I was never much of a fiction reader in my youth. I barely got through the books assigned in English class throughout high school, often referring back to Cliff’s Notes or asking friends for summaries. I only read on my bed, an easy way to render reading exercises futile, especially if the narrative was anything but captivating. I was a history nerd, seeking out thick books on American and European history and devouring any historical or political articles in any of the general interest magazines that my parents subscribed to in those days. I knew that once I entered college, history would be my focus and my passion.
And then film happened. Once I began studying films during my sophomore year of college, the craft of creativity began to intrigue me. The idea of authorship, the process of infusing who you are and what you know into a brand new synthesis, seemed so powerful and dynamic. I still appreciated the works on history – the way you could be creative in your analyses and narrative, the way you could take dry facts and breathe them significant, exciting new life. Filmmaking, or even screenwriting, often intimidated me: the technicalities involved in creating a film, the financial and time committments, and the difficulty of finding a voice in something that is visual – I was unsure if I had the talent or the zeal to immerse myself in such a world. But I still enjoyed learning about the process, the legacy, and the craft of filmmaking. For the second semester of my junior year, I needed to select an elective outside of the film department to fulfill my film studies requirements. By chance, I decided to pick British Literature: 1950 to Present, a class held in Barnard and taught by Professor Maura Spiegel.
As was the case with most of my other classes in those days of over-extension in extra-curricular activities, I fell behind. I struggled to finish most of the books that were assigned, and I dozed off during most of the class lectures. In many instances, I had not even started on a book that would be discussed in class. I definitely missed my chance to get the most out of the course, but in a way, I felt a spark of interest that would persist and grow into a fondness for literature. Exposure is the key word. I was exposed to some great authors that I had previously no knowledge of. I read Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro and instantly came to adore his control of voice and tone. I began reading London Fields by Martin Amis (never finished) and was amused by his inventive structuring of time, location, and point-of-view. I laughed and cried while reading V.S. Naipaul’s A House for Mr. Biswas. I found Ian McEwan’s Atonement to be a nonstop thrill ride – one of the few books I read in a couple of sittings. Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited made me appreciate the subtle and biting humor (and tragedy) in British writing. And Austerlitz by WG Sebald was haunting and philosophically mesmerizing.
I only mention these authors because an article I read this morning reminded me that, thanks to this British Lit class, I was able to read some of the most accomplished novels in the past fifty years. The UK Observer, in response to the NY Times’s Best American Novel poll, conducted a similar survey for British novels. I was happy to find that Money by Amis, which I thoroughly enjoyed, was in second place, and Unconsoled by Ishiguro (my note) and Atonement by McEwan shared the third place spot with three other books. And I have to say, I am in the process of reading JM Coetzee’s Disgrace, so it’ll be nice to have at least the top 4 or 5 books covered.
I know that “best novel” polls are anything but scientific and are more inclined to produce buzz than anything of academic or artistic merit. However, like the British Literature course I took in my junior year – a mere survey of some of the good novels in the past fifty years – this Observer list is another instrument that I can use to increase exposure to some of the unfamiliar British works. There’s no shame, I believe, in pursuing something that gets wide press. I started Philip Roth only after the NY Times poll put his works at the top, although a number of my friends frowned at the name and dissed his style. And I really like Roth’s work and his style.
I’m still hardly an avid reader. It takes me a while to finish books, and I juggled several at a time to keep things interesting. But it’s nice to recognize the names of authors now and then in articles, in dialogues in movies and TV shows, or in bookstores, and to find people who’ve read the same book who don’t mind talking about it. And best is that feeling of remembering a line or a quote from a novel, going back with the vague idea of where it is in the book, and finally finding it, finding yourself reading the lines repeatedly, and eventually drifting off to read other passages from that book which touched you once before and now, touches you once again.
