World Book Night was a while ago now, but one of the programmes that night got me thinking about what I choose to read. Sue Perkins was assessing the world of ‘popular’ reading versus what is viewed as ‘literary’ and why the majority of people read what they read, thereby making it popular. I must admit that I tend to err on the side of Sue’s idea that reading should be a challenge and I mostly read ‘classics’ as I know they’re going to be good and worth reading. I may not always ‘enjoy’ them but in the same way that watching ‘The Shawshank Redemption’, for example, is not a pleasant experience throughout, I feel it is rewarding and by choosing to spend some of my time in its company my life has been enhanced somewhat. However, equally I’ve got to admit that sometimes I just feel like going to the cinema to see a romantic comedy purely to be entertained by a plot-driven escape from reality, the equivalent to a popular novel.
I’m not sure where the Booker prize winning books lie on the literary scale, however, in terms of pure enjoyment my last read was a real treat! I read it much more quickly that the others I have read so far as it went beyond a dutiful digestion of the next book on the list – as I realised it was my type of book and relished every page. It’s odd that I haven’t read it before, considering the number of times I have picked it up in secondhand bookshops and read the blurb but then replaced it back on the shelf.
Unfortunately, in my opinion the blurb presents the story as gaudy and sensational, basically a murder-mystery and I fell for the oldest of all traps – judging a book by its cover, when hidden inside was a treasure! In reality the story is an intimate history of a family told with the advantage of hindsight by an old lady approaching her death reflecting on her life and the lives of those around her. I guess none of it is ground-breaking stuff but it intertwines the threads of people’s lives as they respond to the circumstances of the time, mostly between the two world wars in Canada and try to marry the expectations of the times and society with the realities of their own human foibles.
Atwood’s prose is a joy to read as she conveys the many facets of people living within a society and how they react to each other and to the circumstances presented to them. She floats with ease from the contemporary of the elderly protagonist back to her youth, remembering the various characters that have impacted her existence. This in particular, reminded me of something that I find absolutely fascinating, that each person has their own unique story to tell. When I’m working in the hospital or the community, with a great many elderly patients or just generally, I am intrigued how the frustrating practicalities of ageing encase a lifetime of experiences. Moreover, how, with advancing age comes a reluctant recognition of one’s own mortality and consequent contemplation of the legacy of one’s life. For the main character the importance of the written word to convey her true self at the end of her life for future generations becomes the basis of the book – an insight that I found captivating. So much so that despite a reluctance of mine to re-read books (I always think of how many other good books there are out there to be getting on and reading!) this is one book for which I will make an exception.
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