I rant about books. I buy books for people. I force them to read, literally shoving their faces in (for e.g.) collections of Great Poetry. I bore my family senseless by buying them books every Christmas and congratulating myself on my marvellous taste. I am an intellectual snob. A very annoying short comedian I once had a brief affair with asked me if I bought my books by the yard, so convinced was he that they were merely for show. They're not. I read them all.I also read Heat magazine every week. Yesterday I bought OK! and The Guardian and only 'read' OK!. I'm not sure what it's about. Lots of chubby common people getting married in inappropriate haste, and with inappropriate expense. Their wedding dresses have crystals on, and Anthea Turner is at their wedding, but I have no idea who they are. Occasionally OK! has pictures of (for e.g.) waterskiing squirrels, which is always a winner, but otherwise I'm not sure what it's for. Today I was trying to sort out a 12 foot deep pile of filing stuffed behind the armchair and ended up sprawled on the floor drinking Diet Coke, listening to Destiny's Child and reading The Sun.
At night, in bed, surrounded by lovely collections of poetry and good novels, I am transfixed by an appallingly written, over-long book about people in a Cotwolds village shagging each other, taking too much coke and setting fire to each others' marquees. There's something interesting about to happen involving a secret garden and I can hardly wait.
But still I say, if pushed, that my Desert Island Books are (and they're the ones that I read over and over again and don't care):
The Pursuit of Love, Nancy Mitford
A Vicious Circle, Amanda Craig (out of print but you can buy it at Abebooks.com and you should)
To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
Persuasion, Jane Austen
Anything by A.S. Byatt
Staying Alive and Being Alive, 2 collections of poetry from Bloodaxe that will make you love poetry even if you think you hate it
High Windows, Phillip Larkin
A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry
The Sea, The Sea, Iris Murdoch
All of Evelyn Waugh
All of Jane Austen, reluctant as I am to admit it
The Magus, John Fowles
Brother of the more famous Jack, Barbara Trapido
David Copperfield
All of the Molesworth books
Fuck it, I'll be here all day. I'm just trying to remind myself that I can read, and that I do like things that are 'good', and that reading books about people who own tractor yards and are married to ex-Olympic dressage riders is NOT a good use of time. Nor is looking at Wayne Rooney's bird in an ill-fitting swimsuit, or reading about that fucking idiot who was married to that bloke out of Westlife's opinions about Big Brother, or Jordan's advice column. Aaargh.
6 comments:
Funny post, nice site, and glad you are a reader. I am glad you commented on my blog so that I could find yours. I will enjoy catching up.
Great, great oh so great book list!!
Add *anything* by Augusten Burroughs to your to-read list, I think you'll like his writing.
Nothing at all wrong with reading junque, I make myself read one "proper, literary book" for every one - make that two, sometimes three - mind-candy one.
Writers like AB count as both. :)
Excuse me, but what about Arthur Ransome?
And who is Augusten Burroughs? Have I missed something/someone.
Though the pleasure of reading Burroughs' quote-unquote memoirs can be diminished somewhat when you learn that they might all be just a load of made-up shite.
Johnnyboy, absolutely true, he did indeed make quite a bit up, at least in RWS.
Still really fun reading though; I don't read for veracity so much as for fun. Unless it's like, the newspaper or directions on assembling an IKEA coffeetable or something.
Arthur Ransome? Ooh yes. I used to love Enid Blyton too, mind you. I should be ashamed.
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