I always had this hankering to be a Proper Literary Gent.
Having learned to read at a precociously early age, I had my head deep in a book every time my ear wasn’t glued to a speaker (this was, after all, back in the Days Of Mono), and quite a few times when it was. As a kid, my idea of multitasking was simultaneously reading, eating and listening to music. Very little has changed, apart from the substitution of ‘smoking and/or drinking’ for ‘eating’
I get neurotic and potentially hysterical if I’m anywhere further than arms’ reach from something readable (unless sex or music are involved) and I rarely go anywhere without at least three books stashed somewhere about my person. I own far too many books – in solid printed form – and already spend far too much time goggling at screens to regard the prospect of deriving all the rest of my wordy nourishment from them with any palpable enthusiasm.
This section therefore presents a few scenes from my ongoing impersonation of a legit lit crit.
Just for the record: my favourite 20th century writers remain George Orwell, Raymond Chandler and JG Ballard – sadly, none of them still with us, though I treasure every moment I was privileged to spend with JGB.
Living writers? Mmmm … still working on that. Can I get back to you?
