In praise of libraries

One of the argument offered for cuts in the library service is the decreasing footprint of users. that's true, and important, but I remain an unrepentant user,deeply grateful for what the library offers, and anxious about a future world in which that offer will be restricted. 

For instance, I've just read Capital, by Thomas Piketty. I don't claim that to be ahead of the curve, since its real vogue was some time ago. Not to brag about my intellectual stamina, forcing by way through thickets of impenetrable European jargon. In fact, like War and Peace, it's extremely readable in bite-sized chunks, and Piketty is a modest, charming and witty guide to some quite forbidding territory - i.e. the international history of finance in various forms, spread over a wide range of nations. Only now, with computer-assisted analysis, would it be possible to make this kind of sustained comparative criticism, but even now it requires dogged persistence, a tough commitment to years of work because this stuff matters. and I get a taste of this, simply by putting in a request to my local library, and paying 60 p when the book arrives. It' a miracle. 

The truth about Steve Jobs?

Steve Jobs was an interesting and important guy, so it's not surprising that people wrote his biography. I really enjoyed the movie, selectively based on Walter Isaacson's biography, a couple of months ago. But I've just read "Becoming Steve Jobs", by Schlender and Tetzeli, and the puicture's changed completely. I've read Isaacson on kissinger, and what you get is endless detail, but a bit static and soulless. Schlender and Tetzeli are much closer, and more concered. one of them saw Jobs regularly, and they chart a convincing transformation, not simple, sudden or complete, in which Jobs moves from total pain to eccentric but imaginative boss - hence the 'Becoming' part of the title. it's given me a much more complex, rounded view of Jobs, and I'm glad to have filled out the picture. but one thing worries me. in the movie, Kate Winslet played Joanne Hoffman, Jobs' long-term assistant who seems to have been one of the few people who could work with him. Winslet talked closely with Hoffman in preparing for the role, from which it seems both benefitted. but in the Schlender/Tetzeli biography, so much fuller and more intelligent in many way, Hoffman doesn't appear, not even in the index. so what's going on there?  

Lucia Berlin

It's a funny kind of feeling. A friend is telling you about this terrific writer, of whom you've never heard, insisting that although she died in 2004 and you've never heard of her, you really ought to read this 400-page book of short stories. So you're a little bit piqued, because how could they be that good and you not know about it, but the book's there and you give it a try. and then that wave washes over you - how could I be so stupid? Why offer any resistance at all to something as varied, as talented, as witty as this? She's like a streetwise Alice Munro, subtle in observation of detail and character, but tougher and more direct. There's stuff in here about drink and drug addiction which feels totally convincing, but she's not showing off or trying to rub your nose in the dirt. She's telling you how it is - for this person, and that person, and that situation. Such variety, and some of them really short - just a few pages, they do their job, and she moves on to something else.  the collection is called A Manual for Cleaning Women. Stephen Emerson, who put it together, concludes his introduction like this   - "Myself, I can't imagine anyone who wouldn't want to read her." No, I hadn't heard of her either, but he's right. 

Thinking the Twentieth Century

That's the title of a book I've been reading, and I can't remember when a book has last made me think so hard. The book is a conversation between Tony Judt and Tomothy Snyder, both frighteningly well;-read intellectuals, with just enough difference in their views to make it interesting. But it's not an amiable fireside chat. The conversations took place in the last months of Judt's life, when he was incapable of writing. They follow a dual path -  tracing his own varied and impressive life, but also mapping the intellectual territory over which he has ranged. If you want to meet fascinating ideas from writers you've never heard of, this is the place to go. But there's also polemic and current debate, tackled in a lively and uncompromising way. This is a book for life. I got it from the library, but very soon decided that I needed my own copy to keep. I often say I plan to read a book again some time, but never actually get round to it. In the case of this one, i mean it.  

Amis and Munro

No, not a new firm of solicitors, but my rapidly chosen reading for a long railway journey. I'm heading up to Durham for a conference, I need portable paperback fiction for the four hour train journey, so I dive into Telford Library and grab Martin Amis' The Zone of Interest, and Alice Munro's The Lives of Women and Girls.

Oh boy. I couldn't have come up with a greater contrast if I'd tried. I was, i'll admit, an early Amis fan. Money had an irresistible energy and wit that means you could put up with the nastiness for the sake of the ride. but not this. This was dry, turgid, clever in a remote kind of way but lacking any humour or warmth. Somebody from The Scotsman said on the cover that this was Amis' masterpiece. Not for me, it wasn't.

The Munro, on the other hand, was a delight. It calls itself a novel, but it's linked short stories, and that's what she does best. (Apart from the central character being the common link, there's not much long-term continuity, or structure spread across the book as a whole). What you get are wonderful moments, clear observation of people in action, in love, out of love, and dry, rueful reflections on what we're like and how we behave. The miles sped by.  

Great launch, shame about the books

One of the weirder nights of my life. For years I’ve sung the joys of self-publishing, the excitement of sending off files and getting bound copies back within weeks. Today I came unstuck. I used a firm I’ve used three times before. I sent them the files on February 11. they kept reassuring me that they’d keep to my deadline. but they insisted on pdf files and then two weeks later asked for word files. They ignored requests I’d made, and failed to ring me when I’d warned them my e-mail was dodgy. They promised they’d send stuff and then found iou it hadn’t gone. So I’m left at Wenlock Books, with a pleasant and friendly audience listening to me reading extracts from my valuable proof copy – which at present is the only copy in the world. As it happens, it went fine. Before the mess over the copies, I’d thought that Writing for Blockheads was a good idea and would reach an audience, and this evening seems to confirm that view. all we need is a few copies to test it out.

Busy, busy, busy…

Another of those rare days where I think I’m living the rock star life. Set the alarm to drive to Radio Shropshire, where winning second prize in the Guernsey Poetry comp allows me a ten minute slot in which I can read the poem, and plug my book launch (March 27), the election show (April 14) and reading with Michael Rosen at the Wenlock poetry festival. Can’t be bad.

And that’s before 9.00 am. Then it’s off to Birmingham for a fuill day at the Flatpack Festival. A weird film about slime mould, featuring all sorts of strange intellectuals (artists, biologists, computer nerds), and a screening of Battleship Potemkin at Birmingham Cathedral with stunning live piano accompaniment. But sandwiched in between those is a gorgeous taste of luxury – Lubitsch’s stunning comedy Trouble in Paradise (why isn’t this better known?), followed by a classy two-course meal at the Opus restaurant. This is the life.

Reading about birds

My reading programme tends to be pretty arbitrary, made up from a series of random prompts, most centred around book reviews in the Guardian and Observer, but reinforced by occasional purchases from second-hand bookshops. which lands me with a gorgeous co-incidence. In bed I’m reading a book from the library, Helen Macdonald’s H is for Hawk, a beautifully written account of her grieving for he father. This involves her following two parallel paths -tracking T.H. White’s account of training a goshawk, and doing the same thing herself, with the gloriously named Mabel. Meanwhile, downstairs I’m reading The Poetry of Birds (edited by Simon Armitage and Tim  Dee) which was in our local second-hand bookshop. there’s tons of poems in there i already knew but am glad to see again, but I’m specially struck by Thom Gunn’s Tamer and Hawk, which collides with Helen M in a blaze of light. Normally I know nothing and care appallingly little about birds, but these two have been a delight.

Flight Behaviour

After a year of doing without, Telford now has a bright new glossy library – huge escalators and automatic doors that don’t work. I was fine with the old one, but it’s good to have something, and extra good to have the bonus of what only libraries can do – let you browse when you’re not sure what you want, and come home with a pleasant surprise. I didn’t like reading 400 pages about a woman called Dellarobia, and wasn’t entirely convinced that bright, sharp Barbara Kingsolver could think herself into the life of a bored and frustrated housewife in the midwest, but it was fine. and it had the huge bonus of seriously taking on big ecological themes while also dealing with people – risky stuff, but worth the attempt. And then there’s the monarch butterflies, who I knew a little about, but was delighted to meet again, in some detail – which taught me a lot more. Serious pleasure.

Perfect Present

Very hard to get presents right, but when you do, it shows. Today’s my 70th birthday, and my son just happens to have hit the spot. For years I’ve been a Joe Sacco fan. His Palestine is a mix of personal story and recent history, which tells you everything you need to know about the Occupied Territories without getting preachy of solemn. I was used to the innocent drawing style, the apparently simple language in which Sacco shows himself trying to understand what’s going on. But Great War is something else. It’s a book without a back, that opens out like a concertina, a kind of modern Bayeux Tapestry which tells the story of the first day of the Somme in hugely detailed “Where’s Willy?”-type drawings, and not a word in sight. Well, there is an accompanying booklet, and a helpful commentary, and some useful information and statistics, but the main drawings still work on their own, a gradually evolving mass of love and care and detail. No, its no use. This can’t do it justice. But I’m so glad I’ve got it.

Masters of Sex

The further I went in watching the TV series, the more I wanted to go back to the original book on which it was based. the series is an intricate web of interwoven plots, with an extravagant mix of themes and characters. how much of this, I wondered, was actually based on fact? Not a lot, as it turns out. There are heavy emphases on homosexuality and race, neither of which appear in the book. Many of the highly entertaining cast are sheer inventions, which is fine. But saddest of all is the central relationship between Masters and Johnson. OK,I should have known. Michael Sheen and Lizzie Caplin were always too good to be true, but the real-life relationship between them is sadder and duller than it looks on the screen. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, but I can’t help feeling cheated.

Treats in store

OK, so the Scots, offered the choice never to have another Tory government, look like voting YES. I don’t blame them. If anyone offered me that, I’d bite their hand off. Still, there is mild consolation for those of us left behind. In today’s Observer, there are reviews of new novels by David Mitchell, Rachel Cusk, Sarah Waters and Ali Smith – which sounds to me like a really tasty future programme of reading . I’m sure others are slavering at the prospect of new work by Ian Mcewan, Martin Amis and Will Self, also reviewed in the same edition. Sure, the timing’s not an accident, and may well be steered by prize-planning, but to hungry readers it’s a salivating prospect. I like all kinds of reading, but there is something special about really good fiction. Enjoy.

Far from the Tree

Julie Myerson thinks this is a book “that everyone should read.” That’s a crazy thing to say, but she’s right. It’s a study of parents and children, 700 pages long. It’s intensively researched, based on 300 interviews with families. but it’s also brilliantly written, with flashes of wit and insight, and more probing questions than you’ll hear in a week’s television coverage. If you flicked through the chapter headings, you’d think you were in for a gloomy procession through misery – autism, dwarfs, disability, schizophrenia, rape….But it’s uplifting and fascinating, a wonderful way of briefly trying on the lives of others, many of them coping superbly with challenges we don’t ‘normally’ face. Though as you read this book, don’t be surprised if your assumption of ‘normal’ flies out of the window. Far from the Tree, by Andrew Solomon. I got it out of the library, and took it back after forty pages. Just borrowing this book is not enough; you really need it with you for the rest of your life.

Gove little England shock

Well, it’s Gove again, so it’s likely to be silly/arrogant/presumptuous/short-sighted. This time he’s fiddling with the books studied for literature exams, and he’s cutting out 20th century Americans, to make more room for 19th century Brits. People have got angry in defence of To Kill a Mocking Bird, but the casualty that annoys me most is The Crucible. It was a great play to teach, with so much going on – personal story and politics, the staging of set pieces, the McCarthy/witchcraft parallel, and so many intertwined stories of people under pressure – John, Elisabeth, Danforth, Hale…..Still, they can always read Priestley.

Richard Hoggart

It wasn’t a surprise to hear that Richard Hoggart had died. He was 95, and had been ill for some time. His son Simon, much more of a celebrity, had died recently. But it’s still a big moment, for those of us brought up on the Uses of Literacy, but also used to hearing Hoggart on TV and radio, always careful and thoughtful, anxious to get things right, and not to fall for crude simplification. As many tributes have spelt out, we owe him a lot, often in very undramatic ways – his presence on influential committees, or in setting up cultural studies. Not much chance that anyone could make that kind of contribution now; who in this government seriously believes that anyone outside it actually knows anything?

The Red House

I’ve just finished reading The Red House, Mark Haddon’s third novel. Poor man. Must be such a shame, writing a smash hit first time round, but he’s not daft, and he doesn’t go in for repeating himself. This is an ensemble piece, about eight characters from two related families, where Haddon moves rapidly between the thoughts of of these parents and children, crammed together for a week’s holiday in a rented house near Hay on Wye. It’s not stunning, or brilliant, or overwhelming, but it is consistently interesting and intelligent, full of wise touches and realistic sympathy.

Unlucky 13

Way back on April 13, the Guardian had a front page headed THE DAY BRITAIN CHANGED. It hard a large photo of Cameron, and down both sides of the page were brief accounts of key changes – bedroom tax, legal aid, NHS commissioning, disability, benefit cap, universal credit…There was just so much, and so much of it was bad, that it seemed important to try and separate out the bits, and mark them separately, while being aware of the overall impact.
From that came Unlucky 13, my poetry pamphlet recording the various bits of damage done to our society by this coalition government. It’s not cheerful, but it does feel necessary, and its launch this evening was a real joy, with an appreciative audience who generally shared my sense that something seriously destructive was underway. Ironically, given the abuse of the phrase, we are strengthened and united by the realisation that we are all in this together.

Rebecca Solnit

As a reader, it’s a real treat to discover a new contemporary writer, and then explore what they’ve done, until you get to the point when you’re eagerly waiting for the next instalment to arrive. Rebecca Solnit is a one-off; really interesting, individual and thoughtful, and always into something different. I first met her in the London Review of Books, and then got hold of a book she’s written about popular movements that succeed (a treasured volume for hardened lefties, well used to noble failure). Then I read Wanderlust, a wide-ranging history of walking which draws on more sources than I’ve ever dreamt of. A couple of months ago she had a great article in LRB about the way e-mails and phones impact on the way we live (NOT simple Luddism, very careful and precise). And now I’ve rashly bought the Faraway Nearby, her latest, which is a bit like Montaigne. Apparently rambling essays go for a walk, but keep returning to chime off each other, strike up relationships suggest parallels. No, not rashly. I knew I’d love it, and I do.

Poetry launch

A really good evening at Shrewsbury Library, where Offa’s Press were launching The Poetry of Shropshire. This is a stimulating mix of golden oldies (Housman, Mary Webb, Wilfred Owen), respectable moderns (Frances Horowitz, Fred d’Aguiar) and thirty contemporary poets. It’s a beautiful county so yes, there’s celebrations of history, landscape and wildlife. But there’s also comedy, car wrecks and an Afghanistan veteran wandering the Telford streets. When I first encountered the local writing scene fifteen years ago, there were some who thought that all the action happened in Birmingham, and this was a cultural desert. Not any more.

The Stuart Hall Project

When I was a student teacher in the sixties, one of my bibles was The Popular Arts, by Hall and Whannel. Leavis didn’t have to be right. Great literature wasn’t the only route to intelligent discrimination, and mass media wasn’t an impersonal sea of corruption, dragging adolescents down to damnation. Teachers prepared to think could profitably encourage pupils to examine TV, newspapers or popular music.

For fifty years since the name of Stuart Hall (no, not the guy from It’s a Knockout) has been synonymous with intelligent, critical thinking, raising questions and valuing ideals which lazier figures would rather dismiss. This film, The Stuart Hall Project, is both a celebration of Hall’s work, and a history of the last fifty years. As a fellow leftie and grandad, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.