I am currently reading....and have been for quite a long time

Stuff and Nonsense by Amy Cockram is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

I don't know if anyone who checks my blog reads the gadget that lists the books I am reading. Come to that, I'm actually not sure if anyone checks my blog. Anyway, I have to admit to the fact that a couple of books listed are ones that I have been currently reading for quite a long time.

I feel a bit ashamed to admit this - especially since one of my long-term reading commitments was a present from a friend ("The Library of Shadows"). It feels a bit ungrateful somehow to have not yet finished it. I was reading it before we went to New York (blimey, that was April). I didn't take it to New York because I wanted to read something set in New York, and I never really returned to it. I was actually fairly near the end and was enjoying it (contrary to appearances), but it is now so long ago that I feel maybe I should re-start it. Can I still technically be said to be currently reading it, if this was nearly 5 months ago?

Another book I started but have not read much of is "The End of Mr Y." This is because I have 2 types of books - intelligent books, and breakfast books. The intelligent books - like "The End of Mr Y" - I get through a lot more slowly. This is because you need to devote all your attention to them, and I rarely seem to get time to do this.

In comparison, a breakfast book is - unsurprisingly - a book I can read while having breakfast. I like reading in the morning when having breakfast, but I can't cope with anything too intellectually stretching too early in the day. So a breakfast book is fun and undemanding - something I can also read with a little less attention when something else is on in the background (like when Mark is watching a football match in which they seem to be faffing around a lot and not actually kicking the ball into the net thing at the end of the field much).

My breakfast books fly past on the blog, but the intelligent books stay there longer because I read them less frequently and they take more time to absorb.

So that is the key to the books I am currently reading: if a book is on there for a long time, then it is more intelligent and takes time to digest. If it is only on there fleetingly, then it probably took less time to digest than my breakfast.

Book review: "Outside of a Dog," by Rick Gekoski

Stuff and Nonsense by Amy Cockram is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

In the past year or so, I discovered a new book geek pleasure. A friend of mine, let's call her Brenda, gave me a great Christmas present - a book journal (even more meaningful, as I know she used to despair of me wanting books for a present instead of something glamorous and girly). My new pleasure then was to scour the magazine brought out by Waterstones (a large bookselling chain in the UK), and make a note of all the books that sound interesting. "Outside of a Dog," was one of the books that I saw in a Waterstones magazine.

Rick Gekoski's book is a memoir of a life in books (as a lecturer, and then as a rare book dealer). This memoir takes Rick from his early years as a highly sexed adolescent, placing a different spin on Carlyle's dictum that "the best effect of any books is that it excites the reader to self activity," to finding his voice as a writer in later years. Along the way he meets luminaries such as Germaine Greer (a colleague when he was a lecturer), Graham Greene and the widow of Kim Philby. In addition to reading about writers and books, you also find out a great deal about Rick and his family.

This book essentially does what every good book about books should do - makes you want to read more of them. His chapter on T.S. Eliot made me want to reread "The Wasteland," which I initially didn't like as a student but have now come to admire. His chapter of Yeats, however, has done nothing to ameliorate the dislike that I felt for his poetry. As an admirer of Germaine Greer (the most interesting people are passionate, committed and a little bit mad), I found the chapter on her particularly interesting as it places "The Female Eunuch" within the context of its time.

I especially found that I could relate to his discomfort with the rise of literary theory. My inability to process literary theory, and my dislike of some of its tenets, was one reason why I decided that I was not suited to a career in academia. In modern academic life it seems impossible to lecture and not have to teach theory. Theory made my head ache; it seemed to take pleasure in asserting its intellectual superiority by being contrived and - to my limited brainpower - completely impenetrable. It was language as obfuscation, not explanation. In my attitude to literary theory - as in most things - I was terminally unfashionable. Most of all I hated Roland Barthes' idea of the death of the author: that authorial intent is irrelevant, and what matters above all else is the reader's interpretation. This, of course, is a gross simplification that proves my inability to grasp theory. I passionately took against this idea, because for me the intellect that created the work is as fascinating as the text itself. And Rick Gekoski is a very interesting author with whom to spend some time.

There is one element of this book that fascinated me and has made me think again about my reading habits. And this is something that I have still not resolved, and am working through in this blog. Rick Gekoski, on leaving academia, rebelled against its tenets by embarking on a process of "becoming less intelligent." This involved taking out a standing order for 20 thrillers a month; disposable novels that were read at speed and almost instantly forgotten. This has increasingly become my style of reading. The majority of the novels that I have read recently have been to literature what Pot Noodle is to nutrition. I recently tweeted that I hoped my policy of complete declaration of my reading might shame me into reading something more intelligent.

Although I have apparently internalised this snobbery which elevates some writing as literature and denigrates some as trash, a big part of me rebels against this. I used to be saddened by people at university who told me that they were unable to switch off their critical faculties, and just read something trashy for pleasure. Why should this be less valuable than "literature?" Do I think Dan Brown is a great author? Of course not. But do I find his books enjoyable on the basic level of a good story, which sweeps you along so that you want to find out what happens next? Yes, I do. Well, maybe not so much with "The Last Symbol." But, surely, that is what you should ask of a good thriller? A thriller that has "literary value," whatever this is, but fails to produce a compelling narrative, is surely a failure? From the earliest traditions of oral history, humanity is a storytelling species. Telling stories spans all cultures in a way that suggests it is an integral part of the development of our species, just as much as the opposable thumb. Granted oral history, myth and fairy tales are all meant to teach us something about our nature and development, but when did the ability to tell a good story become devalued?

Rick Gekoski's resolution is to be "differently intelligent." I'm not sure yet whether this phrase will help to resolve my reading habits. In being differently intelligent, he sheds his contrived academic voice and finds the more natural voice that he uses for this memoir. It is an effective and engaging voice, and becoming differently intelligent allows him to reclaim the literature which became daunting to him while also reading a modicum of thrillers. For me, I always had the distinctly unacademic belief that the most important thing was whether I enjoyed something. And I enjoyed this book.

More on Helene Hanff

Stuff and Nonsense by Amy Cockram is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

I'm having a bit of an Helene Hanff obsession, and have googled her today to find out what else she has written that I have not yet read. I am quite excited to find that there is an omnibus in the stacks of our local library that contains a couple of books that I have not read yet (it also includes "Apple of my Eye," and I am hoping that this will be the revised edition).

Today I also finished re-reading "Underfoot in Show Business." This, like Helene's book on New York, is a lively, entertaining read. When Helene first moved to New York, it was as an aspiring playwright with a promising future. However, in accordance with Flanagan's Law ("No matter what happens to you, it's unexpected) her playwriting career was a bit of a bust. However, she does find what seemed to be an enduring friendship with an also aspiring actress called Maxine, and edges her way into a writing career.

In writing about "Apple of my Eye," I wrote that her easy, natural writing style was probably quite hard to cultivate. This book demonstrates how hard working she was as a writer, and how dedicated she was to getting it right (she undertakes to learn Greek and Latin in the belief that she would only be able to select the precisely right English word by understanding the Greek or Latin root of the word). That said, some of the most entertaining elements of the book come when she spectacularly gets it wrong (such as writing a television script about Rhodope for a television show - The Hallmark Hall of Fame - with a highly moral sponsor, only to find on the morning of transmission that the source of her inspiration had misrepresented Rhodope as an innocent slave girl when she had actually been an infamous prostitute).

I think it is quite entertaining to note something that Helene herself pointed out.

When she first moved to New York from Philadelphia, it was under the auspices of winning a fellowship from the Bureau on New Plays. They had offered $1500 to a couple of deserving new playwrights each year.

The year Helene won, the Theatre Guild decided that it was not in the playwrights' best interests to award them money, but then leave them to go their own way in the hard world of show business. They decided that in addition to the money from the Bureau of New Plays, they would also offer some training - so the year Helene won a fellowship, they were also treated to seminars from eminent theatre professionals. They were also given the chance to sit in on the preparations for a selection of Theatre Guild productions.

Of the twelve lucky hopefuls given this training (including Helene), a couple went on to become screen and television writers, but none of them became playwrights. The Theatre Guild productions they were privileged to have an insight into, all flopped.

The year previously, the two hopefuls who were awarded the money but received no training, and were left to their own devices, were Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams.

Book review: Helene Hanff's "Apple of my Eye"

Stuff and Nonsense by Amy Cockram is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

I discovered Helene Hanff quite a few years ago, when I was sent a copy of "84 Charing Cross Road" by a friend, Alan. My friendship with Alan is almost like our personal homage to Helene as - like her epistolary friendship with Frank Doel - we have corresponded for a number of years, but we have never met. I value my paperback copy of "84 Charing Cross Road," not because it is a first edition (it isn't), but because Alan has written in it, "Hoping our friendship lasts at least as long as theirs did." By my reckoning we are probably about 6 years off their record.

It is very fitting, in the light of this, that the main comment on my New York reading list came from Alan. He pointed out that New York is a vibrant, constantly changing city and that all my choices are books that are quite old (the most recent being Underworld). They are therefore about a New York that no longer exists.

This is a fair observation, and I could analyse the reasons for this. So I will.

Firstly - the purely practical; my choice was based on raiding my bookshelves for New York books, and those were the ones that I had.

Secondly - modern NY novels are to some extent shaped by the tragedy of the Twin Towers and, as a slightly nervous flier, this did not seem to be a good choice for airplane reading. It is right and proper to acknowledge the tragedy, which is probably the shooting of JFK for our generation (most people can remember what they were doing when they heard what had happened). We did see Ground Zero - currently a building site (this is the photo on this article, as seen from some seats where older men meet to play chess like they do in the movies).

Lastly, I probably cling to a romantic idea of the old NY that does not exist any more - the good-hearted gangsters of Damon Runyon, museums that don't charge an entrance fee (but just ask for a donation). There is probably a cyclical element to this analysis. I only chose from the books that I have on my bookshelf, and they represent my attraction to a romanticised, old-fashioned New York.

Which brings me to Helene Hanff - but in a good way. My airplane reading in the end was Helene Hanff's "Apple of my Eye" (not a big surprise - I think this was always going to be my top choice from the time I rediscovered it on my bookshelves).

"Apple of my Eye," was written when Helene was commissioned to write copy for a book of New York photographs. She was initially enthusiastic to be hired to write about something that she loves so dearly. This excitement was tempered by the realisation that, as someone who lives in New York, she had never seen the tourist sites. She sets out to rectify this with a friend, Patsy Gibbs, who also realises that she has not visited the places that New Yorkers take for granted. Patsy and Helene are also both scared of heights - which is unfortunate when so many of the New York landmarks are so tall.

This book was written in 1977 (and, I have just discovered, revised in 1988 - I have the earlier version). For obvious reasons, it should not be read as a guide book. However, it is a very entertaining read with a very easy, natural style (that probably takes a lot of work to cultivate). Helene Hanff is fascinated by history, and subjects Patsy to historical digressions that apparently bore her but fascinate the reader. There are mysteries along the way: why they are the only Americans on a bus tour of Harlem; an apparently disappearing plaque/tombstone in Trinity Church, and whether a bank in Wall Street ever replaced the stolen plaque that marked the position of the titular wall.

The thing that most dates the book is probably its most poignant detail - at the time of writing, construction was just being completed on the World Trade Center. As Helene Hanff died in 1997, she thankfully did not live to see the tragedy that would befall her beloved New York. I like to think she would be reassured that the city has resolutely refused to be beaten into submission.

Book review: "It's Only a Movie," by Mark Kermode

Stuff and Nonsense by Amy Cockram is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

I can sometimes be seen walking around town with an enigmatic expression on my face. This is the face of someone who is listening to a podcast on her ipod and trying not to randomly laugh aloud like a crazy person.

This is largely due to my discovery of two podcasts. The first is an American podcast called "Stuff You Should Know." It is courtesy of an episode of this podcast that I listened to recently on the subject of aphrodisiacs that I now know that men have a 5% increase in blood flow in response to the smell of pizzas. And incidentally both sexes have a strong sexual response to the smell of pumpkin pie. Apparently.

The second podcast was discovered by my husband (and this is where I start to get to the point). This is my current favourite - the BBC Radio 5 Live film review podcast of Simon Mayo and Mark Kermode. This podcast normally comes out on Fridays, and I am always impatient to hear it. I have rapidly become obsessed with Mark Kermode. He is fascinating to listen to because he is so obviously knowledgeable and passionate about cinema - and this enthusisiasm comes through on the radio in the articulacy (and excitable speed) of his speech. This is akin to the reasons why I love Germaine Greer - it is completely absorbing to listen to someone intelligent who speaks with such enthusiasm about their subject.

So I was very happy when my husband gave me Mark Kermode's new book for Valentine's Day. I have shelves of books that I intend to read and haven't yet - but this one skipped to the top of my pile immediately.

Mark Kermode uses the framing conceit that he is writer, director, editor, cinematographer, consultant, composer and executive composer of a version of his own life. The word "version" is particularly pertinent - this is by his own admission an unreliable account because events in his head are skewed to become more cinematic. His is maybe an extreme case of this, but it is probably familiar to anyone who watches lots of films or is an avid reader - or even just someone who tinkers with relating something that has happened to them to produce a better anecdote. And, if we are honest, I think probably everyone does that to some degree - but few of us get the chance to have our edited lives broadcast on the radio or published.

This is a book that I would recommend to someone who is enthusiastic about films, but it also has a strong vein of humour that might appeal even to people who aren't big film fans. There were a couple of instances which made me laugh aloud, and it is not often that a book does that (when it comes to reading, I am more of a silent appreciator of humour). My highlights were his experience of watching "Mamma Mia" - with an impressive attempt to render Pierce Brosnan's singing style in print - and a less than positive encounter with Dame Helen Mirren.

Mark Kermode's views on film are outspoken and opinionated, and he writes that"..if you're not annoying half your audience at least half of the time, then frankly you're just not trying." I don't mean this as a criticism - his passion and outspoken beliefs are something that I like about him. This book didn't annoy me any of the time - it is entertaining, funny and made me want to watch more films.

I'd also recommend a female equivalent to this book - Antonia Quirke's "Madame Depardieu and the Beautiful Strangers." Hers is also a life seen through the prism of films - and in her case an obsession with male film stars. It was like spending an evening with a female friend and a glass of wine, gossiping about life, films and men.

P.S. I already have a book lined up to replace this on my multiple reading list. It is about a bibliophile and it is called "Outside of a Dog." I am already predisposed to like this book because:
A) It's about books (duh!)
B) Its title comes from one of my favourite Groucho Marx quotes, "Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read."
C) Part of the cover design shows a drawing of a dog, wearing glasses, with an open book in front of him. It is impossible not to like a book that has a bespectacled dog on the cover.

I have more bad habits than I realised....

Stuff and Nonsense by Amy Cockram is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

I'm starting to feel a little bit demoralised by writing this blog. I never thought that I had so many bad habits. I have just thought of a couple more - and that's without trying very hard. I dread to think how many I could come up with if I tried.

I am compulsive. I am a big fan of Eddie Izzard, and yet I have never managed to fully watch his DVD, "Definite Article," without getting distracted. This is because his set for this show is a huge, open book on which a page of various texts is projected. I always end up trying to recognise which book is being projected. I can get a few of them - I remember some Spike Milligan - but, every time I watch the DVD, I get increasingly frustrated by the ones I can't recognise. In fact I am now thinking that I have to watch it again. Not because Eddie Izzard is brilliant - he is, and this is one of my favourite shows of his - but because I want to try again to recognise those damn books.

A few years ago I read "Wonder Boys" by Michael Chabon. This is one of the rare instances in which I prefer the film version to the book, maybe because I saw the film before reading the book. I actually don't think I can recall another instance where I prefer the film to a book. Anyway, there was one section in the book with which I felt a strong connection. He writes of a character (I can't remember her name, but the Frances McDormand part in the film) who is a voracious reader. If there is no book available, she will read anything to hand. I do that. In the absence of a book I have been known to read the backs of shampoo bottles.

I'm nosy. And again I am only talking about books. If I go to someone's house and books are on display, then I will gravitate to the bookshelves to see what's there. I might try to be circumspect, but you will probably see me edging nonchalantly towards them.

Likewise I'm not really a gossip, and I don't listen in to conversations on public transport - but if you are sitting near me on a bus or train, reading a book, I will feel compelled to try and see what you are reading.

So, please, take pity if you are reading on public transport and, out of the corner of your eye, you notice a woman looking furtively over. It could be me. Please be kind and move your book slightly. It need only be for a few seconds, but just long enough for me to see the spine or front of what you are reading. If you don't I will be in torment for the whole journey.

My bad (reading) habits

Stuff and Nonsense by Amy Cockram is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

I have a confession to make. I would never be unfaithful to my husband, but I am rarely faithful to my books. I am a book slut - I am always reading more than one book at a time. I've done this since a child, and can hardly remember a time when I was faithful to only one.

I tend to have a deep and meaningful relationship with one book, while also having a casual affair with a number of others at the same time. At the moment, for example, my deep and meaningful relationship is with Marina Warner's "No Go the Bogeyman," which is about fear and fairy-tales. I felt like I should read something a bit more analytical and intelligent, which I haven't done in a while, and it is quite rare for me to read something that is non-fiction. I am only a few pages in at the moment, so it is still too early in the relationship to make a commitment.

At the same time, though, I am having an occasional, casual flirtation with "Stephen Fry in America" (this is the book title, not the location of our affair - although this might be an interesting fantasy to consider). I am having an intense, passionate fling with "It's Only a Movie" by Mark Kermode (with whom I have been a bit obsessed recently). And lastly I am also reading "The Library of Shadows" by Mikkel Birkegaard (part of a Christmas present pack of books from a friend which, whether consciously or not, had a distinctly Scandinavian theme - also including Stieg Larsson and Henning Mankell). "The Library of Shadows" was only meant to be a fling, but is turning into a deeper, more meaningful relationship than I expected. I might even consider leaving Marina Warner for Mikkel Birkegaard.

My duplicitous reading nature is not my only bad habit (I have many - but I'm concentrating on literary ones here). I probably don't read as thoroughly as I should. I am rather a skim reader. This might be a sign of increasing age and decreasing attention span, although I think I have always done it. This might also be down to reading too many thrillers and getting swept along with the story, wanting to know what happens next. I do tend to re-read books and notice new layers in them - but you could argue that, if I read in a more considered way, I would notice more first time round and would then have more time to read new books.

I also read a fair amount of fiction that is entertaining but has no real literary value - although I would chose to defend this. When I was at university, I remember being told by a couple of people that they could no longer just read something trashy. I found that quite sad. There is a lot of pleasure to be had from going along with a good story, being compelled to know what happens next. Maybe if I read in more analytical detail, I might enjoy the ride a bit less.

This leads on to one habit that I have, which I think really annoys my husband. If I am addicted to a book - if I don't want to put it down but life gets in the way and means that I have to - then I will peek forward a few pages to see what happens. Right now I am thinking of Billy Crystal's character in "When Harry Met Sally," who always skips to the end because he worries that he might die, mid-book, not knowing what happens. My reasons aren't that fatalistic. I try to resist, but my willpower is too weak. He bought me an e-reader last year - and I secretly suspect that this might be because it is harder to skip ahead. And also because I already have way too many books.

Actually you can never have too many books.

I think I know why I was never really meant to stay in academia. I never really got literary theory - it always seemed to obfuscate more than elucidate; seemed to be an exercise in showing off that was beyond the limits of my brain power. The most important thing to me was always whether I liked something - which is solipsistic and completely indefensible in academic terms.

It has also just occurred to me that I said I rarely read non-fiction - but 3 out of the 4 books I am currently reading are non-fiction. So you can maybe add being an unreliable narrator to my list of bad literary habits.