Paul Whybrow
Full Member
We all have different likes and dislikes in what we read, and, I guess that we all have our secret shame—authors that we like, but which we wouldn't boast about reading. Mine used to be reading James Patterson, but his writing became so production line, formulaic, with hired guns brought in to pen most of the text, that I gave up in disgust. As Truman Capote kind of said of Jack Kerouac "That's not writing, that's typing."Going back to the 1980s, I devoured a series of Westerns featuring a hero called Edge written by George G. Gilman. These were as easy to read as eating a bag of Doritos and with about as much nutritional content, though still enjoyable.
It's impossible not to browse someone's book shelves, when you visit their home. Hell, I even scrutinise the volumes behind a celebrity whose face appears in a newspaper photograph. The same sort of thing happens with the CDs, vinyl albums and DVDs they own. Film director John Waters declared, "If you go home with somebody, and they don't have books, don't fuck 'em."
That doesn't mean to say that I'd transform into a rutting stag
if someone I fancied owned books that I love, but at least it would show shared interests, and we'd have something to talk about. I wouldn't be so amenable towards someone who adored only Mills & Boon romances, Dan Brown or E.L. James.I once had a blind date with a woman who appeared wearing a costume that looked like witch's garb, with a long black cloak, tattered purple dress and a pointy hat. I wasn't that fazed, as it's not uncommon to see New Agers and Pagans similarly clothed in Cornwall, especially in places such as Tintagel. I knew a couple of hedge witches, so coped with the conversation that was heavy with alternative beliefs and mystic legends. She kindly invited me back to her place for coffee, and that was when I really started to doubt her sanity.
Everything in her purple and black house had a witchy theme, including the wallpaper and doormat, and she was obsessed with unicorns and dragons. I've nothing against dragons—we have an illustrious member of the Colony in Robinne Weiss who writes about dragons—but I draw the line, when a sitting room has 500 dragons and unicorns watching me. Every horizontal surface had a china figurine or stuffed toy blasting out fire or pointing its horn (!) my way. There were thousands of paperback books and comics on the shelves and in precarious stacks on the floor. To sit down meant weaving through piles of books to the only armchair that didn't have fantasy novels piled on its cushions. My hostess sat atop her reading matter, beaming down at me like a witch who'd enticed a new familiar into her cavern. I fled, as soon as possible. I dare say, that she'd have done well on Mastermind, answering questions on books about dragons and unicorns, as I don't think she read anything else.
Having compatible reading tastes isn't something that most people think about when choosing a partner, but I reckon it's crucial.
Have any of you met someone whose choice of reading matter was lamentable?
Or, going to the opposite extreme, someone whose literary taste was intimidating in its intelligence?
I briefly studied Latin as a teenager at a grammar school, and the Latin master appeared to have time travelled from the Roman Republic, for his study's book shelves contained hundreds of books written in Latin; I was in awe of his linguistic abilities, which included Ancient Greek. He even had a cool name—Mr Breeze! I resurrected my memories of him, in The Perfect Murderer, by making a serial killer keep a chronicle of his victims written in Latin—an effective safety precaution, for it's estimated that there are only 100 people worldwide who speak Latin fluently.
What is your secret shame in reading matter?
