Book of Lost Nights

I’m in the process of moving my books out of storage, and in many ways this is a surprisingly moving thing to do, because the story of my life is the story of the books I’ve read. When I was a girl, I saved my pocket money up for JRR Tolkien, Richard Adams, Anne McCaffrey,  and the beautiful, pseudo-erotic works of Tanith Lee. I read and reread them, sucking them dry like orange segments, unable to even imagine a time when I would have more books than time to read them, in the same way I couldn’t imagine driving my own car or being able to choose what I had for dinner every night.

Once I started work, however, I had already started to amass a small pile of overshot – as a bookseller, people are always giving you things, and you will frequently see something come in and fancy giving it a go, even if it’s going to be a while before you get to it. Authors will come in to sign books and it occurs to you that they seem nice enough and perhaps you’ll get one signed yourself, just to give them a try, even though it’s not quite your thing.

And some books you’re told you should read, and know you should read, but just never do. A good example for me is Vanity Fair, by William Makepiece Thackeray, published 1848. I bought it in the 80s - I wrote the date in it in my round, childish hand. I wanted to read it because it was Charlotte Bronte’s favourite novel, and many of my colleagues’ favourite novel too. Friends had raved about it. It is a cornerstone of British literature. And so on and so on.

Twenty-four years later, I have actually picked it up. Though I must have read thousands of books between then and now, I have begun a book I bought in the morning of my life. The pages, with their old fashioned acid paper, are a kind of brownish-mustard colour, and crackle a little at the edges when I turn them.

And the thing about Vanity Fair is this – it’s great. It’s funny, lively, inventive, picaresque: a vast social panoply quickly and wittily drawn on a big canvas. It’s got a strong female protagonist. It’s soooo my thing, what’s not to love? Other novels I have adored clearly draw on it (increasingly I feel Michel Faber’s The Crimson Petal and the White is a direct reply to it – why should women obey the rules and strictures of a society that wishes to dominate them?). Thackeray’s a genius – even in the sentimental outbursts, you can never tell if he’s wailing away about the joys of feminine virtue and filial piety with a straight face or not. It’s just awesome. So why has it took me so long to read it? And why should I care?

Well, as a writer, I ought to care because at some point when I surveyed my pile of unread books, this gem fell through the net. Fell through the net about once every week or fortnight, in fact, again and again, over the course of 24 years. I already owned it. There was no obstacle to reading it. I just chose not to. And if I want to write books, and hopefully sell them, it kind of behoves me to find out why Vanity Fair didn’t make the cut, or else be doomed to writing novels that will sit in other people’s unread book piles, waiting to be picked up.

So, here’s a little list of the factors affecting my decision. Depressingly, there are quite a few that Thackeray can’t really do anything about:

• It’s long. 797 pages long. A long great novel is a wonderful thing – ask Tolkien, or Susanna Clarke. A long dull novel is a season in Hell. I’m looking at you, Samuel Richardson. 
• There’s no concession in the blurb on the back to the idea of this as a novel, an entertainment, a story. To quote the first sentence: ”Vanity Fair (1847/8) is the story of English society in the Napoleonic Wars and the early nineteenth century.” Is it? Is it really? Does English society in the Napoleonic Wars and the early nineteenth century find itself thrown out of Miss Godsham’s Academy for Tormented Orphans, snubbed at the ball, and arrested with Lady Carruther’s diamonds snuggled down the front of its evening dress? Does English society in the Napoleonic Wars and the early nineteenth century throw everything away to declare its love to Monsieur LeRodin, the billionaire racing playboy, despite the opposition of his family and the connivings of his jealous ex-girlfriend? Will English society in the Napoleonic Wars and the early nineteenth century be caught up in a race to stop a conspiracy to kill the President? Probably not.
• Guilt. I have not read this important novel. This makes me feel guilty. Guilt makes me feel bad. I reject things that make me feel bad. So I don’t read Vanity Fair. Aristotle would approve.
• There’s about 20-odd pages of small text by way of “introduction”, explaining how important it is, before I can actually start the bloody thing. Because I am incapable of not reading this, as it’s part of the book, and it’s frequently laced with spoilers (because, God knows, if it’s a classic I should already know what happens in it, ignorant philistine that I am) it makes starting the actual book a serious case of delayed gratification.

But I’ve started it now, is the main thing. And for the next few months, I’m going to have a little experiment. Every second book I pick up to read will be one I would normally reject in the short term. Let’s see if any other hidden jewels can find the light, or whether missing this book is the exception that proves the rule when it comes to my book filtering system. If so, I can then apply the findings to my own works.

Wish me luck…

In: Books, Writing | tags: anne mccaffrey, authors, charlotte bronte, j r r tolkien, michel faber, reviews, richard adams, samuel richardson, susanna clarke, tanith lee, the crimson petal and the white, vanity fair, william makepeace thackeray. | #