But he writes extremely well, with humour and economy of language on a subject which would provoke many to hyperbole.

Jim Corbett would have been a great man if he had never written a word. The Jim Corbett National Park exists today because he wanted it so. A constant theme is that the tiger is great-hearted gentleman, and doomed by the progress of civilisation, in ways that have nothing to do with hunting, unless something is done. His friends ranged from the highest in the government to the peasants he loved, and he brought them together in a way few have done. He admits his mistakes freely and with humour, and was often in a state of real, well-informed fear. There are no heroics in this extraordinarily brave man's work. Perhaps the majority of his man-eaters, in dense and rocky jungle, were killed at a range of feet rather than yards. The easy ways of killing an animal rarely work with man-eaters, and Corbett frequently spent weeks, nights after night sitting out alone, after a man-eater which knew of his presence, and was just as interested in stalking him. To this task he brought consumate skill and knowledge. Corbett never apologised for enjoying shooting as a sport in his early years, but he eventually turned to hunt exclusively man-eaters, for the protection of the people to whom he dedicated one of his books: 'My friends, the poor of India.'

But it learns its business, sometimes fearfully well. Man-eaters, however, are another thing entirely, and he always emphasised that even the man-eater, almost invariably prevented by injury or age from hunting his natural prey, is neither guilty nor cruel. He always claimed that for someone who knows enough not to give provocation, the jungle was extremely safe. He started work as a minor official of an Indian railway, but his greatest interest was in the wildlife of the northern Indian jungles, which he frequented alone since early childhood. Jim Corbett came of an undistinguished family who had lived in India for generations, and although British in his race, dress, speech and habits, simply was an Indian in his own country, as much as anyone of Indian descent can be British or American. This is the story of the sort of British imperialist in India who is seldom now remembered.

The Air Killer by James Corbett