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On Reading
Apr. 6th, 2006 09:30 pmThere was an interesting piece in The Guardian today on "Books That Move Men".
A year ago, Lisa Jardine and Annie Watkins asked women "which book had helped them most during their lives" — that is to say, a "watershed" novel. A wide range of books were mentioned, although Jane Eyre and Pride & Prejudice were the winners (why, I wonder, were this pair two of my set books at my, all-boys, school? A good question).
So, the women thought, in an idiotic idea clearly drummed up over their fifth Friday-lunchtime drink, let's do the same for men.
The problem was, the concept of "watershed" novels, ones where you identify with the lead characters, ones where the emotional angst and manner of coping with difficulties in life are parameount, is not one that you can apply to most ment. Indeed, as the researchers noted, with something approaching a note of puzzlement, "Between 20 and 40, many men we talked to openly showed an almost complete lack of interest in reading which drew them into personal introspection, or asked them to engage with the family and the domestic sphere."
Well, surprise surprise.
The outright winner amongst men was, by the way, Albert Camus' The Outsider.
But, as surveys do, it got me thinking. Watershed novels? Being drawn into personal introspection? Clearly I do not approach novel (or book) reading the same way these people do. I mean, I must have read 1,000 novels in my lifetime, maybe more, with maybe 500 of them by the age of 25 and another 500 since. But I'd be pushed to think of a novel that I would describe as life-altering, or life-affirming, come to that. I do remember reading Jane Eyre, Pride & Prejudice and The Mill On The Floss and thinking "what a pile of tosh" (opinions that I still maintain, by the way). And I guess that, as a youngster, the two books which I liked the most were 1984 and The Man In The High Castle, both of which have certain echoes of Camus. But I wouldn't have called either of them watershed novels in my emotional development. Later I came to Joseph Conrad, and I realized that there was great writing (Conrad) and middlebrow chick-lit dressed up as literature (Jane Austen). It wasn't me that was mistaken; the teachers were. There was great writing out there, but these twats wouldn't recognize it if it jumped up and bit them. (By way of atonement here, I did have The Power And The Glory as a set text for A-Level, and that is, I think, one of the great novels of the 20th century. To compensate for this, some donkey on the exam board at London University thought that Barchester Towers deserved to be ranked alongside it.)
I just read books because I enjoyed reading words. I loved words. Plots were useful, characterisation was more important, but words were everything. Not for nothing is one of my favourite novels Earthly Powers.
Have I ever read a novel for emotional reinforcement, to say to myself "ahh, yes, the author understands just how I feel about life"? Perhaps I have, just once. Kafka's The Trial sums up human existence for me. But it's not something that I like to remind myself of.
+++
£:$, 1.7523. Gain since last report, 77 points. Yay. Loss so far, 121 points. Boo.
The recent dogged recovery on Party came to an abrupt halt tonight as the Gods decided that Aces would be crap and flops would not hit. The month had been going very well and is now back to average overall with a (yes, you've guessed it) small loss on Party.
I once went something like 14 months on Paradise without being able to get anywhere, even though I had won several thousands in the previous 12 months. It almost feels as if I am going through that kind of run on Party at the moment. I was quite happy with my play tonight (an unusual statement when you have just gone through 50 big bets in total on four different tables). with no desperation calls just to show how unlucky I had been. Indeed, I saved quite a few bets by judicious folds. However, as the $200 loss approached I could feel myself heading into the dangerous uber-aggressive mode, where the raises come on more and more marginal hands. So I upped sticks and left.
Working at home tomorrow. Hooray. Lots of things to do. Boo.
A year ago, Lisa Jardine and Annie Watkins asked women "which book had helped them most during their lives" — that is to say, a "watershed" novel. A wide range of books were mentioned, although Jane Eyre and Pride & Prejudice were the winners (why, I wonder, were this pair two of my set books at my, all-boys, school? A good question).
So, the women thought, in an idiotic idea clearly drummed up over their fifth Friday-lunchtime drink, let's do the same for men.
The problem was, the concept of "watershed" novels, ones where you identify with the lead characters, ones where the emotional angst and manner of coping with difficulties in life are parameount, is not one that you can apply to most ment. Indeed, as the researchers noted, with something approaching a note of puzzlement, "Between 20 and 40, many men we talked to openly showed an almost complete lack of interest in reading which drew them into personal introspection, or asked them to engage with the family and the domestic sphere."
Well, surprise surprise.
The outright winner amongst men was, by the way, Albert Camus' The Outsider.
But, as surveys do, it got me thinking. Watershed novels? Being drawn into personal introspection? Clearly I do not approach novel (or book) reading the same way these people do. I mean, I must have read 1,000 novels in my lifetime, maybe more, with maybe 500 of them by the age of 25 and another 500 since. But I'd be pushed to think of a novel that I would describe as life-altering, or life-affirming, come to that. I do remember reading Jane Eyre, Pride & Prejudice and The Mill On The Floss and thinking "what a pile of tosh" (opinions that I still maintain, by the way). And I guess that, as a youngster, the two books which I liked the most were 1984 and The Man In The High Castle, both of which have certain echoes of Camus. But I wouldn't have called either of them watershed novels in my emotional development. Later I came to Joseph Conrad, and I realized that there was great writing (Conrad) and middlebrow chick-lit dressed up as literature (Jane Austen). It wasn't me that was mistaken; the teachers were. There was great writing out there, but these twats wouldn't recognize it if it jumped up and bit them. (By way of atonement here, I did have The Power And The Glory as a set text for A-Level, and that is, I think, one of the great novels of the 20th century. To compensate for this, some donkey on the exam board at London University thought that Barchester Towers deserved to be ranked alongside it.)
I just read books because I enjoyed reading words. I loved words. Plots were useful, characterisation was more important, but words were everything. Not for nothing is one of my favourite novels Earthly Powers.
Have I ever read a novel for emotional reinforcement, to say to myself "ahh, yes, the author understands just how I feel about life"? Perhaps I have, just once. Kafka's The Trial sums up human existence for me. But it's not something that I like to remind myself of.
+++
£:$, 1.7523. Gain since last report, 77 points. Yay. Loss so far, 121 points. Boo.
The recent dogged recovery on Party came to an abrupt halt tonight as the Gods decided that Aces would be crap and flops would not hit. The month had been going very well and is now back to average overall with a (yes, you've guessed it) small loss on Party.
I once went something like 14 months on Paradise without being able to get anywhere, even though I had won several thousands in the previous 12 months. It almost feels as if I am going through that kind of run on Party at the moment. I was quite happy with my play tonight (an unusual statement when you have just gone through 50 big bets in total on four different tables). with no desperation calls just to show how unlucky I had been. Indeed, I saved quite a few bets by judicious folds. However, as the $200 loss approached I could feel myself heading into the dangerous uber-aggressive mode, where the raises come on more and more marginal hands. So I upped sticks and left.
Working at home tomorrow. Hooray. Lots of things to do. Boo.
