A Literary Snob

Adrienne Clarkson, posing in business class with Keith Richards memoirs.

The Canadian newspaper The Globe and Mail has been running a series on their books website called “My Books, My Place”, in which Canadian personalities whom we care more or less about are pictured in the places where they most like to read, and write a short piece on why they like to read there and what they’re currently reading. It’s all very quaint and Canadian and doesn’t often rise above the mildly interesting. It was, perhaps, inspired by that fascinating series of articles The Guardian did some time ago called “Writer’s Rooms”, which had beautiful, large pictures (without anyone in them) of the places where author’s write accompanied by insightful texts about their writing habits.

Some weeks ago, the series featured Adrienne Clarkson’s books and place, entitled her “higher literary pursuits”. Adrienne Clarkson is a former Governor General of Canada — an old title, which for some reason still exists, connected to the British monarchy (because, yes, Canada is still ruled by the Queen of England). Governor Generals aren’t all bad, however, and they’ve become important patrons of arts and culture in Canada. Furthermore, Adrienne Clarkson isn’t without literary connections: she wrote two volumes of memoirs, as well as a biography of Norman Bethune as part of Penguin’s Extraordinary Canadians series and her husband is writer John Ralston Saul, who is currently president of International PEN.

The Biography of Norman Bethune by Adrienne Clarkson. I actually heard it wasnt bad.

As it turns out, Adrienne Clarkson likes to read in “the womb-like pod in Air Canada’s business class on long-distance flights” where she feels “enclosed in a private world: The lighting can be directed over the book as well as overhead. There are no telephones, no e-mails.” Well, all I can say is, although I always bring loads of books when I take the plane because I look forward to several hours without the normal disruptions of everyday life, I usually don’t end up getting much reading done. In the seats which most of us can afford, there’s always a baby crying nearby, a child behind you is constantly propped up against your headrest and looking down at you, people are constantly shuffling about and knocking your feet out of the aisle, my eyes get too dry to read after 10 pages, and the overhead lights (which you can’t read without when the cabin lights are turned off) have the power and precision of candle flame. I’m glad to know all of that won’t be a problem when I can afford a personal pod (where I would most probably be playing Wii, anyway, or whatever other amazing gadgets they have in there, instead of reading). Meanwhile, I’d rather not know about it.

But wait, there’s more. Mrs Clarkson’s illustration of her favorite reading ritual as follows: “Reading in this atmosphere with people padding through whom you don’t know and who don’t generally want to disturb your peace and quiet when they see you plunged into the essays of Michel de Montaigne in French. This is not generally a conversation starter. But if it happens to be, that person will be extremely interesting and I will want to talk to them.” It seems to me quite an understatement to admit that reading Montaigne in French is not generally a conversation starter. And I suppose one of those first class pods is the perfect place to do it, especially if you don’t want to be bothered by plebeians begging for a chat, or, god forbid, an autograph!

The Brothers Karamazov — SnobLit?

Now, I know I sound rather caustic, but you must admit that in this piece Mrs Clarkson appears as the epitome of literary snobbism. And I know it’s not just me because nearly all the comments on her piece say something along those lines. Now, the only problem is that I’m in a peculiar position to accuse someone of that since I’ve been called a literary snob myself. And indeed, I think I am one. I often do some literary name dropping in conversation, I sometimes read “classics” just because I want to be able to say I’ve read them afterward (The Brother’s Karamazov, Ulysses), I read mostly literary fiction from established authors, I deny to having ever read Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code (even if I have, and Angels and Demons too), and I have an open prejudice (which I’m trying to overcome, but still) against genre fiction like mystery or fantasy. I laughed heartily at Mrs Clarkson’s as she “plunged into the essays of Michel de Montaigne in French”, but then I mentioned Montaigne in my first blog post (I even put an image of him to look more serious!) and I can read French, too. So what’s the difference? Well, do I think people are less interesting because they won’t approach me if I’m reading Montaigne in French (which I never have, by the way)? Well, no, I don’t. I also try to keep in mind that even people who don’t read what I consider to be literature — or even people who don’t read at all — can also have something interesting to say. It’s hard to remember, sometimes, but I’m trying. Would I say my favourite place to read is in the business class on a long-distance flight? No, because I’d rather be reading in a dusty old armchair with a nice cup of tea and lots of light. 

So in the end, while both Mrs Clarkson and I are literary snobs, I think she might actually just be a snob, period. “Disturb me if you dare!” she adds at the end of her piece. Don’t worry Mrs Clarkson, I don’t want to.

Of Titles

Michel de Montaigne. His titles were bit repetitive, but at least they were straightforward.

Like a book, a blog needs a title — and preferably a good one.

A good title, of course, is a complicated thing. It has to reveal something about the content without saying too much, it has to be easily remembered without being obvious, and it has to sound smart without being obscure or pedantic. Titles for smaller works — a single blog post, an essay, a short story — are probably easier to find because they are headers for a more narrow field of inquiry. Influential essay writers like Montaigne or Francis Bacon solved the title by problem several centuries ago by taking the subject of their text and slapping the word “Of” before it: “Of Sleeping”, “Of Moderation”, “Of Fear”, “Of Travel”, “Of Drunkenness”, and so on.

Titles for longer pieces of writing or collections are trickier, because they have to encompass a sometimes very broad array of subject matters. Short story collections, like CDs, often reuse the title of one of the stories (or songs) comprised within it as the title of the whole. Alice Munro, for instance, has done this for virtually all of her short story collection; and since she has a knack for good titles, the result is usually excellent,

When a title's that good, you don't even need an image on the cover.

like Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage or The Moons of Jupiter. Or else, like Annie Proulx, they use a title that fits in some way with the general trend of all the stories, and add an ugly, literal subtitle underneath just to make sure you know exactly what the book is about: Close Range: Wyoming Stories, Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2, Fine Just the Way It Is: Wyoming Stories 3.

Some books have really good titles. They make you want to read them, they make you feel connected to the book before you’ve even picked it up. Some of my favorites are Flaubert’s Parrot by Julian Barnes, One Hundred Years of Solitude, Nineteen Eighty-Four, Varieties of Exile by Mavis Gallant, Risky Business by Al Alvarez, Somewhere Towards the End (Like Alice Munro, Diana Athill always has beautiful titles for her books: Instead of a Letter, Stet, Yesterday Morning, Don’t Look at Me Like That)… Other books have not so good titles: Ian McEwan’s latest book Solar, Annie Proulx’s The Shipping News, Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom, 2666 (You can’t say this one without sounding like a you have a speech impediment), … I’m not entirely sure why I don’t like them, I just find they sound bland, or obvious. It has nothing to do with the books themselves; and to be fair, there are some much worse book titles out there. All genres considered, I think the worst is probably The Duchess, her Maid, The Groom, & Their Lover, an erotic novel by Victoria Janssen — although Carlton Mellick III’s The Haunted Vagina is definitely up there. Tangentially, I’d like to add that I tend not to like books that are entitled after their main characters. I really find it’s the least creative way to name your novel. For instance, Dickens’ working title for Little Dorrit was Nobody’s Fault — imagine how much better that would’ve been! Using a protagonist’s name as the title of a book also frustrates me because, unless your character becomes embedded in pop culture (like David Copperfield or Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn), then it’s sometimes very difficult to tell which name on the book cover is the author’s and which is the title — take the Pulitzer-winning Oliver Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout.

Probably the worst book title in history.

Hemingway, as the compulsive perfectionist that he was, unsurprisingly spent a long time deciding on the titles for his books. When he had finished writing something, he would sit down and come up with a list of possible titles, and the select the best one. His technique seemed to work well, since he came up with some of the most memorable titles of the 20th century, like The Old Man and the Sea, The Sun Also Rises, and The Snows of Kilimanjaro. I inspired myself somewhat from Hemingway’s method in finding the title for this blog. I had a brainstorming session with my girlfriend in which we came up with some very bad ideas (Logophagist, Alphabetist, The Reading Lamp) and some rather good ones (Bibliology; or The Science of Book-Loving, I’d Rather Be Reading, BookLust). The title we finally chose, Book’s End, emerged as a world play on a “book end”, the staple of every bibliophile’s wall shelves (lest his books fall off and get damaged… and maybe also hurt someone).

I wanted this blog to be first and foremost a place, a kind of haven where readers and book lovers could go to, get informed, and participate in a conversation about literature and books in general. Book’s End is that place, like a dead end (except very much alive) for bibliophiles and bibliomaniacs and “bibliologists”, and casual readers too. Book’s End is also a specific reminder that books do, indeed, end. Luckily, you can always pick up a new one (or an old one) afterward and keep on reading. In a broader sense, the title is also a warning, in the age of Internet, Amazon, GoogleBooks, and E-Readers, that the “Book” as we know and define it — a concept and an object which so many of us still cherish very strongly — is changing very quickly indeed.

And so, let the book-blogging begin!