Three: How do you read?
One glance at a book and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for 1,000 years. To read is to voyage through time.
Carl Sagan
In which the Author returns to pontificate; He comments upon the action and characters so far, hopefully pre-empting bilious comments from the critical reader.
You choose a book; One from your own personal library perhaps, something you haven�t read before, or a tattered, dog-eared old friend that you haven�t seen for a while and wish to become reacquainted with. Or your local friendly librarian hands over a hardback title, one covered in a battered plastic wrap, that smells of mustiness and many hands, and contains tatters of past lives as bookmarks: a bus ticket, a torn piece of note, a used cotton bud, complete with waxy residue. Or you�re at the airport and you hurriedly buy something chunky with a glossy cover, where the author�s name is writ large and the title, which contains the definite article and a word like �protocol� or �dossier�, is writ small, and you hope it will suffice for the beach � junk food novelry. Or you find, cleaning out an old cupboard, all those books you once had to read at school, and all the ones that you never had time for, and you pick out one in wonder, then blow off the dust.
And then you open the book. You glance at the first page, with the title, the author�s name and the publisher. What do you do then? How do you read? In this world, there are so many things to read, and so many things from which a meaning can be inferred if �read� in the correct way. Long, long ago, long before our ancestors invented pictograms and hieroglyphs and abstract symbols that conveyed a sound or a meaning, they could read the sky, the wind, the movement of animals, the flash of a red eye in the dark, the meaning of a face. Back then, mystery and understanding were one, as simple as times when fog rolls over land and makes the solid earth and ephemeral, changing air one thing. The painting of animals on cave walls rendered them real � if you looked at the painting for long enough, you would find yourself watching a herd of the real thing, and if you were watching a herd of bison, then pretty soon you would find yourself in the depths of a cavern, looking up at a painting composed of a few lines. But then along came symbols and hieroglyphs and writing, and suddenly what we see as �real� and what we see as �mystery� were pulled asunder. The more that was written, the more that various meanings were piled upon even the most innocent word, so that to extrapolate the true meaning of any given sound or symbol required extravagant lengths of interpretation. This infection of the written word spread in time to the uttered word, so now when someone says �hello�, it can be interpreted in many ways: Is the speaker sincere, is it a genuine greeting, is he angry with me, and so forth. And as writing spread, so there were more things to read, and the more there was to read, the ways to read things became many and varied. Look at this list of things: A label in a skirt; A cigarette packet; A bus ticket; A newspaper front page; A newspaper article on the economy; A religious book; A comic; A novel by a respected, �serious� writer; A novel by a populist writer; a cookery book; the telephone directory.
Now tell me, do you read all these in the same way? What would happen if you did?
Of course we don�t, because then all these things would either be imbued with tremendous significance or none at all. Then again, perhaps everything is significant; Perhaps everything we read has layer upon layer of meaning. That�s the problem with words � what may seem the simplest phrase can suddenly elude the grasp of even the best-read of us. And then there is the simple matter of reading a book. Some people, after leafing through the first chapter, will then skip to the very last page to see the outcome. These characters are the type of person who wants to know what�s ahead of them at all times, in order to render their lives simple. Then there are those who read a classic, then read the introduction (usually by some academic) afterwards; They are people who wish to have the book�s secrets unlocked for them and their ideas confirmed. And what about the type of reader who races through page after page, wolfing down great gobbets of a writer�s delicately crafted fare, merely in order to reach the end and claim to have read it? Don�t invite this character to a gourmet meal: they�ll tear it limb from limb, then belch loudly and go to the nearest McDonald�s. There is the languid dipper, who picks at a chapter here and there, never deigning to do anything so gauche as to actually finish a book from start to end.
But then there is that rarest of readers, the participant in the text. He or she reads diligently, carefully, with neither too much attention to significance nor too little, who treasures a writer�s craft without coddling it. This reader will carefully consider what the author has proffered, tasting it thoroughly and accepting or rejecting as necessary. It is far too easy to be precious about books, but the truth is that a story has to be tough, considering the battering it will get at the hands of the reader and the critic.
What I am trying to say, I suppose, is please be gentle with this tale! I can only do my best; and if so far you have not enjoyed the tale, what can I do? I�m as stuck right now as you are; However, you are in the fortunate position of being able to skip a few pages, or right to the end, or pick languidly if you wish, while we poor creatures must trudge through a line after line to ascertain our fate. A reader, in truth, can travel in time through the individual universe that each tale proffers � you can see the characters� future fates, then flick back and watch as we reach it. Even if you don�t like what you�ve seen so far, bear with me � it�s going to start getting interesting in the next chapter. Probably.
You may have surmised that I, the Author, am a fictional construct. Indeed, you may have seen how I seem to have been fitted into the tale. You may be right, you may not be. If it is the case that I�m fictional, why has my written style changed? The first few paragraphs of this interlude do not much resemble those of the first chapter; so what is happening?
There are two possibilities:
Either I am an appalling writer, and cannot create a consistent style, or:
I am taking the piss somewhat.
Whichever way you guess, you can�t be certain either way.
Can you see me grinning?
But what to say of Dan Thompson and Taylor Coleridge thus far? The latter, I�m sure you will agree, has an absolutely ridiculous, but strangely rather cool, name. Now, let�s not pretend this is, in any way, shape or form, a real tale; therefore both Dan and Taylor are ciphers for something else, even if the former has expressed himself with all too real emotion. How we read the characters and their situation will inform how we see their tale, even if we read more into it than is intended. So, we have someone in a pub, having a drink and feeling depressed; An old friend of his walks in and mentions his lover; they finish their drinks and start walking towards town, stopping off for a small drink on the way, which is where they are frozen for the moment. It might be salutary, at this point, to keep tabs on how much they have drunk; After all, this might be fiction, but we don�t want to ruin it by having them drink life-threatening quantities of alcohol and still function like real people. So far, then, Dan has had three pints of Bass and a bottle of lager in the Prince of Wales; Taylor has had two pints of lager and a bottle of same. Since we joined the tale at two o�clock, we can presume, I think, that Dan has had something to eat. This will keep him on his feet for the next few hours. I have a feeling that the pair of them are going to consume considerably more in the next few hours. Then again, have you considered the possibility that Taylor Coleridge is no more than a figment of Dan�s depressed imagination? I know, it�s the old �And suddenly I woke up and it had all been a dream� scenario; Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn�t; Shall we go and find out?
Four: across the dark river and into the maelstrom
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times�..
Charles Dickens
In which our heroes cross the Thames by Reading Bridge; They reach the Blagrave pub and there encounter some great thinkers; And past the Town hall come face to face with a stag party and a hen party.
�Come on, there�s a bus, let�s grab it!�
We needn�t have hurried; there was a large queue waiting at the bus stop in front of the playing fields in Westfield road. For such a warm and sunny day, this group seemed a miserable bunch. There were a few pensioners shuffling forwards and a pair of harassed-looking mothers with young kids, who all seemed to be bawling their eyes out.
� I�m late as it is!� shouted the bus driver. �Come on love, on you get, I haven�t got all day�that�s it, on you get, put it over there�.can I see your pass, lovely��
One glance at a book and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for 1,000 years. To read is to voyage through time.
Carl Sagan
In which the Author returns to pontificate; He comments upon the action and characters so far, hopefully pre-empting bilious comments from the critical reader.
You choose a book; One from your own personal library perhaps, something you haven�t read before, or a tattered, dog-eared old friend that you haven�t seen for a while and wish to become reacquainted with. Or your local friendly librarian hands over a hardback title, one covered in a battered plastic wrap, that smells of mustiness and many hands, and contains tatters of past lives as bookmarks: a bus ticket, a torn piece of note, a used cotton bud, complete with waxy residue. Or you�re at the airport and you hurriedly buy something chunky with a glossy cover, where the author�s name is writ large and the title, which contains the definite article and a word like �protocol� or �dossier�, is writ small, and you hope it will suffice for the beach � junk food novelry. Or you find, cleaning out an old cupboard, all those books you once had to read at school, and all the ones that you never had time for, and you pick out one in wonder, then blow off the dust.
And then you open the book. You glance at the first page, with the title, the author�s name and the publisher. What do you do then? How do you read? In this world, there are so many things to read, and so many things from which a meaning can be inferred if �read� in the correct way. Long, long ago, long before our ancestors invented pictograms and hieroglyphs and abstract symbols that conveyed a sound or a meaning, they could read the sky, the wind, the movement of animals, the flash of a red eye in the dark, the meaning of a face. Back then, mystery and understanding were one, as simple as times when fog rolls over land and makes the solid earth and ephemeral, changing air one thing. The painting of animals on cave walls rendered them real � if you looked at the painting for long enough, you would find yourself watching a herd of the real thing, and if you were watching a herd of bison, then pretty soon you would find yourself in the depths of a cavern, looking up at a painting composed of a few lines. But then along came symbols and hieroglyphs and writing, and suddenly what we see as �real� and what we see as �mystery� were pulled asunder. The more that was written, the more that various meanings were piled upon even the most innocent word, so that to extrapolate the true meaning of any given sound or symbol required extravagant lengths of interpretation. This infection of the written word spread in time to the uttered word, so now when someone says �hello�, it can be interpreted in many ways: Is the speaker sincere, is it a genuine greeting, is he angry with me, and so forth. And as writing spread, so there were more things to read, and the more there was to read, the ways to read things became many and varied. Look at this list of things: A label in a skirt; A cigarette packet; A bus ticket; A newspaper front page; A newspaper article on the economy; A religious book; A comic; A novel by a respected, �serious� writer; A novel by a populist writer; a cookery book; the telephone directory.
Now tell me, do you read all these in the same way? What would happen if you did?
Of course we don�t, because then all these things would either be imbued with tremendous significance or none at all. Then again, perhaps everything is significant; Perhaps everything we read has layer upon layer of meaning. That�s the problem with words � what may seem the simplest phrase can suddenly elude the grasp of even the best-read of us. And then there is the simple matter of reading a book. Some people, after leafing through the first chapter, will then skip to the very last page to see the outcome. These characters are the type of person who wants to know what�s ahead of them at all times, in order to render their lives simple. Then there are those who read a classic, then read the introduction (usually by some academic) afterwards; They are people who wish to have the book�s secrets unlocked for them and their ideas confirmed. And what about the type of reader who races through page after page, wolfing down great gobbets of a writer�s delicately crafted fare, merely in order to reach the end and claim to have read it? Don�t invite this character to a gourmet meal: they�ll tear it limb from limb, then belch loudly and go to the nearest McDonald�s. There is the languid dipper, who picks at a chapter here and there, never deigning to do anything so gauche as to actually finish a book from start to end.
But then there is that rarest of readers, the participant in the text. He or she reads diligently, carefully, with neither too much attention to significance nor too little, who treasures a writer�s craft without coddling it. This reader will carefully consider what the author has proffered, tasting it thoroughly and accepting or rejecting as necessary. It is far too easy to be precious about books, but the truth is that a story has to be tough, considering the battering it will get at the hands of the reader and the critic.
What I am trying to say, I suppose, is please be gentle with this tale! I can only do my best; and if so far you have not enjoyed the tale, what can I do? I�m as stuck right now as you are; However, you are in the fortunate position of being able to skip a few pages, or right to the end, or pick languidly if you wish, while we poor creatures must trudge through a line after line to ascertain our fate. A reader, in truth, can travel in time through the individual universe that each tale proffers � you can see the characters� future fates, then flick back and watch as we reach it. Even if you don�t like what you�ve seen so far, bear with me � it�s going to start getting interesting in the next chapter. Probably.
You may have surmised that I, the Author, am a fictional construct. Indeed, you may have seen how I seem to have been fitted into the tale. You may be right, you may not be. If it is the case that I�m fictional, why has my written style changed? The first few paragraphs of this interlude do not much resemble those of the first chapter; so what is happening?
There are two possibilities:
Either I am an appalling writer, and cannot create a consistent style, or:
I am taking the piss somewhat.
Whichever way you guess, you can�t be certain either way.
Can you see me grinning?
But what to say of Dan Thompson and Taylor Coleridge thus far? The latter, I�m sure you will agree, has an absolutely ridiculous, but strangely rather cool, name. Now, let�s not pretend this is, in any way, shape or form, a real tale; therefore both Dan and Taylor are ciphers for something else, even if the former has expressed himself with all too real emotion. How we read the characters and their situation will inform how we see their tale, even if we read more into it than is intended. So, we have someone in a pub, having a drink and feeling depressed; An old friend of his walks in and mentions his lover; they finish their drinks and start walking towards town, stopping off for a small drink on the way, which is where they are frozen for the moment. It might be salutary, at this point, to keep tabs on how much they have drunk; After all, this might be fiction, but we don�t want to ruin it by having them drink life-threatening quantities of alcohol and still function like real people. So far, then, Dan has had three pints of Bass and a bottle of lager in the Prince of Wales; Taylor has had two pints of lager and a bottle of same. Since we joined the tale at two o�clock, we can presume, I think, that Dan has had something to eat. This will keep him on his feet for the next few hours. I have a feeling that the pair of them are going to consume considerably more in the next few hours. Then again, have you considered the possibility that Taylor Coleridge is no more than a figment of Dan�s depressed imagination? I know, it�s the old �And suddenly I woke up and it had all been a dream� scenario; Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn�t; Shall we go and find out?
Four: across the dark river and into the maelstrom
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times�..
Charles Dickens
In which our heroes cross the Thames by Reading Bridge; They reach the Blagrave pub and there encounter some great thinkers; And past the Town hall come face to face with a stag party and a hen party.
�Come on, there�s a bus, let�s grab it!�
We needn�t have hurried; there was a large queue waiting at the bus stop in front of the playing fields in Westfield road. For such a warm and sunny day, this group seemed a miserable bunch. There were a few pensioners shuffling forwards and a pair of harassed-looking mothers with young kids, who all seemed to be bawling their eyes out.
� I�m late as it is!� shouted the bus driver. �Come on love, on you get, I haven�t got all day�that�s it, on you get, put it over there�.can I see your pass, lovely��
No comments:
Post a Comment