I've been thinking about what to do with this blog and my reasons for having one... I realised very soon after sort-of-accidentally creating it that perhaps it wasn't the wisest move to have my real name attached to it, especially as there is, to my knowledge, no-one else on the planet with my particular name. I read an article the other day (can't quite remember where) about how people's employment prospects are being seriously compromised by their online shennanigans. If a prospective employer googled me (I love, by the way, that 'google' is now a recognised verb), and found a blog containing my innermost thoughts, let's face it, they would definitely bin my job application and probably have me sectioned. So, innermost thoughts - no.
But I was inspired by a 'reflection' (not a story or an essay - yes, reflection sums it up nicely, I guess) by the fabulous Patrick Süskind, called 'Amnesia in Litteris', a title I have shamelessly borrowed for this blog. Süskind recounts 'a great forgetting' as he browses through his library and discovers how few of the books he can actually remember. To say that it rang bells is an understatement.
'Those two red volumes, the thick ones with red ribbons, I'm sure I know them, they're as familiar as old furniture, I've read them, I lived in those volumes for weeks, and not very long ago; what are they, what is the title? The Possessed. I see. Interesting. And the author? F.M. Dostoevsky. Hm. Yes, I seem to have a vague recollection; the whole thing takes place in the nineteenth century, I believe, and in the second volume someone shoots himself with a pistol. More than that I couldn't say.
'I sink back into the chair at my desk. This is a disgrace. It's a scandal. I've been able to read for thirty years now, and I've read quite a bit, if not much, and all that's left is the very vague recollection that in the second volume of a thousand-page novel someone or other kills himself with a pistol. Thirty years of reading in vain! Thousands of hours of my childhood and my youth and my manhood spent reading, and nothing is retained except a great forgetting.'
But I was inspired by a 'reflection' (not a story or an essay - yes, reflection sums it up nicely, I guess) by the fabulous Patrick Süskind, called 'Amnesia in Litteris', a title I have shamelessly borrowed for this blog. Süskind recounts 'a great forgetting' as he browses through his library and discovers how few of the books he can actually remember. To say that it rang bells is an understatement.
'Those two red volumes, the thick ones with red ribbons, I'm sure I know them, they're as familiar as old furniture, I've read them, I lived in those volumes for weeks, and not very long ago; what are they, what is the title? The Possessed. I see. Interesting. And the author? F.M. Dostoevsky. Hm. Yes, I seem to have a vague recollection; the whole thing takes place in the nineteenth century, I believe, and in the second volume someone shoots himself with a pistol. More than that I couldn't say.
'I sink back into the chair at my desk. This is a disgrace. It's a scandal. I've been able to read for thirty years now, and I've read quite a bit, if not much, and all that's left is the very vague recollection that in the second volume of a thousand-page novel someone or other kills himself with a pistol. Thirty years of reading in vain! Thousands of hours of my childhood and my youth and my manhood spent reading, and nothing is retained except a great forgetting.'
Amnesia in Litteris, 'Three Stories and a Reflection', Patrick Süskind
So. I have identified a purpose for this blog: to remind myself which books I've read, and why I enjoyed them. I'm not a literary animal, I just like reading, and I'm more Lionel Shriver than Dostoevsky. I apologise in advance if I come across as a pretentious twat. Actually, no, this is my blog, and if you think it's pretentious... so sue me. (Unless you're a copyright lawyer representing any of the authors from which I will undoubtedly quote extensively - in which case, please don't sue me, just send me a nice email and I'll edit accordingly. Thanks :-))
2 comments:
What a genius idea.
As part of the great-move-madness of recent weeks, I took my entire book collection up to my mum's house and shoved them, in boxes, in her loft. And I had the exact same realisation - I couldn't tell you what happened in pretty much any of them. But I can still quote verbatim huge chunks of Hamlet which I haven't opened since I was 18. Weird.
I've banned myself from reading until I finish "Jump". So I shall enjoy reading over your shoulder :-)
Another question: how come I DETESTED "Samson Agonistes" when I was a youth (I don't think I even studied it directly myself, I think it was the other English group that had to study it - were you in that class? Memory loss again!) but reading it the other day having remembered a snatch of it on the train home, I thought it was pretty much genius?
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