Twitchy

Sunday, 29 February 2004

I don't know what to make of my reading desires at the moment. They seem to have developed a kind of desperate urgency. We kidnapped a bagful of P.G. Wodehouse books from Constance's house a few weeks ago, and I've read one so far. One. Despite the fact that when we brought them home I couldn't wait to dive in.

Weirder still, I am keeping to the unprecedented decision I made before Christmas that I would buy no new books until I had made a substantial dent in my To Read pile. I will, of course, spend my Hodges Figgis discount cards, because not to do so would be silly, but other than that ... well, it's entirely bizarre, but I don't seem to be feeling the urge.

Our house is, in case you were in any doubt, brimming, bursting, creaking, exploding with books that I haven't read (and want to). Perhaps an awareness of this circumstance has finally seeped through to my bibliophile unconscious.

The desperate urgency thing is peculiar, though. As I said, the bag of Wodehouse has lain virtually untouched since it arrived. I'm currently reading Yann Martel's Life of Pi in bed and Patrick O'Brian's Post Captain elsewhere, and I'm twitchy. I feel that I need to get these two out of the way so that I can square my shoulders and charge into the fray. Read all the books I should be reading - need to be reading.

The trouble is, I don't know what those books are, or where I might find them. I have vague, floaty notions that I should Read More History, or Rediscover the Nineteenth-Century Novel, or Finally Finish Ulysses, or some equally lofty endeavour. The thought of making out a reading list has even crossed my mind. But when I try to grasp these notions and pin them down - maybe identify some actual titles, sketch a plan of campaign - they disintegrate in my fingers and I'm left with the twitchiness. And the urgency.

My mind is perhaps gearing up for another burst of creativity. It would be nice to think so, because I'm due one. But I'm not sure that's what's at the root of this. More likely is that I'm feeling somehow starved of the kind of intellectual stimulation that is best derived from books. I want to read something that blows my mind wide open, rather than simply confirming what I already believe about the world. I want to be challenged and confused and enlightened - and I also want to be entertained. I want to laugh out loud at a writer's sheer ingenuity, and I want to read something that delivers on its promises.

Damn it all, I want to be inspired.

(No, I am not sixteen. This may be tricky.)

I think, once I get the two abovementioned perfectly worthy but so far unelectrifying tomes out of my hair, I will go on a prowl through the house and identify likely candidates.

If you have any suggestions, do send them my way!

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