The Idiot Flaps Review

I've been reading books lately, which is quite unusual for me.

It's not that I'm in the Kanye West school of book-haters (not to be confused with book-burners, although I like the idea of burning books not through a desire for censorship, but just because you HATE books).

I just feel like there's too much that I should have read, and should be reading, so I feel daunted by the task. So I end I'm cutting off my literary nose to spite my inadequate face - and don't read anything. It's a ridiculous character trait - born of a treacherous combination of cowardice and intellectual arrogance - that leaves me without an Austen novel in my 'finished'-pile, but with a good knowledge of the mid-90s Iron Man animated series.

But every now and then, I get the book-bug, read a couple of things, enjoy them, and then go back to Freecell.

The first thing I read in my recent bookish patch was F. Scott Fitgerald's Tender is the Night. It was a hot day and seemed like a good summer book to read. It's full of wealthy socialites, and glamourous European locations, which is at times a bit alienating for me. I like a bit of mundanity to anchor my stories, so they don't just float away and burn off in the sun. Luckily the story is grounded by some really great characters - full of depth. It was quite moving. I also like the non-linear narrative, which really added to the emotional impact of the story, and never seemed gimmicky.

Wow, that's a boring literary review! Well, the book was good, anyway. I particularly remembered the beautifully patronising description of a character and "the innumerable facile combinations that he referred to as his opinions".

I think that could be the title for this blog.

After I finished that, I went back to J D Salinger's Franny and Zooey, which I seem to have decided is my favourite book.

It's a good choice for a favourite, because it's not that well known, and it's also quite short. I don't trust anyone whose favourite book is over 200 pages long. You can't respect anyone who prefers Don Quixote to any given issue of The Dandy.

I try not to find out too much about Franny and Zooey because I get the feeling that people who like it (and many other things I like) are probably really annoying. Like Bill Hicks fans. I seem to like lots of things that wanky internet message board losers like - Hicks, Salinger, The Fall, The Wire - and I just know that they're all really clever and acerbic and cynical and disdainful. They all take drugs as a method of distancing themselves from the masses, and are all atheists and hate chavs and JK Rowling, and none of them ever laugh, and they believe in 9/11 conspiracy theories and are rude to their girlfriends and drink bottled beer.

And I don't do those things. Well, not all of them.

I hate generalisations. But it's ok to condemn a group of innocent people because they like a particular band or book. That's fine. Well done, Paul.

I think that rant probably reflects a deep fear about myself, rather than reality.

Except I don't really believe that. Sorry. I can't really commit to that level of internal conflict. I'm probably a bit too well-adjusted to be allowed to write a blog.

(I'm sure my ramblings just scream "well-adjusted!" into the face of anyone who reads them)

Anyway (and I'm struggling to finish this entry before I get too bored and annoyed with myself, and have to delete it), Franny and Zooey is really good.

It perfectly combines spirituality, neuroses, adolescent stubbornness, and warmth, in a never-ending cycle of meaningfulness and meaninglessness. Also, it's funny.

There. I'd better stop now.

So, books, eh?

The old idiot flaps.

I get really worried that I'll get too earnest when talking about a book. Lucy and I recently saw a TV programme about John Donne. It was hosted by Simon Schama, and featured the actress Fiona Shaw reading out poems with embarrassing intensity.

Then, to notch the awkwardness up, there were sections with Schama and Shaw passionately discussing how erotic the poetry was, dishing out their theories on it and trying to impress each other with their own interpretations. It was painful.

I couldn't stop thinking of Shaw as Petunia Dursley, and Schama looks like a cartoon mouse.

I don't want to criticise them - I'm sure their enthusiasm was totally genuine, and I really like it when people are passionate about things - but, I don't think I can take that kind of naked, un-selfconscious appreciation.

I'm glad it happens, I just don't want to see it on my TV.

So, I try not to be too serious in case I come across like Schama and Shaw, bristling with excitement, discussing sexual allegories on leather sofas.

To be fair, no-one has ever accused me of that.