Great books I almost finished reading....
15 November 2015
PHIL FITZPATRICK
I think most of us at some stage have started reading a book but, having found it heavy-going, we have abandoned it.
I’m a fairly non-discriminatory reader with a wide range of literary tastes and can be pretty stubborn in resolutely pursuing a book to the bitter last page. Nevertheless, there have been a couple that I’ve eventually given up on.
In some cases it was the subject matter, although I’m picky about the types of books I will attempt to read in the first place.
I tend to stay away from the ‘latest blockbusters’ produced by the legions of ‘famed’ authors usually found in airport bookshops and big department stores.
Mind you, when I’ve been really stuck with nothing else to read I’ve laboured through some pretty awful rubbish.
And the strange thing is that I’ve occasionally stumbled across stuff I’ve thoroughly enjoyed.
Don’t tell anyone but once when I was stranded at Baimuru in Gulf Province for a week I worked my way through half of my Papuan host’s battered collection of Mills and Boon tearjerkers.
And I had a ball. One in the morning and two in the evening after dinner. Same plot every time but a wonderful eclectic cast of characters.
As I later discovered, many of them were written by men using female pseudonyms. Probably some of the same guys who regurgitate the same standard plot line for every comic book action movie produced in Hollywood.
There is, nevertheless, a strange dichotomy in literature that somehow distinguishes between books regarded as ‘literary fiction’ and those that are classified as ‘popular fiction’. Who decides where a book sits is a mystery. The critics maybe?
Literary fiction apparently appeals to our ‘higher emotions’ while popular fiction appeals to our more base emotions.
If you think there is something vaguely snobbish and elitist about this distinction you are probably right. After all, a good writer should be able to appeal to both and a whole lot more to boot.
When you think about what’s been published in, published about or set in Papua New Guinea so far, it’s hard not to detect a bias towards ‘literary fiction’. The Crocodile by Vincent Eri was literary fiction for instance.
We don’t seem to have had any Tom Clancys or Wilbur Smiths writing Papuan New Guinean books. Nor have there been a lot of Papuan New Guinean writers producing popular fiction, whatever Papuan New Guinean popular fiction might be. I’ll get back to you if I ever work that one out.
Of course, there are practical reasons for this: there are no popular fiction publishers in PNG - most Papuan New Guinean writers have been academics of some kind (both local and expatriate) who wouldn’t stoop so low - and there’s nowhere to buy such books anyway.
Which is a pity because Papuan New Guinean readers are no different from readers elsewhere; they read to be entertained and, if they pick up a bit of enlightenment or erudition along the way, so much the better.
So, if you’re an aspiring Papuan New Guinean writer please don’t think that you are obliged to produce only work that is deep and meaningful (and probably boring) because there are thousands of eager readers in the mountains and on the islands and coasts who just want to be entertained.
They are looking for what is often called ‘a good read’, good being the operative word, rather than some sort of esoteric or hidden message.
They also aren’t interested in books written by people who are out to show they are smarter than anyone else.
That doesn’t mean you should write trash, there’s enough of that in the world already.
A good story, well told, will always find a willing audience.
And, as has happened many times in the past, your book might slowly morph into a canon of great literature, just ask someone like Mark Twain or Charles Dickens.
Their books were initially snubbed by the literati and labelled as popular fiction only suitable for the great unwashed.
And they were, but they were also great literature.
Just ask yourself: who was William Shakespeare actually writing for? It certainly wasn’t the critics or the toffee-nosed.
I recommend it Rashmii. Its about animals expelling their human owners and taking over to run their own affairs. All goes well until the pigs take over using the dogs to enforce their will. And you can guess what hapened to the farm..
Posted by: Daniel Ipan Kumbon | 22 November 2015 at 07:28 AM
Hi Daniel - no I haven't read Animal Farm. If you recommend it, I'll put it on my reading list😊
Posted by: Rashmii Amoah | 21 November 2015 at 10:08 PM
Rashmi, Have you read 'Animal Farm' by Eric Arthur Blair, who used the pen name George Orwell?
Posted by: Daniel Ipan Kumbon | 21 November 2015 at 08:11 PM
I stay away from the blockbusters or trending titles at bookstores but do follow reccomendations from friends etc. I was glad to have Peter Kranz suggest Graham Greene's 'The Third Man'. Brilliant story! I am yet to see the film. Never been able to stomach beyond the first 5 pages of Burgess' 'A Clockwork Orange' nor Anton Chekhov.
I've just laboured through Thomas Hardy's 'Jude the Obscure'. An extremely depressing tale but I figured if I enjoyed 'Tess of the D'Urbervilles', seeing Jude in all his misery would be worth it. It was.
I grew up with a Enid Blyton, Ann M Martin's 'Baby Sitters Club' (obsession!), highschool years with crime-fiction writer Mary Higgins Clark and Jane Austen. Steinbeck remains my preference. Anna Karenina and The Great Gatsby my favourite novels. This year I've discovered the wonderful 'Text Classics' series this year - novels by Australian authors.
Most memorable novel for 2015 (so far) would be Barbara Vines' (Ruth Rendell's psyeudonym) 'The Chimney Sweeper's Boy'. Captivating, such a good read.
I too am keen to know what Papua New Guineans consider popular fiction - what is it that we connect most with? What engages our interest again and again? I've read some really great short stories and poetry on here. Such flair and talent!
Posted by: Rashmii Amoah | 21 November 2015 at 06:22 AM
I can relate to Daniel's comment about his travels in Wales because I had a rather similar experience myself.
As a small child, my parents read stories to me at bed time. Amongst them were Beatrix Potter's tales about Peter Rabbit and friends.
My own world was as far removed from that described in Potter's books as it was possible to be, so I had to conjure up an image of what it was like based entirely upon her descriptions and illustrations.
Some 50 years later I visited Beatrix Potter's house, which is located in the village of High Top, in Cumbria.
To my amazement, I recognised many features of the house which had found their way into the drawings done by Potter for her books.
Not only that, her carefully maintained garden still exists and clearly served as the inspiration for her illustrations as well.
It was as if I had actually gone into one of her books which, it seems, is pretty much how Daniel felt as he remembered the film version of "How Green was my Valley".
Neither that book nor those of Potter would likely make a definitive list of the classics of English literature, yet they still had the capacity to stir memories years after being read or seen.
For me, that is the true measure of any artist endeavour: if it continues to resonate with the reader or viewer long after being seen or read, it must be something a bit special.
Posted by: Chris Overland | 20 November 2015 at 12:04 AM
Arthur Williams, When you mention "How green was my valley' you remind me of the three of us travelling from the Big Pit an ancient coal mine to the Brecon Beacons National Park.
We saw the spectacular industrial valleys of South Wales made famous throughout the world by the film ‘How green was my valley.’
Sanka Price, a West Indian from Barbados, skilfully negotiated the narrow winding roads that went right over the top of the hills from one valley to the next.
It reminded me of drawings I’d seen in a fairy tale ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ in which Jack climbs up the magical beanstalk and finds a kingdom in the clouds with rolling hills and a white road which leads to a castle inhibited by a cruel giant and his kind hearted wife.
Jack stole the hen which laid the golden eggs and escaped down the beanstalk. And Sanka had to drive a little faster to escape the impending rain as a blanket of clouds began to cover the beautiful valley.
Posted by: Daniel Ipan Kumbon | 19 November 2015 at 04:12 PM
Good post Phil. I too have a few of those 'literature must be reads' that I have never been able to finish- 'War & Peace'; 'The Koran' which has sold millions perhaps billions– bored out of my mind.
Pre-TV I too was in Baimuru and irregularly would get a few videos picked for me by a staffer working in Steamies. Predecessor John Bird had sent memo in mid 80s asking for ...'more violence and sex' and got mostly the former.
I would get into Moresby about every 6 weeks or so and one of my places on must-do list was the small cramped downstairs rooms of a Boroko house, which was open from about 5pm to 7 or 8 pm Mon-Fridays I think.
There you could get as many books as you liked for 20 toea each. If you returned them you could get a 10 toea refund.
I would go there armed with some empty tin-fish cartons and very quickly browsed for 100 books. These would be carefully sealed and delivered to the next STC coastal ship that sailed for us; fortnightly in those heady days of the great green greasy Purari township.
The major criteria for choosing my books was thickness while the other was, with no apologies, definitely no female authors. I had given up after a diet of Enid Blyton in my early primary school days.
I must have made a mistake because I once found and thoroughly enjoyed Colleen McCullough's 'The Thorn Birds' in my collection. I would soon become non-gender specific, atleast in literary matters. Of the chosen 100 I think perhaps a maximum of 60% would be good yarns and not necessarily those thick ones.
I never found myself returning any book to Boroko because the demand for something to read was insatiable. My main swaps would be with Adrian the bare footed & bare chested deputy who assisted at the STC sawmill with manager Phil from Cardiff. Small world!
Every Sunday I would see my mate walking towards my home across the small bridge over one of the several quite deep drainage ditches needed to keep the Gulf rains from swamping our homes.
A smoke always in his lips, a hand clutching a half-drunk stubby with two or three cold ones stuffed in his shorts' pockets - I have always been a TT or wowser as Australian writer C.J. Dennis defined us - 'an ineffably pious person who mistakes this world for a penitentiary and himself for a warder.'
So Adrian knew my weakness and that my fridge was strangely only stuffed with food and lolly water; Under the other arm a bundle of his books.
We would yarn around for hour or more with me having a few black coffees as he slowly supped the SP brown or more likely green if my store had run out of the former.
Eventually with the nectar in his last bottle disappearing it was surely time for him to make his way back to his domestic stash; generally needed 2 x 24 for a weekends relaxation along with a pile of books to enjoy in pre-TV days.
Then along came satellite dishes and TV would slowly diminish the reading habits of the nation. The computer too has dealt blows to libraries and bookshops though on the PC I spend many hours of reading from its screen.
When I was back in New Ireland in 2007-8 I read 368 books, alas many for a second time as the library in Kavieng didn't really cater for people to borrow books. It didn't open until they had gone to work, then closed for lunch, reopening only until 4 pm before people could get to it after work.
Mind you some of the books would perhaps reach a good price on Ebay as they had been there before I reached PNG in 1970.
Regarding elitism among the literati I recall my first English lecture in Teachers College. The snobby chalkie out the front asked, “Hands up ….anyone...... slowly drawn out to warn students to keep their hands down; who enjoyed 'How Green was My Valley'”.
I was mature entry student and long unafraid of chalkies then and now so quickly raised my hand up high. May have been one or two out of 30 who also did so.
“Oh...... Williams what is there to like about the book?”
“Well Mr. Jones (safe name to use as I live in Wales) I have read it several times over past 10 years and it has the ability to make me laugh but also to make me cry too! Any book that can tease your emotions surely must be a good read?”
I was even able to say how it closed with that lovely thought of its hero Huw, 'Men like my father cannot die. They are with me still, real in memory as they were in flesh, loving and beloved forever. How green was my valley then'.
Keep writing and reading.
Posted by: Arthur Williams | Taskul and Cardiff | 19 November 2015 at 08:05 AM
Phil, you are pointing to one of the truly objectionable characteristics of the self elected literati who routinely foist their highly refined opinions upon the rest of us.
Like you, I find it hugely amusing and more than a little ironic that virtually any list of what constitutes the classics of English literature includes many titles by authors who were too busy trying to make a dollar to even imagine that their work might make such a list.
I wonder how the world of the future will judge the Harry Potter series or Game of Thrones? Are they examples of literature as high art or are they just the modern equivalent of the Victorian era "Penny Dreadful"?
All I know is that both a cracking good reads and have been avidly consumed by me, my children and my grand children.
Like you, I look forward to the day when a PNG author produces a book that will capture both national and international attention.
Posted by: Chris Overland | 17 November 2015 at 02:11 PM