It's always the same, after the event you always think of the things you could have said, so this time instead of brief notes I decided to write a 'proper talk' to read out.
A write-up of the event at The Times here.
More later on all the actual and online discussions because some important points have stuck in my mind, but in the meantime, while I go and get the washing on, here's what I actually said.
So how
in heaven’s name has this happened?
What
on earth is a bookaholic sock-knitting quilter from Devon who happens to be a
community nurse in her spare time doing on the platform speaking at the Sunday
Times Oxford Literary Festival?
And
what from all that qualifies me to talk and write about literature as I do on
dovegreyreader scribbles? Not a great deal you may think, in fact let me tell
you, there is great consternation that I will unwittingly slip into my more
familiar territory, my highly acclaimed talk on Negotiating with Terrorists,
How to Manage Your Toddler’s Tantrums...in fact if things get tricky up here it
might all come in handy...
But I’m very grateful for the opportunity to
speak and like my blog, this overview will be entirely personal and subjective,
I make no apology for that, perhaps it will help reach a consensus.
It
seems mildly sycophantic to launch right into a quote from someone else on the
platform but you know me, sometimes I just can’t stop myself, John Carey said
it first and I must sneak it in before he does,
‘ Like
all criticism of art or literature, my judgements are camouflaged
autobiography, arising from a lifetime’s encounters with words and people that
are mostly far too complicated for me to unravel.’
Me too
John, but please bear with me as I unravel a few to clarify and explain my position. Anyone
who visits dovegreyreader will already know quite a lot about me, for those who
don’t here’s a very brief resume.
I was
a coronation year baby, grew up in a typical post-war 1950's family. I
would pass the 11+, go to a Girl’s Grammar School and I would be a nurse, it
was all decided quite early on. My mother’s theory was that a degree was
training for nothing; the war had deprived her of a career so I would be
trained for something.
Some
of us still did as we were told in the 1960’s. I did go to Grammar school and I
sailed into two years of English A Level classes with my student nurse place at
Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital assured, and a delightful teacher
called Miss Maud who left me to love the books whilst everyone else sweated
over Oxbridge entrance. I have lived to bless those two years. My essays were
terrible, but my love of reading since the age of five had been woven
inextricably into my adult life. I took that love of reading with me into my
nursing career, marriage, motherhood and finally, in 1996 along that early path
not taken.
With three
teenagers and a full time health visitor caseload of about 400 children under
the age of 5, I decided to do that degree in English Literature in my spare
time. My motive was simple, I hungered for a deeper understanding of what I was
reading and I wanted to read so much that I felt I had missed. Someone was
going to have to make me do it and it wasn’t the NHS, fortunately the Open
University did and mostly at 2 o’clock in the morning for the next six years.
With
that understanding, came a language with which to explain what my heart had
always known but my mind had never quite been able to articulate, but I was
really not a lot better off. Once all that literary theory had sunk into the
mud and the useful stuff had risen to the surface, the view of the Tamar valley
from my window looked no different; it remained outstandingly beautiful but had
not overnight become the hub of the literary universe. Suddenly I felt I had a
voice I could use but one which just echoed back at me from the pages of my hand-written
reading journals. As my mother had so wisely said, a degree is training for
nothing; I needed to put it to good use.
Dovegreyreader
was born of a selfish desperation to share a lifelong passion for reading and a
love of books that I had enjoyed, and I was hopeful, but not certain that
perhaps a few people might read it. I had recently read all Margaret Atwood’s
novels in succession; surely someone somewhere wanted to talk about Margaret
Atwood?
I have
never pretended to be a literary critic and nor do I really class myself as a
book reviewer; both require an element of objective and controlled detachment
which I get in spades from the hours of 9-5. I spend my working days listening to
people’s narratives, often very traumatic stories, which I then have to write
up in a very objective, factual clinical format. Fiction gets me into trouble. My
job is not to pass subjective judgement, I have to make calm, rational and professional
assessments; you develop a detached empathy towards the grim realities of life to
protect yourself.
To be
a rounded human being there has to be a balance to that, books and reading
allow me to access my inner Tigger with impunity. When it comes to books, yes, I’m
a hopelessly demented bouncy, flouncy, trouncy, pouncy Tigger, and I’m afraid a blog has let this Tigger loose on the world.
I
wanted a recognizable voice and the only one I can do is mine, so what you read
is me. I wanted to write it as a conversation about books and in a very different
way from the review pages, much less about this-happened-then-that-happened and
much more about
· how had a book affected me?
· why was it special ?
· what had grabbed me ?
· what else did it remind me of ?
· what would it make me want to read next ?
· why would I press this book on you if we met in the street ?
· You probably know enough now to run in the opposite direction!
Again
I return to the fact that what I bring to my reading is camouflaged
autobiography, my life events, my memories, and I share those too on the blog and
often snippets of rural life, because though my reading slots into my context
with ease, that may not be the same for everyone and I try to justify that.
Everyone has a unique eye, thirty years as a health visitor has given me mine.I
wanted to offer some analytical depth closely allied to my perceptions of
everyday life, but not to
the point where readers felt inadequate or excluded by literary language or any
sense of elitism or pomposity. Pomposity on a blog invites death by a thousand
comments. I decided very early on that I would not do excoriating criticism. Life
is galloping by, why waste valuable time panning books for which I’m the wrong
reader when there are so many for which I’m the right reader ? My reading is
for pleasure after all
But writing
anything for the public domain is not without its responsibilities. In my day to
day work I’m professionally accountable and have to work to high ethical
standards and a written code of conduct, most professions work in a similar
fashion these days so why should the world of literary criticism and book
reviewing be any different? I may profess to do neither, I’m sharing a love of good
books but if I want my blog to be taken seriously, if I am pushing personal opinions
out into the ether then I must be responsible and accountable for them too, no
matter whether people see it as yammering or follow its every word and quote it
in the press. That might all seem excessive but it’s very important to me.
I take
it seriously, and from the outset trust, honesty, transparency and humour have been
paramount. If there is an interest to be declared then I will declare it. Let’s
suppose next week Ian McEwan takes me out to dinner at The Ivy just as I am
about to read and then share my thoughts on the blog about his latest book, of
course I’d have to tell you.
What
??? The Mrs Merton of the Litblog miss an opportunity like that! What was he
wearing? Who was sitting on the next table? The food, was it any good? Oh, yes
and the book, let’s not forget the book.
I
never wanted to box myself into one literary corner and as a result I no longer
feel I have a reading comfort zone. This has been exciting and challenging, new
and unexpected doors have opened and the blog has expanded my reading horizons
to infinity, but best of all I have returned to the Classics with huge
enthusiasm. Suddenly I feel grown up enough to cope with them and I know I’m
not alone.
I share honestly my literary trials and
tribulations, there are some brilliant writers I have struggled with for years and
others struggle along with me until we crack it. Unmoderated comments
facilitate a conversation with anyone and everyone, readers, authors,
publishers, even with ‘bored of Ireland’ who thinks this is all ‘a load of
trivial rambling rubbish’. Everyone is entitled to their opinion.
Blogs
are often accused of being unedited, off the cuff, thoughtless ramblings, indeed
mine might look like that to many, especially ‘bored of Ireland’ but here’s the
reality.
I
devote a lot of time to writing it, hours and days, book thoughts are rarely
written and published instantly. I am a compulsive book scribbler as I read and
I write my first thoughts down as soon as I can, then there follows a process
of researching, honing and editing, I will often wake up at 3am and think “good grief, I
can’t say that!”.
Reading
trails often open up as a result. Bringing lesser known books into the
limelight is a blogger’s speciality and sharing those and getting ideas from
others is always exciting. Indeed sharing the passion of reading and spreading
news of good books across the world in a matter of minutes is a privilege and
one I never take for granted.
This
is all not much of a battle cry I hear you mutter disappointingly; where’s the
spilt blood on the platform? Well I might be over-simplifying arguments about
the dumbing down of culture but those are for others, to my mind there isn’t a
battle to be fought because this blogger is offering something different, subjective
yes, but hopefully as meaningful to a reader, as the literary critic or the
professional book reviewer. In the NHS it’s called skill-mix and we learnt to
deal with it years ago.
Having
started with a quote from John Carey I was going to apologise for not using one
from John Mullan, but we’re OK, I’ve found one.
“Each
novel reader has an experience of the novel to describe and even mere
partisanship can generate a kind of critical analysis.”
I feel
semi-vindicated.
But
the final word must go to Virginia Woolf
‘I have sometimes dreamt, at least, that when
the Day of Judgement dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesman
come to receive their rewards- their crowns their laurels, their names carved
indelibly upon imperishable marble – the Almighty will turn to Peter and will
say, not without a certain envy when he sees us coming with our books under our
arms,
“Look,
these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved
reading.”
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