Tag Archives: P D James

Careful with that advice

And I should obviously heed that, erm, piece of advice myself, re advice on what to tell people to read.

I can’t tell you how relieved I felt on reading today in the Guardian Review that Patricia Highsmith can be a bit iffy to read. It absolves me from the disaster that was the younger me having a go with one of her books, on the advice from someone else. I forget who. I found it a horrible book, and I can no longer recall if I soldiered on or if it was an early instance of me permitting myself to give up.

Since then I have steered well clear.

Setting personal tastes aside, I feel the suggestion was made to too young a reader. I don’t mind inappropriate sex or violence at too early an age, as you will generally just filter it out if you don’t enjoy it. But the sheer boredom of not understanding what’s being written about is a sure way of turning people off.

At what was most likely an even lower age, I was told to read Graham Greene. I started on The End of the Affair, found it incredibly boring, but made it to the, well, end of whatever this affair was. I forget. I went on to read many Greene books, but they were slightly later and they were chosen by me, so the subject was more suitable.

And at a rather more mature stage in my life, someone said I would love P D James, because she’s just like Agatha Christie. That sounded good, and I did have a go. But it was a lie. She’s not like Agatha. I’m sure she’s very good, but I was mis-sold, in all innocence. So me and P D have not really recovered from that first meeting.

I shall now go away and see if I can reign in my own advice on who should read what and when.

Darcy, death and the literary discussion

Death Comes to Pemberley sparked a literary discussion chez Bookwitch, and doesn’t that make us sound ‘intellectual?’ The Grandmother had read the book by P D James, and didn’t think much of it. She was keen to see what they’d done to it on television, though, and I am under the impression we all liked it.

That’s the thing with quality. A good book can be ruined on the screen and vice versa. You just never know. Daughter objected at first that we weren’t getting the 1995 cast from Pride and Prejudice, but warmed fairly quickly to this new Darcy. I didn’t know what to think of dear Wickham, because I need to dislike him, and I happen to like Matthew Goode…

But anyway, it made us talk books for a while (because we never ever mention the wretched things at any other time!)

Who counts as an author of classics? Jane Austen obviously does. Her books are really old. Victorians count. They too are old. But after that my ‘misguided’ companions wanted to put the classic label on all sorts of books by all sorts of recent writers!

I realise that classic-ness is a moving feast. What wasn’t a classic before, will become one at some point. My own gut measure is somewhere around the 100 years mark. If someone alive today was also alive when a novel was written, it becomes questionable. I know that the 1950s was a long time ago, but I happen to have personal experience of part of that decade and the people who wrote books then are not at all old, thank you very much!

So I’m not ready to consider Astrid Lindgren a writer of classic books, whereas I feel that Selma Lagerlöf might have been too recent fifty years ago, but is now definitely to be considered a writer of classics.

On the other hand, I see the flaws in this. Someone younger than me will share that same 100-year-old, but will also see Astrid Lindgren as dreadfully ancient. Is there a right way?