books

...............................................................................................ALSO:

GREAT MINDS

POWERFUL BOOKS

(nicked from banksy)

While much from the original version of this item has been moved to other articles on this site, some that it formerly contained has regrettably been somehow lost. It was originally written sometime pre-2002.

About five years ago, because I’d been impressed with many excellent books, I wrote an account of the experience - with the intension of passing on a few details that might inspire readers to proclaim, "At last, that’s just the book/author I was looking for!".

Well, that was five years ago, and I’ve already cannibalised most of that account for this site… ie, see the 'Great Minds' dropdown on the HOME page.

But I don't think I previously loaded this opening – so, for anyone interested, here it is with its original title:

POWERFUL BOOKS

What follows (ie, now in the form of the 'Great Minds' list back on the HOME page) is an attempt to explain how certain books have influenced me, and a few details on how I have interpreted them. Some of my expositions may evoke agreement, some may appear tendentious or naïve. As I expect will become quickly clear, I am neither a writer nor philosopher in any professional sense. But I trust that despite lengthy quotations, fragments of obtuse reasoning, stating of the obvious, bias, clichés, waffle, and any other objectionable 'padding', the reader will find a new perspective or two that might challenge, enlighten, refresh or otherwise ruffle-up their insight into the work of some eminent writers and philosophers. (for more detail see Sup-2)

Introduction

Until about ten years ago I’d accumulated roughly 500 books. I was then 41, so that’s an average of 20 a year since the age of sixteen. There are now around 1800 on the shelves, which means an average increase to 130 a year over the past ten years. What happened to spark such an upsurge? And why so sudden?

When I decided to write about the books that have influenced me I knew it might be seen by anyone else as pretentious: why should anyone be interested in books that are important to me ? But to write it for myself is another matter. For one thing, I am obliged to revisit those books that unleashed to me the pleasure and surprise of new ideas – and to take a fresh look at those ideas, which shaped my thoughts, opinions and outlook. And for another thing, it gives me a chance to pick up any fragments I missed first time round. From all of which, presented in a chunk, as it were, I might assemble some new perspective.

One of the difficulties in writing about books, particularly those that have influenced one’s thoughts and even life, is of precisely what and how much to tell: it calls for discernment and restraint (neither of which are strong points for me). But the end result ought to give a fair guide to my personal philosophy and even personality, though this can never be more than superficial because chance has played as much a part as initiative in selecting what I’ve read. Many times I’ve stumbled by accident on a book or an author that has then had a marked effect on the direction of my thoughts, and some of these have in turn led to other important works.

Even now I still discover long-dead authors who I’d never heard of before and whose work I find inspiring. The quest seems endless – it is part of the joy of visiting musty old bookshops and wading through mountains of second-hand books: at any moment a long sought after gem might appear, or some formerly unheard-of masterpiece. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll run out of authors, which seems unlikely: frequently, I’ve finished all a writer’s work and thought I’d never find anything I’d enjoy as much, or gain so much from, only to discover a few days or weeks later what seems like an even more striking author.

Of those hobbies that involve no obvious creative process, physical skill or exertion, it strikes me that losing oneself in books is hard to beat. It is probably the most fulfilling, because in a sense it is highly creative: the reader constantly converts dull marks on a page into a world of glowing images and emotions.

I haven’t always felt passionate about reading. Developing an affection for books was a gradual process – despite that sudden increase in purchases ten years ago. It happened sometime in the late 80s, and has resulted in a pastime I now regard as an integral part of life. I feel genuinely sorry for people who get bored or don’t know what to do on a wet Sunday afternoon – except watch TV or play computer games. They can’t know what they’re missing.

What’s more, reading is free – if you use a library – or, if you want to own the books, amazingly cheap. Some of my most treasured volumes cost no more than a few pence second-hand (which is by far my greatest source) – and I leave the prices on as if they belong to the books, just as I always leave margin notes or underlining; so there’s not merely an author’s work but a mysterious layman-critic’s too. Such notes can be enlightening, useful, amusing or even silly, but rarely irrelevant or dull.
One can glimpse into the minds of some beguiling individuals. I’ve often regretted that these margin-fillers can’t be met in person to discuss the work that so inspired their scribbling. And on several occasions I’ve bought a book purely for its abundance of notes, when without them I’d have left it on the shelf.

To read a book is to gaze into the author’s mind, to see what he or she thinks about life and the human condition. But what compels an author to go to the enormous trouble – because that’s what it is (I’ve tried it) - of writing it all down? Money is a motive certainly, but if that were all then every author would strive only to produce Mills & Boon, pulp-detective or some other popular ‘disposable’ genre. A few exceptional writers have undoubtedly done this, and their work has survived the ages because of some special quality in how they relate, for instance, the simple age-old yarn about girl meets boy or a standard whodunit. And the reason for this quality – quite apart from the need to earn a living - is probably a combination of ingenuity, meticulous attention to detail and real joy in the creative process. You can see precisely the same thing in a painting; a mere glance is sufficient to tell whether it was created with love, sweat or genius, or dashed out for a fast buck, as they say, by an amateur.

When I reflect that the books on my shelves represent untold hours of concentrated toil by some of the greatest minds that have ever lived, I feel a curious warmth - probably like a millionaire when reflecting on his fortune. And these books are ours for the reading, whenever the mood takes us.

How It Began

I remember little of what I read before I was 15. There were the usual children’s classics: Enid Blyton’s ‘The Faraway Tree’ and Alan Milne’s ‘Winnie The Pooh’, followed later by Henry Rider Haggard’s ‘King Solomon’s Mines’, Arthur Conan Doyle’s ‘The Lost World’ and Jules Verne’s ‘20,000 Leagues Under The Sea’. Obviously, I read others, but since I can’t remember them I suspect they were few.

Until I was about 12, Mum and Dad used to read to my brother and me almost every night before we went to sleep. If it was a ploy to get us to bed it worked well. Unfortunately, I can only recall a few of the stories they read. I especially liked Dad reading those gripping ‘Five Minute Tales’ which most people are familiar with. Like parables, they can be tremendously thought-provoking - a valuable experience for a growing mind: ‘The Wind and the Sun’, ‘The Axe in the Ceiling’, ‘The Man, His Son, and the Donkey’, ‘The Old Woman in the Vinegar Bottle’, and many more.

I also remember him reading that masterpiece of satire ‘Gulliver’s Travels’. He seemed to like stories with a deeper meaning than a child would normally be conscious of but whose messages would reveal themselves as the mind matured. Mum, on the other hand, went for adventure stories that were less introspective but were just as exciting: ie, ‘Treasure Island’, ‘Children of the New Forest’...

Curiously, none of this encouraged me to read (I’ll speculate on the reason for this in a moment). All I remember is Collodi’s richly illustrated ‘Pinocchio’ and Charles Kingsley’s ‘The Water Babies’, and easy short stories like ‘Anderson’s Fairy Tales’. Then nothing - until I discovered science fiction.

My initial excursion into science fiction – alongside science non-fiction – was to last initially till I was 24. Then at 28, after four years of study that allowed no time for reading more than a sprinkling of fiction, I finally had the opportunity to read normally again. But now I felt oddly disinclined to even glance at a fiction book. Apparently, I was out of practice and had lost the habit. I could only surmise that in those four years I’d reverted to the curious mental lethargy that had gripped me during secondary school.

This continued for perhaps a year until my sister handed me a rather special book which I discuss briefly here (see also). But this ‘lethargy’, I’ve noticed, happens to many people. I believe it depends on the imagination, though less on how developed it is than on how it is accessed. That is, accessing the imagination is not the same when listening to a story as when reading it – as if there are two distinct routes, either of which can only be fully opened by constant use. And the listening route is rather more busy for most of us than the reading route – we listen all day, but read in snatches.

In addition, the parts of the brain that process sight are not the same as those that process sound, so perhaps it’s not surprising that listening and reading are not interchangeable when it comes to imaginative wherewithal. The path to my imagination, as it applied to reading, needed to re-establish connection. Could this be why I found it so hard to return to reading after an extended break? If it is, then it’s a significant point.

On top of this: we know how draining TV can be. Because the imagination falls dormant we feel drowsy and uninspired, and in need of mental refreshment. Eventually, if we go on watching TV, those links to the imagination seem to vanish altogether and the effort of reconnecting them increases – it can only be achieved by the most gripping text.

* * * * *

This was originally followed (in chronological order) by what I made of the work a few REAL writers as in the 'Great Minds' list on the home page.

	GREAT MINDS POWERFUL BOOKS
	(nicked from banksy)
	While much from the original version of this item has been moved to other articles on this site, some that it formerly contained has regrettably been somehow lost. It was originally written sometime pre-2002. About five years ago, because I’d been impressed with many excellent books, I wrote an account of the experience - with the intension of passing on a few details that might inspire readers to proclaim, "At last, that’s just the book/author I was looking for!". Well, that was five years ago, and I’ve already cannibalised most of that account for this site… ie, see the 'Great Minds' dropdown on the HOME page. But I don't think I previously loaded this opening – so, for anyone interested, here it is with its original title:
	POWERFUL BOOKS What follows (ie, now in the form of the 'Great Minds' list back on the HOME page) is an attempt to explain how certain books have influenced me, and a few details on how I have interpreted them. Some of my expositions may evoke agreement, some may appear tendentious or naïve. As I expect will become quickly clear, I am neither a writer nor philosopher in any professional sense. But I trust that despite lengthy quotations, fragments of obtuse reasoning, stating of the obvious, bias, clichés, waffle, and any other objectionable 'padding', the reader will find a new perspective or two that might challenge, enlighten, refresh or otherwise ruffle-up their insight into the work of some eminent writers and philosophers. (for more detail see Sup-2) Introduction Until about ten years ago I’d accumulated roughly 500 books. I was then 41, so that’s an average of 20 a year since the age of sixteen. There are now around 1800 on the shelves, which means an average increase to 130 a year over the past ten years. What happened to spark such an upsurge? And why so sudden? When I decided to write about the books that have influenced me I knew it might be seen by anyone else as pretentious: why should anyone be interested in books that are important to me ? But to write it for myself is another matter. For one thing, I am obliged to revisit those books that unleashed to me the pleasure and surprise of new ideas – and to take a fresh look at those ideas, which shaped my thoughts, opinions and outlook. And for another thing, it gives me a chance to pick up any fragments I missed first time round. From all of which, presented in a chunk, as it were, I might assemble some new perspective. One of the difficulties in writing about books, particularly those that have influenced one’s thoughts and even life, is of precisely what and how much to tell: it calls for discernment and restraint (neither of which are strong points for me). But the end result ought to give a fair guide to my personal philosophy and even personality, though this can never be more than superficial because chance has played as much a part as initiative in selecting what I’ve read. Many times I’ve stumbled by accident on a book or an author that has then had a marked effect on the direction of my thoughts, and some of these have in turn led to other important works. Even now I still discover long-dead authors who I’d never heard of before and whose work I find inspiring. The quest seems endless – it is part of the joy of visiting musty old bookshops and wading through mountains of second-hand books: at any moment a long sought after gem might appear, or some formerly unheard-of masterpiece. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll run out of authors, which seems unlikely: frequently, I’ve finished all a writer’s work and thought I’d never find anything I’d enjoy as much, or gain so much from, only to discover a few days or weeks later what seems like an even more striking author. Of those hobbies that involve no obvious creative process, physical skill or exertion, it strikes me that losing oneself in books is hard to beat. It is probably the most fulfilling, because in a sense it is highly creative: the reader constantly converts dull marks on a page into a world of glowing images and emotions. I haven’t always felt passionate about reading. Developing an affection for books was a gradual process – despite that sudden increase in purchases ten years ago. It happened sometime in the late 80s, and has resulted in a pastime I now regard as an integral part of life. I feel genuinely sorry for people who get bored or don’t know what to do on a wet Sunday afternoon – except watch TV or play computer games. They can’t know what they’re missing. What’s more, reading is free – if you use a library – or, if you want to own the books, amazingly cheap. Some of my most treasured volumes cost no more than a few pence second-hand (which is by far my greatest source) – and I leave the prices on as if they belong to the books, just as I always leave margin notes or underlining; so there’s not merely an author’s work but a mysterious layman-critic’s too. Such notes can be enlightening, useful, amusing or even silly, but rarely irrelevant or dull. One can glimpse into the minds of some beguiling individuals. I’ve often regretted that these margin-fillers can’t be met in person to discuss the work that so inspired their scribbling. And on several occasions I’ve bought a book purely for its abundance of notes, when without them I’d have left it on the shelf. To read a book is to gaze into the author’s mind, to see what he or she thinks about life and the human condition. But what compels an author to go to the enormous trouble – because that’s what it is (I’ve tried it) - of writing it all down? Money is a motive certainly, but if that were all then every author would strive only to produce Mills & Boon, pulp-detective or some other popular ‘disposable’ genre. A few exceptional writers have undoubtedly done this, and their work has survived the ages because of some special quality in how they relate, for instance, the simple age-old yarn about girl meets boy or a standard whodunit. And the reason for this quality – quite apart from the need to earn a living - is probably a combination of ingenuity, meticulous attention to detail and real joy in the creative process. You can see precisely the same thing in a painting; a mere glance is sufficient to tell whether it was created with love, sweat or genius, or dashed out for a fast buck, as they say, by an amateur. When I reflect that the books on my shelves represent untold hours of concentrated toil by some of the greatest minds that have ever lived, I feel a curious warmth - probably like a millionaire when reflecting on his fortune. And these books are ours for the reading, whenever the mood takes us. How It Began I remember little of what I read before I was 15. There were the usual children’s classics: Enid Blyton’s ‘The Faraway Tree’ and Alan Milne’s ‘Winnie The Pooh’, followed later by Henry Rider Haggard’s ‘King Solomon’s Mines’, Arthur Conan Doyle’s ‘The Lost World’ and Jules Verne’s ‘20,000 Leagues Under The Sea’. Obviously, I read others, but since I can’t remember them I suspect they were few. Until I was about 12, Mum and Dad used to read to my brother and me almost every night before we went to sleep. If it was a ploy to get us to bed it worked well. Unfortunately, I can only recall a few of the stories they read. I especially liked Dad reading those gripping ‘Five Minute Tales’ which most people are familiar with. Like parables, they can be tremendously thought-provoking - a valuable experience for a growing mind: ‘The Wind and the Sun’, ‘The Axe in the Ceiling’, ‘The Man, His Son, and the Donkey’, ‘The Old Woman in the Vinegar Bottle’, and many more. I also remember him reading that masterpiece of satire ‘Gulliver’s Travels’. He seemed to like stories with a deeper meaning than a child would normally be conscious of but whose messages would reveal themselves as the mind matured. Mum, on the other hand, went for adventure stories that were less introspective but were just as exciting: ie, ‘Treasure Island’, ‘Children of the New Forest’... Curiously, none of this encouraged me to read (I’ll speculate on the reason for this in a moment). All I remember is Collodi’s richly illustrated ‘Pinocchio’ and Charles Kingsley’s ‘The Water Babies’, and easy short stories like ‘Anderson’s Fairy Tales’. Then nothing - until I discovered science fiction. My initial excursion into science fiction – alongside science non-fiction – was to last initially till I was 24. Then at 28, after four years of study that allowed no time for reading more than a sprinkling of fiction, I finally had the opportunity to read normally again. But now I felt oddly disinclined to even glance at a fiction book. Apparently, I was out of practice and had lost the habit. I could only surmise that in those four years I’d reverted to the curious mental lethargy that had gripped me during secondary school. This continued for perhaps a year until my sister handed me a rather special book which I discuss briefly here (see also). But this ‘lethargy’, I’ve noticed, happens to many people. I believe it depends on the imagination, though less on how developed it is than on how it is accessed. That is, accessing the imagination is not the same when listening to a story as when reading it – as if there are two distinct routes, either of which can only be fully opened by constant use. And the listening route is rather more busy for most of us than the reading route – we listen all day, but read in snatches. In addition, the parts of the brain that process sight are not the same as those that process sound, so perhaps it’s not surprising that listening and reading are not interchangeable when it comes to imaginative wherewithal. The path to my imagination, as it applied to reading, needed to re-establish connection. Could this be why I found it so hard to return to reading after an extended break? If it is, then it’s a significant point. On top of this: we know how draining TV can be. Because the imagination falls dormant we feel drowsy and uninspired, and in need of mental refreshment. Eventually, if we go on watching TV, those links to the imagination seem to vanish altogether and the effort of reconnecting them increases – it can only be achieved by the most gripping text. * * * * * This was originally followed (in chronological order) by what I made of the work a few REAL writers as in the 'Great Minds' list on the home page.