These last few days I’ve come down with the flu. Not the bad flu, the man sort. Nevertheless, my throat feels like cheap sandpaper, I’ve got a case of the sniffles and I’m woozy something awful. I feel all to sea. Which is nothing compared to the alarmist heights of hypochondria my mind is entirely capable of, and all too frequently impresses upon me with every hint of a headache, for example, becoming, somehow inevitably, a warning sign of an aneurysm and then, shortly, death.
Thankfully my worst-case-scenario obsessed brain has never been so convinced of an imminent cessation of neural activity as to render it necessary to write out a will. I have, however, often laid down in puddles of woe, absolutely crying out – a literary gasp, or wail, or a tearing of my hair, or something equally dramatic and batty – at the unfairness of the world, of all the great experiences which will be eternally beyond my reach. Cos, you know, of the whole death thing.
There’s just so much to do out there, I think on these melodramatic days, I better seriously knuckle down and think about this. Inside, so I call properly think. If only there was a list, somewhere, I think. I like lists! A list of the worthwhile places to visit, the best albums to listen to, the best movies to watch, the best books to read, all before, gulp, the end.
http://www.bookofjoe.com/images/2008/05/23/chrstyry.jpg
I genuinely am a list guy. Its not attractive. Its fairly ridiculous, yet true all the same. And, luckily for my list obsessed brain (move over worst-case-scenario brain), there do exist plenty of actual ‘….things to do before you die’ lists. Since this is a literature blog I write I’m going to talk about these kinds of lists in terms of, well, books I suppose, but the post more broadly applies to every one of these stupid lists out there.
I know, in one sentence I exclaim a love of lists, then round the paragraph of with a derogative comment about lists. Confused? Think sloppy writing is to blame? I’ll be back here later.
If I’m honest, and I should be, I’ll admit here I’ve never given these kinds of lists more than a cursory browse. The few I’ve looked through have all contained some of the true classics, and helpfully given explanations why we should dose out what is, for the purposes of the list, a dwindling allotment of time. Hey, Crime and Punishment is about morality and guilt. Thank you!
Here consensus seems to be the deciding factor, without which you’ve essentially got a series of personal favourites. It seems to be that if everyone can agree which books are important enough, which can be considered classics, which have the necessary quality, then they go in. If you see a book which appears on several lists – and you will – then you know you’re really onto a winner. Seems fair, doesn’t it? Nice and democratic.
If you believe that, then consider this. If you’re compiling a list based on ‘importance’, and what you should read, then doesn’t it become more of a chore than a pleasure? Aren’t you doing it by rote, because someone told you to? You’re not even reading you’re own list. You can’t know which books you should read before you die without either reading every book – go ahead, I dare you to try – or without being told which books you should deign to appreciate. Sorry, recommend, not told. Told isn’t very democratic.
What if you don’t like period fiction? Are you excused War and Peace? What about if you read a book on the list you end up hating? Can you genuinely say you enjoy literature (or, for that matter, art, the wonders of the world, nature, you name it) if all you’ve done is read a list compiled by other people.
If I consider this for too long the questions pile up, and all of a sudden a headache has stolen up on me (or is it…..).
There are thousands of books which can be considered worthwhile, untold numbers of amazing works full of heart and soul, humour and grief, humanity and wisdom, more than anyone can ever read. Neither you, nor I, nor anyone shall ever read them all. Sure, classics are named so for a reason. Yet literature, much like life, isn’t meant to be followed on a strict path. Its the little, unexpected discoveries which are best.
In his excellent flick, Manhattan, Woody Allen ruminates for a scene on his reasons to go on living. Not some cooked up generic reason, but his personal, more unique loves. Its a lovely scene, made to make you smile, perhaps because it seems genuine and real. You feel his adoration for the Marx brothers, mentioned prominently in the scene, goes beyond his character.
For me there’s Haruki Murakami, there’s Sherlock Holmes, there are tales of Hobbits, there are The Martian Chronicles, there is Perdido Street Station, Catch 22 and Yossarian, there is Scout and her father, Atticus, there’s Elric of Melnibone and a girl looking for Atonement. None of these books or characters belong to me, but I feel a part of them in me anyway. In a metaphorical way, obviously.
If you think we’ve wandered back into the territory of favourite, personal lists, rather than the more objective kind, then you’re right on the money. Our individual death’s are our last, personal moment. The memories you have deserve to be equally personal, they shouldn’t come out of a book because someone said this is worth reading, but not this. And whose to say those memories, your own list, won’t include some of the greats anyway. At least they’ll mean something to you this way.
Next week I hope to carry on with another thrilling instalment of the Imaginary World series. Issue number three. Get it here now….a week today!
