I spend quite a lot of time in bookshops looking through the shelves and standing outside of bookshops looking in*. As a result of all this I've started to notice certain trends in book titles and cover designs.
The one that I've noticed recently is the strange new formula for naming moderately highbrow books (you know, the sort of books read by yoga instructors, english undergraduates, and book groups). The formula goes "The Something (can be an occupation or description, something whimsical is best) of Somewhere (preferably somewhere exotic)" and seems to be pretty much mandatory these days.
Examples --
The Bookseller of Kabul
The Enchantress of Florence
The Cellist of Sarajevo
Annoyingly my list ends there, because while I've seen shitheaps of books with these sort of titles I can only remember the ones that were in the front window of waterstones today. I tried, but I couldn't find any way of searching for books with 'The' and 'of' in the title. I'll add more, especially the more po faced and pretentious ones, when I see them
-Ben
*There is a branch of waterstones with a big awning near where I eat my lunch, and it rains a lot.
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Thursday, November 06, 2008
I’ve been writing an article about sex in literature for the last few days, which is a rather big subject to condense down to a single 2800 word article. I’ve managed to get the sections on ancient literature, medieval literature, renaissance and early modern literature, and modern literature done but I just can’t get the 19th century bit down right.
The reason for this is that unlike the other historical periods, I’ve not read a great deal of the great canon novels out there. Ultimately, what it comes down to is that--despite my years of reading everything I could get my hands on, earning a first in English Literature, and somehow ending up in a job that requires me to read and write all day--I really don’t like 19th century realist novels. The glowing esteem that those brick-thick books are held in by literary types meant that I’ve had to suffer a lot in the course of my studies.
In the first year I had to read Hard Times by Charles Dickens. I can honestly say that it was the single most tedious book I’ve ever read. It led me to devise a method of rating literature which, whilst highly subjective, nonetheless proved invaluable in my assessment of different books.
The system is this—how many pages can you read before you fall asleep? Bearing in mind your bedroom is generally the only place in a student house that you can get any peace, and the bed is usually the only piece of furniture in your bedroom, it’s pretty easy to doze off.
I started thinking about this system when I was sitting in a very dull seminar (it was in the middle of winter, in a very cold room and it started at 4pm-- which meant it was dark the whole time) thumbing through the copy of Hard Times that I had only managed to get a bit more than halfway through. The rest of the class were silent and sheepish – none of them had managed to finish it either (I asked before the tutor came in) and this was leading to long and uncomfortable silences. Not one to let a room full of people suffer under the claws of the awkward turtle like that, I bravely stepped in and started responding to the tutor’s questions with my finest freestyle academic bullshit, backed up by quotes taken pretty much at random from whatever page happened to fall open while I was speaking.
You’d be surprised how often that method worked. Once, in my final year, I did a presentation which got 73 (that’s a very high mark at an English uni) on a book I hadn’t even read using exactly that technique. It’s all about pretending to be forgetful rather than unprepared--doing a Boris, essentially.
On this particular occasion though, my method was encountering a snag. You see, it had taken me so much effort to read the two-thirds that I’d managed to plough through that my book was half stuck together with drool. (yes, I drool in my sleep. I’m like an unusually articulate spaniel). When someone else finally started talking--and I was able to relax for a while--I sat there, slouched in my corner of the room, and counted how many pages there were between each group of stuck ones. I wasn’t being hugely scientific, but I found that in the case of hard times I managed to read around 15 pages on average in each sitting, before falling asleep.
Now 15 pages isn’t too bad, it’s only 288 pages long so you’d get there eventually. The big problem--and probably why I’ve never been able to see the genius in these books that everyone else sees—is that whilst 15 pages passed before I actually conked out, my brain generally shut down after about 10 pages. I was reading, but the words weren’t reaching my mind.
My impressions of most of the most of the big 19th century novels that sit on the top of all the ‘best books ever’ lists that people publish from time to time (I suspect with the intention of making people feel intellectually inferior) are pretty much the same. For some reason, realist fiction has an amazing soporific effect on me. I managed to read Middlemarch and some Henry James once, although I wouldn’t say I enjoyed them much. But yes, to meander drunkenly back to my original point (if I ever had one) it’s hard to write about sex in 19th century literature when you’ve never read Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina, or Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Perhaps one day I’ll become addicted to amphetamines or something and finally be able to understand what all the fuss is about.
I wrote this in one huge blaze of typing, so it probably doesn’t make much sense. I’ll come back and check it later. Oh, and the irritating mixture of double-hyphens and Em dashes are the fault of Microsoft word, and are really making me wish I had a mac.
-Ben
The reason for this is that unlike the other historical periods, I’ve not read a great deal of the great canon novels out there. Ultimately, what it comes down to is that--despite my years of reading everything I could get my hands on, earning a first in English Literature, and somehow ending up in a job that requires me to read and write all day--I really don’t like 19th century realist novels. The glowing esteem that those brick-thick books are held in by literary types meant that I’ve had to suffer a lot in the course of my studies.
In the first year I had to read Hard Times by Charles Dickens. I can honestly say that it was the single most tedious book I’ve ever read. It led me to devise a method of rating literature which, whilst highly subjective, nonetheless proved invaluable in my assessment of different books.
The system is this—how many pages can you read before you fall asleep? Bearing in mind your bedroom is generally the only place in a student house that you can get any peace, and the bed is usually the only piece of furniture in your bedroom, it’s pretty easy to doze off.
I started thinking about this system when I was sitting in a very dull seminar (it was in the middle of winter, in a very cold room and it started at 4pm-- which meant it was dark the whole time) thumbing through the copy of Hard Times that I had only managed to get a bit more than halfway through. The rest of the class were silent and sheepish – none of them had managed to finish it either (I asked before the tutor came in) and this was leading to long and uncomfortable silences. Not one to let a room full of people suffer under the claws of the awkward turtle like that, I bravely stepped in and started responding to the tutor’s questions with my finest freestyle academic bullshit, backed up by quotes taken pretty much at random from whatever page happened to fall open while I was speaking.
You’d be surprised how often that method worked. Once, in my final year, I did a presentation which got 73 (that’s a very high mark at an English uni) on a book I hadn’t even read using exactly that technique. It’s all about pretending to be forgetful rather than unprepared--doing a Boris, essentially.
On this particular occasion though, my method was encountering a snag. You see, it had taken me so much effort to read the two-thirds that I’d managed to plough through that my book was half stuck together with drool. (yes, I drool in my sleep. I’m like an unusually articulate spaniel). When someone else finally started talking--and I was able to relax for a while--I sat there, slouched in my corner of the room, and counted how many pages there were between each group of stuck ones. I wasn’t being hugely scientific, but I found that in the case of hard times I managed to read around 15 pages on average in each sitting, before falling asleep.
Now 15 pages isn’t too bad, it’s only 288 pages long so you’d get there eventually. The big problem--and probably why I’ve never been able to see the genius in these books that everyone else sees—is that whilst 15 pages passed before I actually conked out, my brain generally shut down after about 10 pages. I was reading, but the words weren’t reaching my mind.
My impressions of most of the most of the big 19th century novels that sit on the top of all the ‘best books ever’ lists that people publish from time to time (I suspect with the intention of making people feel intellectually inferior) are pretty much the same. For some reason, realist fiction has an amazing soporific effect on me. I managed to read Middlemarch and some Henry James once, although I wouldn’t say I enjoyed them much. But yes, to meander drunkenly back to my original point (if I ever had one) it’s hard to write about sex in 19th century literature when you’ve never read Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina, or Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Perhaps one day I’ll become addicted to amphetamines or something and finally be able to understand what all the fuss is about.
I wrote this in one huge blaze of typing, so it probably doesn’t make much sense. I’ll come back and check it later. Oh, and the irritating mixture of double-hyphens and Em dashes are the fault of Microsoft word, and are really making me wish I had a mac.
-Ben
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Bookshelf
I've always had a problem containing my book population. They tend to multiply when I'm not looking--before I know it, I have heaps of books piled haphazardly around my bed and shelves sagging under still more volumes. Between my degree in English Literature and my morning rail commute, I've felt the need to buy a lot of books over the last few years. This is only one of my bookshelves, my anthologies are buckling the shelves in the other room.
Underneath that picture, and just out of shot, is my other population control problem--my guitars and basses.
-Ben
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Two Poems
The similarity pleased me, it teaches us two things: firstly, casual sex isn't a new invention, and secondly, the ladies love poets.
Woman's Constancy
John Donne (1572-1633)
Now thou hast loved me one whole day,
Tomorrow when thou leav'st, what wilt thou say?
Wilt thou then antedate some new made vow?
Or say that now
We are not just those persons, which we were?
Or, that oaths made in reverential fear
Of love, and his wrath, any may forswear?
Or, as true deaths true marriages untie,
So lovers' contracts, images of those,
Bind but till sleep, death's image, them unloose?
Or, your own end to justify,
For having purposed change, and falsehood, you
Can have no way but falsehood to be true?
Vain lunatic, against these 'scapes I could
Dispute, and conquer, if I would,
Which I abstain to do,
For by tomorrow, I may think so too.
Comeclose and Sleepnow
Roger McGough (1937-)
it is afterwards
and you talk on tiptoe
happy to be part
of the darkness
lips becoming limp
a prelude to tiredness.
Comeclose and Sleepnow
for in the morning
when a policeman
disguised as the sun
creeps into the room
and your mother
disguised as birds
calls from the trees
you will put on a dress of guilt
and shoes with broken high ideals
and refusing coffee
run
alltheway
home.
It's got to the point now where I actually cover up the covers of the books I read on the train for fear that people think I'm a poser.
-Ben
Woman's Constancy
John Donne (1572-1633)
Now thou hast loved me one whole day,
Tomorrow when thou leav'st, what wilt thou say?
Wilt thou then antedate some new made vow?
Or say that now
We are not just those persons, which we were?
Or, that oaths made in reverential fear
Of love, and his wrath, any may forswear?
Or, as true deaths true marriages untie,
So lovers' contracts, images of those,
Bind but till sleep, death's image, them unloose?
Or, your own end to justify,
For having purposed change, and falsehood, you
Can have no way but falsehood to be true?
Vain lunatic, against these 'scapes I could
Dispute, and conquer, if I would,
Which I abstain to do,
For by tomorrow, I may think so too.
Comeclose and Sleepnow
Roger McGough (1937-)
it is afterwards
and you talk on tiptoe
happy to be part
of the darkness
lips becoming limp
a prelude to tiredness.
Comeclose and Sleepnow
for in the morning
when a policeman
disguised as the sun
creeps into the room
and your mother
disguised as birds
calls from the trees
you will put on a dress of guilt
and shoes with broken high ideals
and refusing coffee
run
alltheway
home.
It's got to the point now where I actually cover up the covers of the books I read on the train for fear that people think I'm a poser.
-Ben
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Judge Books by their covers
My work has given me a new found appreciation of good book covers. I've always liked nice design, in whatever form it took, but it wasn't until I was writing a bibliography for a reference book that I began to really dig a book cover. You see, the reference book in question was american; so I had to check to see whether the books I was listing were easily available in the US. This involved looking on Amazon.com (as opposed to the usual .co.uk) for the books I was listing.
Quite a lot of the books I was mentioning (literature and suchlike) are books that I own myself, so I'm familiar with their British edition covers. What I realised, when looking at the books on the American website was that American book covers are really horrendously bad, as a rule.
The overall impression you get is that the design team sat down, picked about 10 different typefaces out of a hat, and then used them all on the cover. Preferably over the top of a really complex and ugly picture. A good example of this difference in approach can be seen in the American and British covers for William Faulkner's dense, gory, and occasionally incomprehensible (but very good, nonetheless) novel Light in August.
US edition on the left, UK on the right.
Quite a lot of the books I was mentioning (literature and suchlike) are books that I own myself, so I'm familiar with their British edition covers. What I realised, when looking at the books on the American website was that American book covers are really horrendously bad, as a rule.
The overall impression you get is that the design team sat down, picked about 10 different typefaces out of a hat, and then used them all on the cover. Preferably over the top of a really complex and ugly picture. A good example of this difference in approach can be seen in the American and British covers for William Faulkner's dense, gory, and occasionally incomprehensible (but very good, nonetheless) novel Light in August.
US edition on the left, UK on the right.I don't know why this is, perhaps all the decent graphic designers have come here.
For a lesson on damn fine cover design I think you can't do much better than the cover for the 2001 Flamingo 60's Classics edition of Flann O'Brien's raving masterpiece The Third Policeman.
The front cover was once white, but I'm not very nice to my books, so it's rather dirty and scuffed now. The full size versions of these pictures are absolutely mahoosive, because my scanner doesn't seem to do small, and neither do I.
Just dig the way that it's all fairly simple, and the way that the back cover doesn't give anything away about the story, but gives you a very good idea of the sort of book it is, by simply letting the book do the talking. Which more publishers should do, seeing as often the blurb on the back annoyingly distorts the story told.
The thing that makes this all the more impressive is the fact that the US edition of this book has a cover so horrifically ugly and amateurish that it makes you want to vomit out of your ears like a fire hydrant.
-Ben
For a lesson on damn fine cover design I think you can't do much better than the cover for the 2001 Flamingo 60's Classics edition of Flann O'Brien's raving masterpiece The Third Policeman.
The front cover was once white, but I'm not very nice to my books, so it's rather dirty and scuffed now. The full size versions of these pictures are absolutely mahoosive, because my scanner doesn't seem to do small, and neither do I.
Just dig the way that it's all fairly simple, and the way that the back cover doesn't give anything away about the story, but gives you a very good idea of the sort of book it is, by simply letting the book do the talking. Which more publishers should do, seeing as often the blurb on the back annoyingly distorts the story told.
The thing that makes this all the more impressive is the fact that the US edition of this book has a cover so horrifically ugly and amateurish that it makes you want to vomit out of your ears like a fire hydrant.
-Ben
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Something Happened
I had a small epiphany today. These are very rare for me, despite the fact that I read shitloads of epiphany-heavy short stories, and read enough 'inspiring' literature to start a movement on its own (Although I have no idea what it would be a movement about).
I was standing on the train, listening to Stevie Wonder (which isn't the usual soundtrack to great revelations) and dwelling, amongst other things, on each droplet of sweat as it gathered pace and trickled down my spine, before absorbing into the waistband of my pants. It wasn't one of the most pleasant journeys I've had, the only respite from the heat was the occasional gusts of dusty, noisy air that blew in when another train passed ours. These would cool me down for a moment, then stick my shirt damply to the sweat on my back, which would make things worse.
I was reading a book that I bought years ago, called Something Happened by Joseph Heller. I bought it after I had my last notable revelation, about the way that I was happily sabotaging my own life, after reading his first book, Catch-22. When I got it I couldn't get on with it, I struggled for a few hundred pages before giving up, in the face of the relentless unlikeability of the main character, and the monotony of his domestic life.
Coming to it now, a few years older and possibly a little wiser (better read, certainly) I find it a much more readable and interesting book. For the last few days I've been reading it, I've been thinking that the main character reminds me of someone, not that strongly, but enough to ring little bells in my head. Today, whilst some part of me was counting the sweat droplets and another was concentrating on keeping me upright, the part that was paying attention to the book had a moment of realisation. The part of the book I'd got to, you see, is titled "My Daughter is unhappy" and details, amongst other things, the protagonist's arguments with his teenage daughter, and his own feelings about the way he conducts them. At this point, somewhere past Lewisham Station, I realised that the person I was being dimly reminded of was me. I don't have a daughter, thankfully, but the pedantic superior tone that the protagonist takes with his daughter was almost an exact mirror of the way that I bicker with my kid sister.
As I've said before, I'm really not very articulate, this is why I need literature, and friends, and the words of those smarter than me. These words can give shape to various half articulated ideas that are sitting in my head, to all the little suspicions that I've not been able to find the words to voice. Reading the main character's analysis of his own conduct, I was able to see the stupid reasons behind my own, and just how much of a jerk I must appear to everyone else.
I went home and when Izzy came up to borrow my metronome, took the opportunity to apologise and to give some idea of why I'm always such a jerk.
After I'd finished my slightly embarrassed explanation my little sister pointed out that she'd always known perfectly well all the things that I'd only just realised myself. I remembered that unlike the kid in Something Happened, my little sister usually wins those clashes, she's got a quicker tongue and a better insight into what makes people tick than I'll ever be able to grasp. She's also kinda thick sometimes, but she is ten years younger than me, so slack must be cut.
The funny thing is that a realisation like that makes me happy, becoming aware of the fact that I'm a jerk in some respect feels a bit like getting some written music, I have the answer written right there, I just need to practice it. Which is something I'm getting quite good at these days.
----
I think I managed to ruin someone's day today, although I really don't know how. I was standing on the tube and after bank, where loads of people get off, i sat down next to a quite pretty young woman. I felt something touch my foot lightly as I sat down, and saw that I'd knocked over her Thermos coffeecup thingy, she reached down and put it back upright again (it was closed) and I apologised. A few minutes later, as I was sitting there listening to my music, I noticed that she was glaring at me. I could see that she was looking at me, and I could see that it wasn't a happy face. I wasn't listening to my music loudly, or dancing about like I do sometimes. Whenever I looked round, she stared down at her feet, though, so I wasn't sure if it was all in my head. Just as we were coming towards Angel station (where I get off) I noticed that she was quite unambiguously eyeballing me. I turned round at looked straight at her, pulled my headphones out and said
"Yes?"
She continued to glower at me with a look of absolute contempt for another few seconds, then got up and walked to the door. I saw her a bit later, stomping angrily up the stairs as if she was working up a serious Huff. I'm guessing she must have said something that I didn't catch, but still, it was a little unsettling to be regarded like that so soon after breakfast.
Anyway, I really should get to sleep now. Please excuse the countless errors I'm sure there are in this, I'll go through it tomorrow.
-Ben
I was standing on the train, listening to Stevie Wonder (which isn't the usual soundtrack to great revelations) and dwelling, amongst other things, on each droplet of sweat as it gathered pace and trickled down my spine, before absorbing into the waistband of my pants. It wasn't one of the most pleasant journeys I've had, the only respite from the heat was the occasional gusts of dusty, noisy air that blew in when another train passed ours. These would cool me down for a moment, then stick my shirt damply to the sweat on my back, which would make things worse.
I was reading a book that I bought years ago, called Something Happened by Joseph Heller. I bought it after I had my last notable revelation, about the way that I was happily sabotaging my own life, after reading his first book, Catch-22. When I got it I couldn't get on with it, I struggled for a few hundred pages before giving up, in the face of the relentless unlikeability of the main character, and the monotony of his domestic life.
Coming to it now, a few years older and possibly a little wiser (better read, certainly) I find it a much more readable and interesting book. For the last few days I've been reading it, I've been thinking that the main character reminds me of someone, not that strongly, but enough to ring little bells in my head. Today, whilst some part of me was counting the sweat droplets and another was concentrating on keeping me upright, the part that was paying attention to the book had a moment of realisation. The part of the book I'd got to, you see, is titled "My Daughter is unhappy" and details, amongst other things, the protagonist's arguments with his teenage daughter, and his own feelings about the way he conducts them. At this point, somewhere past Lewisham Station, I realised that the person I was being dimly reminded of was me. I don't have a daughter, thankfully, but the pedantic superior tone that the protagonist takes with his daughter was almost an exact mirror of the way that I bicker with my kid sister.
As I've said before, I'm really not very articulate, this is why I need literature, and friends, and the words of those smarter than me. These words can give shape to various half articulated ideas that are sitting in my head, to all the little suspicions that I've not been able to find the words to voice. Reading the main character's analysis of his own conduct, I was able to see the stupid reasons behind my own, and just how much of a jerk I must appear to everyone else.
I went home and when Izzy came up to borrow my metronome, took the opportunity to apologise and to give some idea of why I'm always such a jerk.
After I'd finished my slightly embarrassed explanation my little sister pointed out that she'd always known perfectly well all the things that I'd only just realised myself. I remembered that unlike the kid in Something Happened, my little sister usually wins those clashes, she's got a quicker tongue and a better insight into what makes people tick than I'll ever be able to grasp. She's also kinda thick sometimes, but she is ten years younger than me, so slack must be cut.
The funny thing is that a realisation like that makes me happy, becoming aware of the fact that I'm a jerk in some respect feels a bit like getting some written music, I have the answer written right there, I just need to practice it. Which is something I'm getting quite good at these days.
----
I think I managed to ruin someone's day today, although I really don't know how. I was standing on the tube and after bank, where loads of people get off, i sat down next to a quite pretty young woman. I felt something touch my foot lightly as I sat down, and saw that I'd knocked over her Thermos coffeecup thingy, she reached down and put it back upright again (it was closed) and I apologised. A few minutes later, as I was sitting there listening to my music, I noticed that she was glaring at me. I could see that she was looking at me, and I could see that it wasn't a happy face. I wasn't listening to my music loudly, or dancing about like I do sometimes. Whenever I looked round, she stared down at her feet, though, so I wasn't sure if it was all in my head. Just as we were coming towards Angel station (where I get off) I noticed that she was quite unambiguously eyeballing me. I turned round at looked straight at her, pulled my headphones out and said
"Yes?"
She continued to glower at me with a look of absolute contempt for another few seconds, then got up and walked to the door. I saw her a bit later, stomping angrily up the stairs as if she was working up a serious Huff. I'm guessing she must have said something that I didn't catch, but still, it was a little unsettling to be regarded like that so soon after breakfast.
Anyway, I really should get to sleep now. Please excuse the countless errors I'm sure there are in this, I'll go through it tomorrow.
-Ben
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)