On Books that Suit.

The kind of books which most attract me tend to be those at the more rarefied end of what is usually referred to as literary fiction (as opposed to speculative fiction.) By ‘more rarefied’ I mean those in which the plot is of only passing interest, being largely a framework on which to hang the more important aspect of the novel – an examination of how humans relate to one another and to life itself.

People have occasionally asked me ‘what are you reading?’ and when I’ve told them the title, they almost invariably follow it up with ‘what’s it about?’ What they usually want me to give them is a brief outline of the plot so as to know whether they would find it engaging, but if the plot is of only passing interest I feel there would be little point in telling them. In many cases I feel inclined to say ‘you wouldn’t understand’, but that would be unconscionably arrogant and dismissive, and so an inner struggle ensues. I have to make a rapid assessment of whether the person really wants to know what the book is really about. If my assessment is in the negative, I have to come up with an answer which is polite but perfunctory and hope that no offence has been given. It isn’t always easy.

And then there’s the other side of the issue. Someone to whom I once felt reasonably close gave me a celebrated novel as a Christmas present. She apparently thought that because it was one of her favourite works, I would be greatly taken with it, too. But she and I, though close on a surface personal level, had very different natures. She was highly pragmatic in both temperament and outlook, whereas I’m more inclined to search for the workings of the inner being.

I found the book readable, but only just. It was all plot, you see. There was nothing in the way of rich or idiosyncratic writing style, hardly any evocation of a sense of place, few subtle and strange nuances of character, and little attempt at deep examination of the more distant aspects of mind. I finished the book mostly out of a sense of duty, and it was fortunate that she never asked me what I thought of it.

(And I’ve just remembered Mrs Thatcher’s infamous dictum: ‘There is no such thing as quality literature. There are books that sell and books that don’t.’ Now, if only she’d said ‘There is no such thing as universal fiction because there is no such thing as the universal being. There are books that suit and books that don’t’, I might have thought her worth listening to for once.)