From Bulgakov to Hardy via Romans

It’s crowded. It’s dusty. It is my overstocked bedside table. What lurks there?

Master and Margarita - Mikhail Bulgakov

A Russian novel recommended by a Russian lady. Though she’s departed the scene, the novel remains; a 439 page aide memoire to one of life’s tiny footnotes.

SPQR - Mary Beard

It’s like the law - or something - that there shall be a Roman History book on my bedside table. Mary Beard traverses familiar ground as she meanders around from Romulus to Septimius Severus. Not my favourite author or person but I’ll try and look past that and let the subject speak for itself.

Life’s Little Ironies - Thomas Hardy

Hardy was an all rounder - novels, poems and short stories. Study the art from a master.

The Folio Book of the English Christmas

It’s an annual tradition, I get this book out 1st December, it gathers dust and I put back on the shelf in February as the crocuses emerge and the thought of Christmases past appal.

Caligula - The Corruption of Power, Anthony A Barrett

Not one, but two Roman histories. As a keen student of Suetonius and Robert Graves, this feels a bit obvious to my tastes. I crave the third and fourth century, the fury of Aurelian, the prescience of Constantine, the oddness of Julian. But one still returns to the Julio-Claudians like a Hollywood film-maker.

The Bible - King James Version

The only constant presence on my bedside table. I like to look in occasionally. Ah, wisdom and Western Culture. Mmm. As you were. And today’s reading is: Bread of deceit is sweet to a man; But afterwards his mouth shall be filled with gravel. (Proverbs 20: 17)

And my mobile phone and a coaster with my name on it. Possibly my Boss watch.

It Ain't Half Hot, Heathcliff!

“No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere”

— No Coward Soul is Mine - Emily Bronte

When I was younger, I used to be a fairly frequent visitor to Haworth in West Yorkshire, home of the Bronte Parsonage, where the three sisters used to sit around the dining table in the mid 1840's and knock out Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. There's something magical about the place and its story of how Anne, Emily and Jane each became - briefly, so briefly - published authors before they died so very young.

Wuthering Heights is my favourite book. It uses and enthuses the dark, featureless moors that predominate around this part of Yorkshire. It's bleak spot and always guaranteed to be cold and rainy. Or so I thought!

Last week I week back to Haworth after a gap of several years. As you can see by the pictures, Haworth was bathing in sunlight, warming itself under clear blue skies. This is not what I wanted! I wanted dark clouds, intermittent rain, howling winds chasing people off the street and into appropriately named cafes cashing in on the Bronte's fame where taciturn waitresses would bring you a tea and bun and tell you the storm outside was 'owt about nowt'...

Well none of that! 

Where's the rain? Costa del Haworth, April 2018

How was the parsonage itself? Well, it seemed somewhat larger than last time I wandered around - was the entrance hall and gift shop there 20 years ago? Dunno, can't remember. The exhibits and memorabilia were all present and correct, from youthful tiny magazines to both the sisters' and Branwell's pretty good artwork. Pride of place goes to the actual table all those great works were written (bought by the Bronte Society a couple of years ago). If, as a writer, this scene doesn't inspire you or fill you will awe, you're probably not a writer - or even a reader.

The dining room table where all the action happened. I wonder if the pub table where I penned Franco's Fiesta in my local Harvester will be similairly immortalised? Should be.

Leaving Haworth - using the 'old' route, i.e. a ridiculously steep hill where you really don't want to do a hill start at the top - I was thinking that I should reread Wuthering Heights. And then the others. So, I am. 

Isn't that the point of muesums? Get you back to the source and renew your energies and passions?

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LP Hartley, Graham Greene, de Maupassant & Ammianus go into a bar

“Libraries gave us power...”

— A Design for Life, Manic Street Preachers

So, LP Hartley, Graham Greene, Guy de Maupassant and Ammianus Marcellinus go into a pub one night to discuss which Tim Robson article, short story, or er, novel, they like best.

LPH: I like his early stuff. It's different - almost a different country.

GG:  Bollocks mates, I love all of it. As a writer, I measure my love by the extent of my jealousy. And I'm really jealous of Tim. 

GdM: J'aime ses articles francais.

GG:   In English mate.

GdM: I love it when he swears a lot and talks about getting pissed and failing with girls.

AM:    Rather reminds me of a young Julian.

LPH:   No Spear of Destiny in this one I'm afraid.

GG:     What? The shite 80's band?

AM:     No. Anyway, I like his stuff about the 4th Century Roman Empire.

GdM:   Talking your own book again?

---

Etc etc. Yes, I used to write like this once. When I edited the school magazine. Well, sans les filles, something had to amuse me.

So this rather long preamble is my annoying way to mention that I've started to read again. As a literary autodidact I range freely within self imposed barriers. I'm not really a fan of the latest literature - maybe because I want to read what history has determined is worth reading rather follow the latest trend. Classics, in fact. And yes, I also distrust gatekeepers (in life, in knowledge) but I'll let this pass. The judgement of history - over time - tends to be validated.

So, recently I've been reading:-

- LP Hartley - The Go-Between

- Graham Greene - The End of the Affair

- Guy de Maupassant - Bel Ami

- Ammianus - Roman History

Three fiction and one non fiction which is a pretty good balance, I think. For too long I've been reading history, history, history so it's nice to refresh my love of literature. I devour these books with the eye of a writer; hoarding phrases, constructions, unusual words for later adaption and use myself. Yeah, I borrow from the best. If I'm struck by a phrase, I'll write it down and try to adapt it for my needs. The Bible's good for this too! I'm not proud. 

And where do I get this treasure trove of endless literature?

Battersea Library, Lavender Hill. Yeah, unfashionable and dusty, the good old library. Like a good bookshop, I go in with no preconceptions and end up borrowing something I didn't intend. That's the beauty of it - challenging myself to read new authors, new books and push beyond quotidian Hardy, Austin, Balzac, Wilde, Zola (fuck, I'm well read! In the 19th century.). 

Libraries. Another great 19th Century invention along with the Rochdale co-operative movement. Self help. Knowledge. Confronting the world as it is not as it should be. One hundred and fifty years ago I would have been a Radical Liberal or a Socialist. 

I don't preach. But a house with books is better than a house with a large TV. I stick with this prejudice though often it hurts. Rousseau beats Hobbes every time. Eventually.

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