Literature, Part 1
Why does one read in public, I asked myself recently. It’s impossible to get onto the Underground nowadays without being elbowed in the chin by someone nostril-deep in a copy of Platform, or whatever. Is it an effort to shut out one’s fellow passengers, or perhaps an enjoyment of being seen to be reading? Or seeing them seeing you reading? Or them seeing you seeing them seeing you reading? Perhaps I’d better stop.
At least, this is what I was thinking to myself as the Editor droned on about some godawful make-literature-stylish idea that he’d read about on the Tube that morning.
“It’s a contemporary twist on the traditional book group,” he burbled. “They have live bands, for God’s sake! It sounds like just the kind of thing our target demographic would enjoy.” I laughed, summoning as much bitterness as possible.
“Someone’s been reading Metro,” I said.
“They may have got there first,” sniffed the Editor, “but I’ve heard of this before. My partner’s been going along to an…an event for a few months now. She says it’s pretty edgy.”
“Edgy!” I snorted. Admittedly I was in something of a weak position after last issue’s fiasco, but I didn’t let this bother me too much. “There’s nothing new about all this,” I said. “The literary scene has always suffered from the fundamental problem that while the cultural artefacts it produces are almost unquestioningly venerated by certain sections of society as something intrinsically worthy, this very worthiness makes it somehow desperately uncool.”
“Uncool,” said the Editor, witheringly. “The finest contemporary literature is above matters of mere style…”
“Ah,” I interrupted him. “In our contemporary urban culture – I mean, using the term culture in its most highbrow sense – mere surface style is everything. And it’s difficult to repackage the consumption and appreciation of literature when it remains an essentially solitary, undynamic activity. People read alone, at home, or on the Tube, isolated in their own little bubble of blissful non-communication – you’ll never make it a really social activity. DJs and fashionable venues are all very well, but they’ll never wholly get rid of the overwhelming whiff of corduroy and spectacles about the whole enterprise, will they?”
“Geek chic is still very hot right now,” shouted Fenella, who was passing the doorway.
“Well,” I said, “that may be so. But I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Go to the fucking book group,” snarled the Editor.
Arse longa, vita brevis
This is, essentially, how I found myself standing outside a bar in East London holding a Waterstone’s bag in one hand and my throbbing temples in the other. In the pocket of my corduroy jacket (its leather elbow patches wittily updated with an edging of metal studs) was a ticket labelled “cLit! – books, cocktails, rare grooves“. The Editor had made a vague threat to come along as well, or possibly dispatch someone else in his stead, so while waiting for him, or them, to arrive, I let my mind blank out and drift back to my English degree of so many years before (first class, thanks).
“Hello!” squeaked a familiar voice behind me. It was Poppy, the Decline and Fall Arts Correspondent. Trailing her, to my disgust, I noticed our music columnist. I can best explain this person – whose own musical tastes, incidentally, seemed to be trapped in a sort of trip-hop nightmare circa 1997 – by stating that he resembled nothing so much as a large egg in overly rectangular spectacles and pricey yet shapeless skatewear. “Hi,” he drawled at me. “So, yeah, we’re going to, like, this literature thing, then?”
“Yes,” I said in a strangled voice. “Excuse me a second, I need to make a phone call.” Turning my back on them, I phoned the Editor.
“What’s going on?” I gabbled into the handset while attempting to keep my voice down. “You can’t be proposing to send all three of us on this pointless exercise, can you? I mean, I doubt Poppy has read anything other than The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and as for the other one, well…the bloke’s an arse.”
“Nonsense,” said the Editor, with what to me sounded like a thinly disguised smirk. “Poppy can take the arts angle. Jay can give his opinion on the music side of things. As for you, this is an ideal opportunity to re-establish your credentials after that ethical…”
“OK, OK,” I said hurriedly. “You’ll have your piece.” I snapped the phone shut and turned back to my companions. “Shall we go in?”
“Yeah, let’s go,” said Jay, his eyes goggling behind his glasses. “Like, this seems, like, a really good opportunity to, you know, talk about, like, books and stuff.” I smiled a thin smile in response. “Yes,” I said, “both books and stuff will doubtless be popular topics of conversation.”
“I have cut my hand on my book,” sniffed Poppy, holding up a slightly lacerated finger.
This was going to be a long night.
Continued next issue