Reading Habits #14: Does anyone talk books anymore?

In the week that saw closing showers and Thor’s wrath, conjunctivitis in the family, a midnight trip to the airport, problems over water supply, a dental appointment, car and medical insurance, and job deadlines and office sendoffs, this is what I have been thinking about.

In the seventies I discussed the Hardy Boys, the Secret Seven, and the Three Investigators with many of my school friends. In the eighties I talked about popular fiction with a few college mates. In the nineties I conferred about philosophical literature with two colleagues who shared my interest. In-between, there were intermittent exchanges about comic books.

In the first decade of this century I have not had a meaningful discussion about books with anyone.

But in just the past four years I have gone berserk “talking” about books, even showing off about books, with all my blog friends. Those four years have wiped out the book-talk deficit of the previous four decades.

Finally, a door to the mind’s library opened and I’m happily lost somewhere inside the giant labyrinth of books that we read and write about on our blogs every day. I'd like to think that blogging is god's 21st century gift to book lovers.

Of course, over the past two decades and more I have been discussing books with my wife, whose main interests lie in the Classics, Agatha Christie, and P.G. Wodehouse, among others, and later with my grown-up daughter who reads weighty books that include fantasy.

Both are wise and serious readers. They read one book at a time and finish it before picking up another. I read three books at a time and finish none. First I hoard books on my shelf and then I hoard them in my mind, dog-eared at the halfway mark of my intellect and no further.

My point is does anyone read and talk books outside the blog world anymore? Do you have to join public libraries, book clubs, and writing workshops to discuss books with others who read them as well? Is chucking anti-social smart phones really the solution to getting people to read books again and, hopefully, talking about them? Would it help if I collared a few people and forced books into their hands? Do I miss the old and informal way of talking about books?

Quite frankly, do I even need answers to these questions when I have you all, my fellow readers and bloggers, to discuss books with?

The Spike by Arnaud de Borchgrave and Robert Moss

In my last post I reviewed Tom Rachman’s impressive debut novel The Imperfectionists which is about journalists working for an international newspaper based in Rome.

The novel got me thinking about other books written by well-known journalists, such as Without Fear or Favor: The New York Times and Its Times (1980) by Harrison Salisbury, which I have read, and All the President’s Men (1974) by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, which I have been planning to read.

Thanks to Ron Scheer of Buddies in the Saddle for reminding me about Bernstein’s and Woodward’s investigative reporting on the Watergate scandal for The Washington Post. In 1976, it was made into a film by Alan J. Pakula (Presumed Innocent, Sophie's Choice, The Pelican Brief) and had Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford in the two lead roles. I haven’t seen the movie either.

When I entered journalism by a quirk of fate, in the mid-eighties, the first book that was thrust into my hands was The Spike (1980), a trailblazing spy thriller written by two other American journalists, Arnaud de Borchgrave and Robert Moss. It is built on the experiences of both the authors. 

“This is the book every budding reporter should read. It will inspire you,” I was told. The Spike did inspire me but it didn’t take me as far as it takes young Bob Hockney in his journalistic career.

As far as I remember, Hockney is opportunistic and learns the ropes quickly as he graduates from a plain cub reporter to a globetrotting investigative reporter who gets hold of a scoop of a lifetime—involving a KGB plot, western media, sex, and blackmail. There is just one hitch: Hockney’s exclusive despatches are spiked by his editor.

In journalistic parlance, “spike” literally means to kill a story.

In my very first job as a reporter, I remember the copy desk had a wooden block with three iron spikes sticking out of it. It was used to actually spike copies filed by reporters and received from wire services; stories that would not make it into next morning’s newspaper. The devils on the copy desk loved using it; sometimes, I suspect, to show a reporter who was boss. Reporters filed stories in earnest, copy editors killed them in right earnest. It was discouraging.

The Spike was my first exposure to a fictional account of the world of newspapers. It was racy and gripping. Read the book if you haven’t. You won’t regret it.

The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman, 2010

It is said that Indian journalists often dream of writing the Great Indian Novel, which must hold true for journalists across the world—graduating from mundane news reporting to writing a cracking novel, and earning fame and some money. Few journalists in India have realised that dream; most others, like me, keep dreaming in the hope that one day they will wake up to their own dazzling debut—written, published, sold, read, and reviewed by the dozens.

© www.tomrachman.com

Tom Rachman, the British-born journalist and author, realised his dream with panache when, in 2010, at the young age of 36, he wrote his first book, The Imperfectionists, which has resulted in a tide of favourable reviews. Four years later, Tom published The Rise & Fall of Great Powers which I'm waiting to read. Clearly, there is no stopping Tom. I’m glad he is a fellow journalist. More fiction to his pen.

The Indian journalist and newsroom, I’d assume, is different from its counterparts in, say, New York or London, owing to culture, tradition, environment, and even language. Yet, if you happen to be a journalist and if you read Tom’s debut novel about a nameless newspaper set in Rome and elsewhere, you’ll see they are not dissimilar.

The journalists and the assorted staff on the rolls of the international newspaper in Rome are a lot like those in any Indian morninger, even if they work for different mastheads and eccentric newspaper barons. I found the similarities nowhere more conspicuous than in the personal prejudices and beat experiences of the staff, both seasoned and untested, and how it affects their lives, usually for the worse, as well as in the gossipy and politicised atmosphere of the newsroom.

In The Imperfectionists, Tom introduces us to a host of animated characters from top to bottom—from founder-publisher Cyrus Ott lording over his empire from Atlanta; to editor-in-chief Kathleen Solson who puts up a brave front at the newspaper and in her crumbling marriage; to head of finance Abbey Pinnola cryptically known as Accounts Payable; to corrections editor Herman Cohen waiting to pounce on grammatical errors; to copy editor Ruby Zaga, insecure and never happy at work; to poor Winston Cheung who desperately wants the stringer position in Cairo.

© www.tomrachman.com

This is the story of all of these and other characters, including one peculiar reader, whose personal lives are linked to the fate and fortune of their newspaper. It is both happy and sad, funny and sober, and all quite intriguing. Much as I dislike using the word in the context of a review, Tom Rachman’s writing style is beautiful, and refreshing. If you have been a journalist, The Imperfectionists will resonate with you at once. In that it is my kind of a debut novel.

The only problem I have with the book is that it is all a bit of an anticlimax: Tom develops each story, each character, really well and just when you brace yourself for something to happen, he snatches it away from you. It leaves you kind of disappointed but, I guess, it works for the imperfectionists. I anticipated how the novel would end because I have been there before. Highly recommended.

Note: Moira and Patti reviewed The Imperfectionists on their blogs Clothes In Books and Pattinase, respectively.

Concrete Angel by Patricia Abbott

© www.polisbooks.com

Anton Chekhov is believed to have written 201 short stories and one novel, The Shooting Party, in 1884. In our time award-winning writer, reviewer, and blogger Patricia Abbott has authored more than 100 short stories in print, online, and in various anthologies, and is a few months away from releasing her debut novel Concrete Angel. I'm sure there’ll be others.

Independent book publisher Polis Books describes Concrete Angel thus:

“An atmospheric and eagerly-awaited debut novel from acclaimed crime writer Patricia Abbott, set in Philadelphia in the 1970's about a family torn apart by a mother straight out of ‘Mommy Dearest’, and her children who are at first victims but soon learn they must fight back to survive.

“Eve Moran has always wanted ‘things’ and has proven both inventive and tenacious in getting and keeping them. Eve lies, steals, cheats, swindles, and finally commits murder, paying little heed to the cost of her actions on those who love her. Her daughter, Christine, compelled by love, dependency, and circumstance, is caught up in her mother’s deceptions, unwilling to accept the viciousness that runs in her mother's blood. Eve’s powers of seduction are hard to resist for those who come in contact with her toxic allure. It’s only when Christine’s three-year old brother, Ryan begins to prove useful to her mother, and she sees a pattern repeating itself, that Christine finds the courage and means to bring an end to Eve’s tyranny.

“An unflinching novel about love, lust and greed that runs deep within our bones, Patricia Abbott cements herself as one of our very best writers of domestic suspense.”

The 320-page novel will be published in June 2015.

You can read more about Patti and her book at Polis Books and pre-order a copy at Amazon. You can also read Patti’s short stories on her blog Pattinase.

Book Club Editions: The next best thing to first editions

Ever since I purchased a book club edition of The Valhalla Exchange by Harry Patterson (Jack Higgins) at the Books by Weight exhibition currently on in Mumbai, I have been scouting for more of these books whose dust jackets and print layouts make them look just like first editions.

However, there is conflict over their worth. One opinion is that a BCE is not worth the paper it is printed on while another opinion dispels the myth that it has no value. Both views are backed by sound analysis and are convincing. I don’t know whom to believe. I happily settle for book club editions because I rarely ever come across first editions.

© Prashant C. Trikannad

My purchase of the Jack Higgins hardback—my very first acquisition of a book by Harry Patterson as opposed to Jack Higgins—prompted me to look up the other book club editions in my possession. I found two: To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee and The Mapmaker by Frank G. Slaughter.

All three hardbacks are identical to their first editions—cover design, summary on the inside of the front flap, original year of publication, author profile on the inside of the back flap, and a black-and-white picture of the author on the back cover. 

© Prashant C. Trikannad

Apart from the Book Club Edition mentioned inside, a keen eye can tell the not so obvious differences between a BCE and a first edition.

If you are only a book collector, you’ll be happy with your BCE; if you think you can make a nice little bundle, you’ll be tearing your hair.

Still, don’t get rid of your book club editions. I also read that some of these books do have value. For instance, a limited number of book club editions of the Harper Lee classic were apparently published at the same time as the first editions and are actually worth something today. 

Replica of my edition. © www.ebay.com

My book club edition of To Kill A Mockingbird is a replica of the first edition published by J.B Lippincott Company. The credit page merely says ‘Copyright © 1960 by Harper Lee. Printed in the United States of America’ and Truman Capote has been credited for Lee’s famous portrait on the back cover. Do I smell gold?

Incidentally, Truman Capote became best friends with Harper Lee after the latter, who was a bit of a tomboy, defended the timid Capote from bullies. They were both very young and lived next door to each other. I believe he was grateful to her for the rest of his life. Lee didn’t like her pictures taken but she allowed Capote to click the one that became famous.

Replica of my edition
© mainecrimewriters.com

The only hardback first edition I have is Reading Like A Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them (2006) by Francine Prose, distinguished critic, essayist, and author of several books of fiction and nonfiction.

In Reading Like A Writer, which should be on every reader’s bookshelf, “Prose invites you to sit by her side and take a guided tour of the tools and tricks of the masters. She reads the work of the very best writers…and discovers why their work has endured.”

Among praise for this book, I liked what Publishers Weekly had to say: “The trick to writing, Prose writes, is reading—carefully, deliberately, and slowly. While this might seem like a no-brainer, Prose masterfully meditates on how quality reading informs great writing, which will warm the cold, jaded hearts of even the most frustrated, underappreciated, and unpublished writers…”

Prose has dedicated Reading Like A Writer to three of her teachers and begins by asking the "reasonable" question—“Can creative writing be taught?” If you see the book, buy it. It will get your creative juices flowing.

Flash Fiction Challenge: The confession

On August 14, my friend and fellow-blogger Yvette Banek posted a Flash Fiction Challenge on her blog In so many words… daring the rest of us to come up with short stories based on three curious illustrations she produced. I chose the one below. I don't get letters in my mailbox anymore, just bills and menu cards. So I thought I'd read Nala's letter, instead. 

The deadline is September 14 but I think it’s better to be the early bird than fly in late. Thank you, Yvette. It was good fun.

© Robert George Harris

Nala looked at the scented letter in her hand with growing distaste. It was written in beautiful longhand but the hand that wrote the letter had blood on it, her husband’s blood. She didn’t mind the blood—she wanted him dead—so much as the sentiment that oozed out of the letter, like sweat through the pores. It was starting to annoy her. As she began to read it for the third time, there was a wicked gleam in her eyes, a sudden flash of evil, a germ of a terrible idea, and suddenly she was no longer the lovely woman god had made her.

My darling Nala,
At last, you are mine, all mine. No living soul can come between us now. How I have longed for this day, when you and I can be together forever, in our own little heaven filled with love and beauty and passion. Isn't life wonderful more than it has ever been till now? We are free, my beautiful Nala, truly free, to love and be in love as we were meant to be. Can you imagine what this means? I love you and I can’t live without you. You know that, don’t you, Nala? Do you feel the same way about me? Please tell me you do. My god, Nala, I have never been so happy in my life!

Nala folded the letter and sat there, the letter in her hands, her hands in her lap. She looked out of the window and saw the Merchants across the street holding hands and preparing for their evening walk, in the fifty-fourth year of their marriage. She wondered if they were still happy. They must be if they were going out. She looked at the letter, opened it, and continued to read, loathing every word and line and feeling stifled every minute.

I didn’t want it to end this way. I wanted you but I didn’t want to take an innocent man’s life to get you. Not Lin’s. He was such a good man, such a caring husband, and my best friend, and I killed him for you, for us, and for our future. I will have to live with that for the rest of my life, Nala, but I don't mind because you are mine now...

Nala stopped reading. She rose and went to the almirah and took out a bulky envelope. She reached inside and drew out her husband’s will that proclaimed her as the sole heir to his vast fortune. She read the will and was soon lost in the little details, wealth, shares, properties, business, a fleet of cars, yacht, private planes, stud farms, and two Great Danes. “It’s mine now, all mine, every bit of it,” she clutched the will to her heart and smiled at herself in the mirror. “This was my dream and it's finally coming true,” she thought.

And then her gaze fell on the letter. She felt instantly disgusted. Hirsh never meant anything to her, even if he thought he did. He was just a toy and she was done playing with him. It was time to play the big game.

Ten minutes later, Nala emerged from her sea facing bungalow and got into the waiting limo. “Cotton Green Police Station,” she instructed the driver. Outside the police station, she was met by her lawyer, the finest legal brain this side of the equator. They went inside.

“I know who murdered my husband,” she said softly, almost inaudibly, and handed over Hirsh’s lovelorn letter to Inspector Rosario of the crime branch.

Somewhere outside, she heard someone playing The World Is My Oyster. She swayed on her feet imperceptibly and began to hum the song in her own way—“The world is my little oyster and no one can take it away from me.”

When ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ figured in a sitcom

A little diversion for Tuesday's much-awaited Overlooked Films, Audio & Video at Todd Mason’s blog Sweet Freedom.

Debra admires her Harper Lee gift.

If you are a fan of Everybody Loves Raymond as my family is, and as I am, then you'll probably remember the episode where Ray Barone (Ray Romano) gifts his wife Debra (Patricia Heaton) a first edition—yes, a first edition—of Harper Lee's unforgettable To Kill A Mockingbird as a Christmas present. Actually, he buys it to mollify Debra who is seething because he was very thoughtful when he bought a birthday gift for her rival and his mother Marie Barone (Doris Roberts). Her grouse is that he never puts a thought into the presents he buys her.

Now, Ray is a sports writer and reads only sports literature, probably just Sports Illustrated, and watches football on television. He doesn't know a damn thing about fiction leave alone about the Harper Lee classic. 

© Manhattan Rare Book Company

So when he asks his brother Robert (Brad Garrett) for the perfect gift for Debra, he tells Ray to get her a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird because she did her thesis on it and because she loves the book. He even narrates the story. Robert, who is jealous of his brother's success in life—a happy marriage, lovely wife and kids, a great job, a famous byline, his mother's pet, and money in the bank—thinks he knows Debra better than Ray and that she is too good for his brother.

Debra is thrilled when she opens the gift and holds a first edition of the book in her hands, to the delight of Ray who thinks he has earned a bucket of brownie points with her and the possibility of sex that night, and to the disdain of Robert who is so infuriated because Ray doesn’t give him credit for the idea that he blurts out the truth.

As usual, Ray finds himself in trouble again.

The episode is called The Thought That Counts (E157, S11).

I was wondering: if someone were to gift me a first edition of a book for my birthday or Diwali or Christmas, which book would I want? To Kill a Mockingbird wouldn’t be a bad idea but it is Robert’s idea and I don’t want to steal it from him, not when he is already in a foul mood.

Frankly, I can’t think of any. But, if you were to exert pressure gently by twisting my ear and insist that I say something, I’d sheepishly ask for a bunch of first-edition comic-books from the Golden Age. Those would be worth a few million dollars and since it's my gift, I might as well make a killing out of it.

Which first-edition book would you like as a gift?