Three elements make up a great book, for me; A clever, compelling, or congenial plot: characters I enjoy spending time with; and beautiful writing. Now, I’ve been known to read books with less – I’ve been known to enjoy books with only two out of three of these. But a great book has all three. My favourites – the ones I read over and over, are the ones that have exactly the proportion of these elements that I crave. This craving changes from time to time. For example, before I was 30, I read Pride and Prejudice more than 30 times. As I got older, I started to enjoy Persuasion far more. I’ve read the Harry Potter series more than once, despite the fact that the writing isn’t really very good (which also explains why I found the one Robert Galbraith book that I read completely off-putting as I didn’t like any of the characters and the plot was fairly uninspiring). I have read Dorothy Dunnett’s Lymond books many times, in spite of the fact that I now know it to be a Romance – well worthy of a capital letter though.
Generally speaking, I tend to be a bit apologetic about the books I read. From outside my head, this seems absurd. At the same time, I live with people who will tell me that I’m wrong when I say I like blue cheese, or I don’t like olives. I have had several conversations with a neighbour who says he only reads classic literature and thinks science fiction is particularly pointless. People who make categorical statements like that confuse me. Like the woman who told me that she would only read mysteries written by British writers – and so had never read any Elizabeth George, for example, or would probably never read any Louise Penny or Laurie King. And what purpose does narrowing your intake serve? You feel somehow that you are wasting your time by reading something outside your particular anthill? How is any time spent reading wasted? I have learned more interesting bits of trivia from Dick Francis novels, for example, than I ever learned from Jane Eyre. (The word trivia comes from the Latin for three roads because the Romans used to post news about the Empire at any place where three roads met. To be fair, I have no idea if this is true, but it is something I read in a Dick Francis novel.)
This is another thing that happens when you make categorical statements – you shut out the glorious surprise – the small revelation or the great epiphany – that can’t happen if you only look to learn what you think you already know.
Which brings me to non-fiction. These same elements (plot, character, writing) are necessary to me, believe it or not, but you have to expand your definitions a little, I guess. The plot is the thing on which the story hangs – in the case of non-fiction, I guess you’d say this is the reason the author is writing the book – the what it is they have to say. The characters are the people in the story. And the writing needs to flow as smoothly as it does for Margaret Atwood or Barbara Kingsolver. For example, almost any of Michael Lewis’ books are great in this way (The Undoing Project or The Premonition, if you like more comforting examples, The Fifth Risk, if you’re a fan of horror). Lewis always tells a story, makes you love the characters, and writes in such a way that the story shines.
Now this is not to say that a book that does not meet my criteria won’t meet someone else’s, or won’t meet mine at another time in my life. I started The Stone Diaries three times over several years before devouring it in a couple of days, followed by everything else by Carol Shields that I could get my hands on. This was two years before her death. Imagine my grief when I found that what I’d read was all there was to be. Nick Hornby, in one of his introductions in 10 Years in the Tub, says that not every book will find it’s reader every time. There are many reasons I will put a book down – lately it’s because it’s just too much work in my current frame of mind. So many of my favourite authors require more of me than I am prepared to give. Margaret Atwood is a good example. Many years ago, I read Alias Grace. I could say that I loved it, but that would be a lie, nor do I think the book is meant to be loved. The writing, as always, was perfect (to me). But I realised that I had just spent many hours in company with a bunch of people I could not like. In fact there wasn’t a single character that I wanted to spend any time with. And so, I stopped reading her books for awhile. Eventually I came back, dipping my toe in with some poetry, The Heart Goes Last, Hag Seed (which I adored) and some essays, which I also adored. And then came Testament. And I thought, I’m going to have to read The Handmaid’s Tale again and I just don’t think I have the emotional wherewithal for that just now…
I had an embarrassing failure in my reading recently. I had picked up I Am a Strange Loop by Douglas Hofstadter at the Library. I loved the title. And I love the way he plays with language. But I could not get past the tone. For whatever reason, my ear was only hearing condescension and the faint hint of evangelism. And so, making my apologies to the book, I put it down. I thought, well, perhaps it’s just the vegetarian thing that’s distracting me, maybe I’ll try another of his books – so I checked out GEB, the monumental tome being taught in philosophy courses all over. And there it was again, this tone that I just couldn’t seem to unhear. And I really wanted to read this book. I’ve been hearing about it for years, and really, it seems like it would be right up my alley. But now I realise, I can just say, I’ll try again another time. Herbert O’Driscoll once said, “that idea has decided to share itself at another time.” Admittedly, he was referring to a thought that had escaped him while he was preaching, but I think it serves as well for thoughts from another mind to one’s own. Perhaps it will never share itself. But I am doing the book no harm by letting it lie. I may do it an injustice if I force myself to read it when I am not capable of loving it at this time.
Elizabeth Knighton Brown 