless, photography becomes addictive.

As Lynn Johnson said: “I don’t think you understand; I have to do this.” Or as in Lynsey Addario’s just-published memoir, It’s What I Do.

And now we live in an age when so many more people are creating and consuming images, in which some fear the craft of photography is getting lost.

But Kitra Cahana would counter this, by her embracing of 21st century technology: “My hope is to wed photography with more voices beyond my photographic voice, to be an all-in-one journalist, to tell stories that are fully rounded,” by meshing it with other mediums.

And as Diane Cook explained: “Taking pictures is not just pushing a button. Like a musician, you have to practice and be tuned and have the instinct to respond in the moment.”

Photography is about learning through experience (Carolyn Drake), and getting what’s inside your heart out onto the photograph (Amy Toensing).

So Henri Cartier-Bresson’s ‘decisive moment’ lives on. What Women of Vision achieves is a revelation of this process amongst an exemplary group of influential photographers of our day.

I have not studied photography formally, but take solace that many of the 100 photographers featured in this thorough volume of the urban landscape and its people have learned their craft from the harsh realities of the street.

Nevertheless I may be utterly under-qualified to provide a meaningful critique of this very considered book, The World Atlas of Street Photography, published by Thames & Hudson.

Author Jackie Higgins has done a masterful job. The structure of the book is geographical, by world region. Each photographer gets a page or two, with a pertinent selection of his or her work.

As one would expect, most images feature people. Some are candid; others are posed. And some photographers concentrate more on the physical environment -- the human influence without the presence of any inhabitants themselves.

What I like is that there's no need to read the book from cover-to-cover. You can peruse the pages and stop and inspect more of what captures your eye. (Perhaps not unlike the behaviour of a practiced street photographer.) The biographical entries are well written and easy to digest.

Max Kozloff sets the global scene in his foreword. I particularly like his statement of how "photographers have reacted with a discursive strategy of their own", including a response to "post-modernist scepticism towards documentary forms".

Because street photography tells stories, of the photographer and the photographed. Some stories are easier to decipher from the images than others, but story telling is one of man's longest-running habits. Long live the documentary style, updated for the 21st century.

And that is my only mild criticism -- there is no modern signposting of any of the photographers. Perhaps these acclaimed artists are beyond Flickr and Tumblr, but I would have appreciated links to at least portfolio websites. There's also no bibliography or further reading section.

Yet The World Atlas of Street Photography should be on any self-respecting street photographer's bookshelf. Jackie Higgins achieves her objective of showcasing illuminating juxtapositions, as she puts it, providing the reader with ample inspiration and insight of a wide variety of techniques and styles.

It is a true atlas of the street genre.

God can sanctify photography. With a poem by Pope Leo XIII, Colin Ford explains the basis for how Irish Jesuit Frank Browne acquired a camera from his bishop uncle, at the age of 17, and kept making images throughout his priestly life.

Browne took his camera everywhere. His early trips to Europe were the apparent source of his self-teaching of technique, analysing the works of Masters’ painters in Venice and Florence.

He travelled widely, to the front lines in France and Flanders during World War One (serving as chaplain) and further to Australia (where he went to recuperate after suffering mustard gassing).

Yet I would argue that it is his persistent images of Ireland over the decades, emerging as a new republic, that leaves a significantly valuable legacy. Photos of countryside life are complemented with ones of industrialisation.

Browne is known primarily for photos that he took during the maiden voyage of the Titanic. His first class ticket was only for Southampton-Cherbourg-Cobh (his uncle never intended for him to emigrate to America!). With the sinking of the ship, his precious images were in highest demand by newspapers.

Kodak thanked him by offering a lifelong supply of film. Yet Browne was responsible for developing the film and paying for any prints. Consequently, many of his photos remained unpublished, until Father Edward O’Donnell discovered a large trunk, long after Browne’s death.

Father O’Donnell proceeded to publish a series of Frank Browne photo books, including Frank Browne’s Titanic Album. More recently he has written a full biography in The Life and Lens of Father Browne.

But Frank Browne: A Life through the Lens, by Donald and Edwin Davison and the subject of this review, is a more artistic critique of his best work, copiously illustrated and drawn from his trove of 42,000 images.

In a chapter titled “Father Browne photographer of the twentieth Century”, Donald Davison explains how Father Browne was influenced initially by pictorialism but also with modernism.

Browne was not constrained by any particular photographic style, though reportage-style stands out. Even here, he didn’t always obey the decisive moment – sometimes he would get children and take off their shoes and socks for his more desired, rustic look of the countryside.

One could argue that because Browne did not concentrate on any particular method, he never mastered his craft.

But I don’t believe Father Brown was ever seeking photography perfection; his formal training was spiritual, remember.

Instead, we’ve been blessed with the vision of a man who understood tone and mood, natural and human, who recorded the matter of life wherever he found himself.

I highly recommend Frank Browne: A Life through the Lens, by Donald and Edwin Davison, for its approach to the subject from a photographer’s perspective.

I came across Coffee with Jesus on a display table at the front of a Barnes & Noble bookstore. Just as well, as I doubt I would have perused the religion section to discover it.

Coffee with Jesus originated online, under the consortium  Radio Free Babylon. It is a irreverent perspective of Christ in everyday -- American -- lives, with our Lord dispensing his eternal wisdom on the flawed mortal characters presented in this graphic novel. There's Carl, Lisa, Ann, Kevin and Joe, each of which author David Wilkie provides pseudo-biographies.

And of course there's Satan, who taunts Jesus with nicknames like the Boy King, dogmatic Galilean, the Nazarene.

I enjoyed Coffee with Jesus and its theological humour. (Needs to be more like this.) Certainly there will be some who will take offence in putting words into Jesus' mouth, but the joke is surely at them?

That is, I'm reminded of a small notice stand at a church coffee shop, which declared, "Christ is okay; it's Christians I can't stand." The Word is the message, however delivered, whether the Sunday sermon or a good piece of levity served with a cup of Java.

Perhaps poignantly after just returning from a long and splendid transatlantic Christmastime holiday, and getting back into routine in the return to work, I finished Alain de Botton's book, A Week at the Airport.

A Week at the Airport is a short and compact book ("Slender enough to pack in your carry-on", Daily Mail). It can be considered an addendum of sorts of his previous book, The Art of Travel (from which one learns that de Botton is a home bird, really; see my separate review).

I've always liked Alain de Botton's use of illustrations and imagery interspersed with his narratives. In this case, Richard Baker adds wonderful value with his insightful photographs.

A Week at the Airport is just that -- the chief executive of BAA granted the author unrestricted access throughout the world's busiest airport, Heathrow.

"In such lack of constraints, I felt myself to be benefitting from a tradition wherein the wealthy merchant enters into a relationship with an artist fully prepared for him to behave like an outlaw; he does not expect good manners, he knows and is half delighted by the idea that the favoured baboon will smash his crockery."

Thankfully de Botton does behave himself and doesn't offend the airport staff, or perhaps more importantly, the security folk at the Border Agency.

The book is divided into four sections, reflecting the main dimensions of our airport experience -- Approach, Departures, Airside and Arrivals.

I like de Botton's philosophical insights into the otherwise mundane, or at least those aspects of daily life that we usually don't think twice about.

For example, airport hotels. Even with their poetic menus, which de Botton does his best to elevate, an airport hotel is functionary; unlike their countryside siblings, you don't select an airport hotel for its environmental surroundings.

Though there's no harm in trying to appeal to aesthetic beauty. Terminal 5 "wanted to have a go" at replicating the experience of arriving at Jerusalem's elaborate Jaffa Gate, to welcome those who have travelled great distances to the promise and prospect of a new country.

But baggage retrieval and finding your car in the parking lot (or silent taxi transfer) quickly erases such euphoria.

de Botton's strength is inserting the human condition in every aspect of life. Lest you think he doesn't really recommend airport travel, de Botton is an unfailing romantic (and thankfully so). When he describes our human encounters -- in this case with hotel staff, fellow passengers, border control agents, and those we're departing and reuniting with -- de Botton evokes the universality of our existence. At least those of us who have ever experienced airports.