I was going to write something about how I don't read modern fiction, but that seems like it might require some thought. I fear thought. I'd rather avoid it, if it's at all possible.
Oh. I don't think it is possible. The moment I thought about thought, it was all over. It's a fait accompli. There's no getting around it: I thought it. I fought it, but I couldn't abort it.
Why don't I read modern fiction?
Because it's all rubbish!
Ha ha ha! Oh Paul, you are a card.
It's not all rubbish. I don't believe that any more than I think all modern film, music or pancakes is/are rubbish. I've gone on record as hating the veneration of a golden past.
The main reason I don't read modern fiction (and I'm probably talking about anything written since, let's say, 1973), is that I have limited time. I'm obsessed with making the most of my free hours. So how can I justify spending my days reading an unknown prospect, when there are so many established classics for me to read? I can't justify it.
I'm already wasting so much time watching DVD extras and chortling at .gifs on Tumblr. I don't want to spend time on the latest Booker Prize winner, when (for all I know), it might be terrible. I haven't read A Tale of Two Cities. That has to take precedence. If I'm going to spend time looking at words and ideas on a printed page, I'm better off wading through the literary canon. Non-canon works are too much of a gamble.
That's not to say that I'll like everything in the canon. But at least it's worthy. The book might have a historical significance. It's probably referenced in all manner of articles, late night discussion programmes and tweets by Stephen Fry. Even if I don't enjoy it, it's equipping me with some useful tools for the long climb towards pretension.
My prejudices tend to be confirmed on the rare occasions that I do read something from the last forty years. I pretty much always find what I'm reading to be underwhelming. "Is that it?" I might say to whoever's sitting next to me. "It was OK, but... man. It took me eighteen hours to read this. I could have built a ship in a bottle in another ship in that time."
I might be similarly nonplussed by a Joseph Conrad novel, but at least it will be a nonplussing of some pedigree. I can attend lecturers on the nonplussing, and see how it has influenced later works of mild dissatisfaction.
But there must be some great modern fiction out there. There must be something that I'd love. I'm probably just looking at the wrong things.
Or perhaps my bias means that I'm predisposed to hate any work that might use The Bee Gees as a reference point. I'm looking at current fiction with shit-tinted spectacles, just as I accuse other people of doing with music! What a fool I've been! I've been hoist with my own petard. I shouldn't have bought one really. Who needs a petard? But I was conned by a clever marketing campaign.
I think the real reason that I don't read modern fiction is nothing more than confusion. I find the whole thing completely baffling. Who are the good modern authors? Are they respected? Are they critically acclaimed? Is this book seen as trashy fiction? Is that book something of substance?
I look at a rack of bestsellers and the covers might as well be pictures of question marks (though to be fair, The Riddler's autobiography is a smash hit). Perhaps I fear that my critical faculties (which for film, TV and music have been carefully honed by years of reading snobbish hipster edicts) will let me down when it comes to the printed word. What if I really love Dan Brown? What if I love Twilight? I'd never be able to show my face again. My reputation as a person who only likes good things will be in tatters. Which would be terrible, even though I'm the only person aware of that reputation, and I seem to believe that it was tattered in the first place.
Can I get on the modern fiction horse? I could. But would I be able to look at things objectively? I don't know. I just don't know.
That's why I find it safe to stick with known quantities. Venturing into the unknown is a scary prospect. You might find that you're a rubbish hiker and are afraid of campfires.
Knowing nothing about modern fiction makes me less of a well-rounded person. Then again, who's to say that a knowledge of professional wrestling is any less roundening? I don't have to be an expert in every field. There are people out there who are devoted experts on modern fiction, but who don't know where I put my keys. Swings and roundabouts. What's good for the goose is greener on the scratched back of my hand as it washes my other foot.
In conclusion, I don't need to bother reading modern fiction.
Most of my conclusions are ones which validate my own inadequacies and postpone self-improvement. My conclusions are really holding me back. But you can't argue with them. They are the final word.
All Hail Conclusions.
***
That's the end of this week's thought. Join me again next time for more letters in the same font.
I might write about a Nominal Inanimate Enamel Animal.
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