Each evening at 8 p.m., I deposit my mobile phone in the freezer and retire to bed. For the next hour, I read at least one chapter from each of five books.
How do I choose them?
Something that teaches me.
Something that amuses me.
Pulp fiction I can race through.
Something that puzzles me.
The other day, observing my piles of as-yet unread books, my wife concluded, “To be a good writer, you must have to read lots of books.”
Tonight’s fare comprises:
1) The War with Hannibal – Livy; I, Claudius – Robert Graves
I turn the thousand or so pages swiftly. Imagine reading a book written two thousand years ago and still being captivated. I know what happened to Hannibal, yet the detail of each stage of his campaign to cross the Alps into Rome lures me on to the next chapter—and the next. Being a writer myself, I wonder how many will still be reading my work two years from now, let alone two thousand.
By serendipity, I stumble upon Livy again while reading I, Claudius.
One summer, Robert Graves, a classical scholar, ran out of money. He spent the season penning a gossipy version of Claudius, pretending it was Claudius, the Roman Emperor, writing in his personal diary. It is strange to read an anecdote in which the young Claudius runs into Livy at court and describes his manner and character, when you’ve just finished a chapter of Livy’s own work.
2) Blandings Castle – P. G. Wodehouse
It must be the fiftieth time I’ve read this collection of short stories about life in the countryside, circa the 1930s. The doddery but lovable Earl of Emsworth. The bitter rivalry between the earl and his nefarious neighbour, Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe, competing to win the prize for the best pig in the county. Each time I reach a punchline, I bellow with laughter, even though I know exactly what’s coming.
3) The Saint – Leslie Charteris
I must own all eighty books by the master of pulp fiction. They have been dramatised for radio and television for over fifty years. As a nine-year-old in England, I watched ITV broadcast Roger Moore as The Saint each Sunday evening at 8 p.m. My bedtime was 8 p.m., but on Sundays I was allowed to stay up and watch.
The stories are entertaining. The Saint, a fighter of hoods, always wins and gives Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal his comeuppance. Reading the books later in life, I’m thrilled by the abundance of esoteric words (today’s catch: ineluctable) that I need to look up, and by Charteris’s use of purple prose—excessive adjectives, adverbs, and gloriously complex sentences.
4) Five Little Pigs – Agatha Christie
I must have read every one of her books except this. I came across it in a second-hand bookshop. A woman is sentenced to death for killing her husband. Sixteen years later, her grown-up daughter comes to Poirot, claiming her mother was innocent, and tasks him with finding the real murderer. You’ll have to read the book to discover whodunnit.
To me, reading is easy. It’s discarding books that’s impossible. Perhaps when I’m dead, my children will delve into the boxes in storage. Perhaps the panorama of books will give them some insight into their father.
