Tag Archives: Annie Dillard

Steps to improve your Writing

What if it were true that by going on walks you could improve your creativity? What if someone told you that by walking you would become a better writer? Would you walk more often, for longer, or in different places? Or just put it all down to some new age piffle? Well this idea does have legs. Many great writers are or were practitioners and research confirms it.


Writers who walked

Among the great writers of the past, who were also walkers, we can name Virginia Woolf, who frequently paced the streets of London as well as walking in the countryside around Monk’s House in Sussex. Several of her characters walk in London: Mrs Dalloway of course, and Helen at the start of The Voyage Out walks with her husband towards the Docks. Virginia Woolf published six articles in Good Housekeeping in 1932 called The London Scene.

273 VW London scene

Dickens was a great walker, again in the streets of London. WG Sebald walked in Europe and East Anglia. The Rings of Saturn (1995) is structured around a walk in Suffolk. Wordsworth was a great walker, yes wandering lonely as he did.

In 1878 Robert Louis Stevenson bought a donkey, Modestine, and together they walked in the Cevennes area of South France. He walked without purpose, although he was suffering from a broken heart. He explained his attitude in Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes:

For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move; to feel the needs and hitches of our life more nearly; to come down off this feather bed of civilisation, and find the globe granite underfoot and strewn with cutting flints. Alas, as we get up in life, and are more preoccupied by our affairs, even a holiday is a thing that must be worked for. To hold a pack upon a pack-saddle against a gale out of the freezing north is no high industry, but it is one that serves to occupy and compose the mind. And when the present is so exacting, who can annoy himself about the future? (12)

Writers and the walking metaphor

To conjure up the process of writing the metaphor of a path, walking, a journey is frequently used. Annie Dillard, in A Writer’s Life is creative with her ideas.

When you write, you lay out a line of words. The line of words is a miner’s pick, a wood-carver’s gouge, a surgeon’s probe. You wield it, and it digs a path you follow. Soon you find yourself deep in new territory. Is it a dead end, or have you located the real subject? You will know tomorrow or this time next year.

You make the path boldly and follow it fearfully. You go where the path leads. At the end of the path, you find a box canyon. You hammer out reports and dispatch bulletins. (3)

Annie Dillard’s observations of the natural world are breath-taking. If you enjoy that kind of thing read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (1974), which the author describes as a non-fiction narrative. You can find her own website here. Her collection of essays, The Abundance (2016), is nearing the top of my tbr pile.

Robert Macfarlane’s in The Old Ways (2012) explores some similarities between writing and walking, likening the creation of a path to writing in the landscape. He follows the paths of animals in the snow, or ancient ways such as the Icknield Way and the footsteps of Edward Thomas and other walkers. The Wild Places (2007) he records other adventures in the British Isles. Another book nearing the top of my tbr pile is Landmarks (2015). I have given away several copies of Holloway (2013), which is a joy of a book.

273 Wanderlust

Rebecca Solnit has lived the connections between writing and walking. Writer, historian and activist she wrote Wanderlust: a history of walking (2001). Brain Pickings captures the explorations of this book in her beautifully observed blogpost: Wanderlust. And the title of In The Faraway Nearby (2014) describes what can happen with your imagination when you walk.

The Research

Stanford University researchers have published an article called Give your Ideas some Legs: the positive effects of walking on creative thinking. Marily Oppezzo and Daniel L Schwartz conducted several experiments from which they made their case, published in the Journal of Experimental Psychology.

Walking opens up the free flow of ideas, and it is a simple and robust solution to the goals of increasing creativity and increasing physical activity. (1142)

And by the way, it’s worth knowing that you get the best effects from walking outside and that it wont help improve your creativity if you walk with your face in your Twitter stream or with earphones linking you to a stream of sound. I can’t imagine why you would want to accompany your walk with other than natural sounds anyway.

273 signpost

There may be a chemical explanation for the connection, or a psychological one, or simply a common-sense explanation that by walking your mind is freed of other considerations. Or perhaps it helps because walking organises the world around you, including any writing projects.

Walk on

So I walk on, hoping it encourages my writing. Walking certainly encourages my reading as you can see from this post. I am hoping to explore more writing-walking connections in the next few months, beginning with an account of my participation in a community walk/write project next month.


Related posts

Travels with Robert Louis Stevenson in the Cevennes in June on Bookword.

Why Walking Helps Us Think, by Ferris Jabr, in The New Yorker in September 2014.

The Slow Death of Purposeless Walking, by Finlo Rohrer, on the BBC news magazine in May 2014

On the Creative Penn blog, nine lessons learned about writing from walking 100km in a weekend. Makes sense.

Elizabeth Marro writes about walking and writing on Book by Women blog, step by step, word by word.

To receive email notifications of future posts please subscribe by entering your email address in the box.



Filed under Books, Reading, words, Writing, Writing and Walking


Not need to shout. It’s only a movie. Reading the book, I am sure, was a better experience. It’s no recommendation to me that a novel has been adapted for the cinema. Movies generally speaking are likely to be less subtle and complex than the original text, because the contents have to be compressed into a continuous presentation of two hours or less. A novel can be experienced in a more selective, repetitive, episodic way, according to the whims of the reader. My experience of movies is of disappointment for the most part, and frustration with adaptations on nearly ever occasion. Here’s why I avoid them.

They are different things

104 filmTo start with, movies and books are different things. I have to ask: why make a film when you have a perfectly good book? Money, of course – none to be made from books without a film option. Annie Dillard suggests that movies have an irresistible attraction.

Films and television stimulate the body’s senses too, in big ways. A nine-foot handsome face, and its three-foot-wide smile, are irresistible. Look at the long legs on that man, as high as a wall, and coming straight toward you. The music builds. The moving, lighted screen fills your brain. You do not like filmed car chases? See if you can turn away, Try not to watch. Even knowing you are manipulated, you are still as helpless as the make butterfly drawn to painted cardboard.

This is the movies. That is their ground. The printed word cannot compete with the movies on their ground, and should not. You can describe beautiful faces, car chases, or valleys full of Indians on horseback until you run out of words, and you will not approach the movies’ spectacle. (The Writing Life p18)

Films and novels share storytelling, but they tell stories in very different ways, as Annie Dillard suggests. Hitchcock spoke about the adaptations of stories for film, referring to the ‘suitability of the language of cinema for the written word’. But it hasn’t stopped some writers writing with an eye on the more lucrative cinema audience. Annie Dillard is sharply critical and suggests that such an approach harms the writing:

Novels written with film contracts in mind have a faint but unmistakable, and ruinous, odor. I cannot name what, in the text, alerts the reader to suspect the writer of mixed motives. I cannot specify which sentences, in several books, have caused me to read on with increasing dismay, and finally close the book because I smelled a rat. Such books seem uneasy being books; they seem eager to fling off their disguises and jump onto screens. (The Writing Life p18-9)

Storylines are mangled

104 ticketThey may share storytelling but adaptations are often simplifications, with storylines adjusted or changed to appeal to movie audiences. Stanley Kubrick famously offended Anthony Burgess with his adaptation of A Clockwork Orange, which prevented general release in the UK for many years. Richard Matheson’s novel I am Legend has been adapted four times but never to his satisfaction.

I don’t know why Hollywood is fascinated by my book when they never care to film it as I write it. (See Joe Dunthorne’s article in Guardian in 2013.)

Film requires less imagination

NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE belittles the original. Here’s the cover of a copy of Sense and Sensibility that I own. The cover promotes the book through the film with its starry cast of great British actors.104 Now a major

104 S&S

Movies don’t let you work very hard with your imagination. Richard Ayoade (director, actor and comedian) says that movie watchers and readers experience their media differently. He suggests that in reading you can identify closely with the protagonist, but in film the separation is increased by ‘a physical otherness’, especially when the lead actor is a star, known to be famous, wealthy, good looking, etc. (See Joe Dunthorne’s article again).

Films also have big landscapes, gorgeous scenery and fabulous clothes – suffused with a kodakifying glow. The movie Sense and Sensibility, presented as a bit of a rom com, takes place in continuous English summer sunlight. And in the opening sequence of the 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice starring Keira Knightley, even the farm animals behaved picaresquely. And just in case you miss their emotional drive movies have music. Novels have words, plot and character development, descriptions, dialogue, no music.

Film adaptations can stunt the imagination, fossilise the experience of the book. A strongly expressed view in our reading group is that it’s best to avoid the film until you have read the book. We were discussing Julie & Julia by Julie Powell. But even reading the book first doesn’t avoid that. Jonathan Coe suggests that ‘adaptations of pre-20th-century novels on celluloid usually end up as mummification rather than reinvention’. Exceptions are Tony Richardson’s Tom Jones and John Schlesinger’s Far From the Madding Crowd although they are really sixties romps in period costume. (See his article Made for Each Other in the Guardian Review. And shouldn’t that be Henry Fielding and Thomas Hardy?)

Films obstruct reading

It can be argued that films promote reading and add to the enjoyment of, say, JK Rowling and the Harry Potter series (involving classic British actors, of course.) But there is an argument that films stop people reading the original because the film adaptation is seen as a the same or an adequate substitute. Some people appear to get confused about reading and viewing. Have you had a conversation like this?

Me: Have you read We Need to talk about Kevin?

Them: No, but I’ve seen the film.

Which can only mean that the story is everything, and the medium is not significant. That all the work that Lionel Shriver put into it, all the craft, the skill, the detail, the nuances and complexity of being the mother of an unlikeable child. I’ve even heard someone say, ‘I’ve never read Jane Eyre, but I saw the tv series. That’s the one where she’s going to marry the rich guy, isn’t it?’ Oh yes. That’s Jane Eyre.

What I didn’t want to see

There are films I would rather not have seen, they spoiled the experience of reading the book: three examples The Borrowers, whose updating to the twenty-first century removed most of the whimsy and make-do-and-mend ingenuity that was the charm of the books. Catch-22 whose chaotic plot, overblown characters, expose of the craziness of war could not be represented by the realism of film. Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont, which updates Elizabeth Taylor’s difficult novel and gives ageing a charming or eccentric face. Read the novel to get a quite different understanding of what Elizabeth Taylor was showing about age.

Any good film adaptations?

The Hours from Michael Cunningham’s novel which is in part derived from Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway. (Although I am having doubts about it having just read Hermione Lee’s essay Virginia Woolf’s Nose.)

Shipping News adapted from E Annie Proulx’s novel, and in which the New Foundland scenery and her story is hauntingly brought to the screen.

And for Jonathan Coe one of the best adaptations is Housekeeping:

Bill Forsyth’s film version, made in 1987 is an unswervingly faithful adaptation, preserving the narrative shape, the tone, the desolate backwoods atmosphere, even finding visual correlatives for Robinson’s scriptural, luminous prose. And yet it has been almost completely forgotten. It’s never been available on DVD, and none of the Robinson fans I’ve spoken to recently, either in Britain or America, seems to be aware of it.

104 Housekeeping mineThe film, apparently, is unmarketable. So that’s one film I wont be seeing then. And I will be very happy with the novel.


Can you recommend any worthwhile adaptations of film to screen? Do you have anything to add about films and novels?

Subscribe by entering your email address in the box at the top of the column on the right and you will receive email notifications of future blogposts.


Filed under Books, Virginia Woolf

Hammering out reports, dispatching bulletins

I could have called this blogpost ‘keeping going’ because that’s what it’s about. Keeping going when you have come to an impasse. Some people find it hard to get started, others to keep going. There may be some who find it hard to do either, but there may be no hope for them. Writers, as well as everyone else I imagine, seem to have the capacity to find unlimited displacement activities, strategies to avoid what they intend to do.

91 writing-life

Annie Dillard writes with sharp wisdom about the writing process in her short but very acute book, The Writing Life.  She uses a strong image of the writer carving out a path that may lead to a box canyon.

You make the path boldly and follow it fearfully. You go where the path leads. At the end of the path, you find a box canyon.

I had to look up the meaning of the phrase ‘box canyon’, which is American. It’s a good image: a canyon with three sides, in which you can coral your cattle overnight. We might say cul-de-sac or dead end.

But it is her next observation that seemed particularly familiar: while stuck in the box canyon

You hammer out reports, dispatch bulletins.

So I wrestle with the revisions of my novel and my failure to do what I planned, and from that place I hammer out reports, dispatch bulletins. They appear in this blog, in replies to enquiries from my friends, in my Morning Pages. It gives the impression of activity. Well, it is activity. And I am writing. But …

Annie Dillard opened The Writing Life with these lines:

When you write, you lay out a line of words. The line of words is a miner’s pick, a woodcarver’s gouge, a surgeon’s probe. You wield it, and it digs a path you follow. Soon you find yourself deep in new territory. Is it a dead end, or have you located a real subject? You will know tomorrow, or this time next year.

91. The-Old-Ways-A-Journey-on-FoI find this a powerful image, digging out one’s meaning, carving it laboriously into a path, making your mark. I am reminded of Robert Macfarlane’s wonderful book The Old Ways in which he muses on the similarities between writing and walking, likening the creation of a path to writing in the landscape. But the metaphor of the writer’s path contains a danger as Annie Dillard warns us.  It is not the path, not the route that is important.

Process is nothing: erase your tracks. The path is not the work. I hope your tracks have grown over; I hope birds ate the crumbs; I hope you will toss it all and not look back.

Children, an English teacher told our writing group, often believe that writers simply write and create their finished product in one continuous process, stopping, perhaps, for lunch. I sometimes feel that a first splurge of writing is important, holds an essence, should be preserved, but I have come to see that sometimes I need to face another way, start in a different place, take a different route, and preserving the path is not the answer. It is good to notice that essence, however, and try to include an echo in the next draft.

So step one?

To keep going, stop tidying up the path, sweeping off the leaves and rubbish, no more reports and dispatches. Toss it all and don’t look back.

And step two?

Well I go back to an activity I recommended by writer Kathryn Heyman in a previous blogpost: Ten things to do when you don’t know what to write. Ask yourself why you are not getting on with it. What’s getting in the way? And go on asking until you get an answer and a solution.

  • In December I tried this and here are some answers to my question – why have you not been getting on with the novel?
  • I have been too busy sorting out my new house.
  • I must meet the deadline to complete my Income Tax Return.
  • I’m still revising Retiring with Attitude for the editor (the book is scheduled for publication in July)
  • I want to enjoy the revisions of the novel and I’m not sure I will.
  • I’m afraid the revisions wont be as good as I want them to be if I do start them.
  • Because I am lazy and pathetic.

And on and on, including a lot more self-flagellating, until at last I came to the conclusion – I didn’t know how to do it. I don’t know what to do.

Step three?

91 jsb revisionGet help and take some action. In my case I bought a book to help, called Revision and Self-Editing by James Scott Bell and, following his advice, began to work on improving characterisation. I wrote an autobiography in the words of the protagonist, Lorna, and tried to understand more about her relationships with the other people in the novel and … I’m away.

And then I stop and find myself in another box canyon. And so it goes on.

I throw away my plan, and ask myself Kathryn Heyman’s questions and take action again. And again. And soon I hope I will be ‘deep in new territory’.

This is, I suppose, a continuation of my previous post, about how one learns creative writing. And this post is my salute to Annie Dillard, Robert Macfarlane, Kathryn Heyman, James Scott Bell and all the other writers who tell us about their experiences. We learn slowly from them.


If you want to receive email notifications of future blogposts please subscribe by entering your email address in the box at the top of the column on the right.


Filed under Writing

Reading for writers

What must you do to be a writer? There are two things, according to Stephen King in his excellent book On Writing. The first is to ‘read a lot’.

Plenty of writers agree with him. Twenty-two writers provided Dos and Don’ts for the Guardian book Write, and seven of them mention reading. PD James, for example, says,

Read widely and with discrimination.

Hilary Mantel recommends a specific book that has influenced many writers, and I referred to and quoted from it in a recent post about writing routines. She says,

Read Becoming a Writer, by Dorothea Brande. Then do what it says, including the tasks you think are impossible.

Colm Tobin is also specific.

If you have to read, to cheer yourself up read biographies of writers who went insane.

And Will Self is typically contrary.

Stop reading fiction – it’s all lies anyway, and it doesn’t have anything to tell you that you don’t know already (assuming, that is, you’ve read a great deal of fiction in the past; if you haven’t you have no business whatsoever being a writer).

These brief points were collected from short pieces in the Guardian Review.

33 Guardbk Write

But what is the purpose of reading for a writer – apart from enjoyment? You might be looking for models, as Annie Dillard, in The Writing Life, tells us

Hemingway studied as models, the novels of Knut Hamsun and Ivan Turgenev. Isaac Bashevis Singer, as it happened, also chose Hamsun and Turgenev as models. Ralph Ellison studied Hemingway and Gertrude Stein. Faulkner described his debt to Sherwood Anderson and Joyce; EM Forster, his debt to Jane Austen and Proust.

I’ve read some of these, know the names of others, and had to look up Sherwood Anderson (I am ashamed to admit). I’ve got some reading to do!

Geoff Dyer, in his contribution to the Guardian supplement How to Write Fiction, suggests that reading will ‘inform, stimulate and invigorate your writing life’. (Note: not just your writing, but your writing life).

Reading is not just part of your apprenticeship; it continues to inform, stimulate and invigorate your writing life – and it is never passive. … One’s reading does not have to be confined to the commanding – and thereby discouraging – heights of the truly great. Take a look at what’s happening on the lower slopes, even in the crowded troughs.

I especially like Dyer’s advice to look at the lower slopes and even in the troughs, as well as the heights. What works, what doesn’t, what feels authentic, what is hackneyed, clumsy, elegant, elegiac, poignant, daring – we read to find these things. That’s why it is never passive.

Passive reading, then, is not enough. Read with a consciousness of technique, says Ursula K le Guin. Read  the classics in order to learn what a writer can do with the English language. For her book, Steering the Craft, she turned a workshop into a self-guided set of discussion topics and exercises for writers. ‘Reading with a consciousness of technique in mind, would be useful as well as enjoyable,’ she suggests. She goes on to show how in chapters on sound, sentences, point of view, with examples from such classic texts as Jane Eyre, and by Virginia Woolf and Mark Twain.

I particularly like two how-to-write books that feature reading.

First: Jurgen Wolff’s Your Creative Writing Masterclass, which draws on the expertise of writers of novels, screenplays and short stories to provide material for his masterclass.

Charles Dickens drops in to demonstrate how to create exciting characters, Ernest Hemingway helps you figure out how to write concisely and powerfully, and Jane Austen shows you how to warm to an unsympathetic character…

The chapter on conflict, for example, refers to John le Carre, Ayn Rand, Elizabeth Bowen and Raymond Chandler. A wide choice, and some names recur.

Second: Reading Like a Writer: a guide for people who love books and for those who want to write them was written by the felicitously named Francine Prose. She argues for close, slow and careful reading in this way.

With so much reading ahead of you, the temptation might be to speed up. But in fact it’s essential to slow down and read every word. Because one important thing that can be learned by reading slowly is the seemingly obvious but oddly underappreciated fact that language is the medium we use in much the same way a composer uses note, the way a painter uses paint. I realize it may seem obvious, but it’s surprising how easily we lose sight of the fact that words are the raw material out of which literature is crafted,

And she demonstrates the value of close reading by exploring the opening paragraph of Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man Is Hard To Find. And so on, through chapters about sentences, paragraphs, narration, character, dialogue and gesture, each liberally illustrated with examples. Each one a reason to read more. And she includes three pages on books to be read immediately, including Jane Austen and Ernest Hemingway and others already mentioned. Nothing by Sherwood Anderson however.

33 F Prose

Have you heard the advice to aspiring writers that they should not read while writing? The argument is that they will be influenced by what they read. I wonder why it is considered a bad thing. My writing would definitely benefit from the influences of Jane Austen, Elizabeth Taylor and, maybe, from Sherwood Anderson. And we are not writing in isolation. The very words we use have been wrought by use, their meanings shifting with use by speakers, readers and writers. We write, so to speak, into the tradition of previous writers: in forms, structures, conventions, techniques, vocabulary all of it. Think of Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey. She is sending up the gothic novel, but she is also writing about reading and its influence. Or we are writing to challenge the traditions, or boundaries. Think of the writers who consciously forged new forms like Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, for example; or who experiment with time lines (Patrick Gale’s A Perfectly Good Man); or with our established ideas of what fiction is (WG Sebald) and so on.

I am just finishing the revisions of a co-authored non-fiction book. (More on this in later posts). Our editor asked us to give our draft manuscript ‘more edge’ and I found a great example in Charlie Brooker’s I can make you hate. Reading his columns helped us understand how to engage the reader more directly, to find a hook for the chapter, how juxtaposing apparently unconnected things (eg: Nick Clegg, Maxine Carr and the go compare tenor; Nick Clegg and Pudsey Bear; patriotism and chocolate) can pique interest and make serious points with wit. We didn’t want to imitate his style, but we learned from his approach, and I got to fume about a number of topics (but not to hate).

33 Ch Brooker

Let’s return to Stephen King.

If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way round these two things that I am aware of, no short cut. (On Writing)

So the second rule for writers is ‘Write’. There are only two rules.

What books are inform, stimulate and invigorate your writing life?

If you have enjoyed reading this and want to be notified of further posts please subscribe to my blog. Enter your email address in the box on the top of the column on the right.

Leave a Comment

Filed under Reading, Writing

Four reasons to save our libraries

Our public libraries are under threat, easy targets for council cuts. The main reason to save our libraries is of course their contents: the books. ‘Because everything changes when we read’ is the strap line of The Reading Agency. Look at the sterling work they are doing to support our libraries, including publish The Library Book, edited by Rebecca Grey.


Here are four more specific reasons to save our public libraries.

ONE: because they are much more than sources of books and information services.

A library in the middle of a community is a cross between an emergency exit, a life raft and a festival. They are cathedrals of the mind; hospitals of the soul; theme parks of the imagination. On a cold, rainy island, they are the only sheltered public spaces where you are not a consumer, but a citizen instead. (Caitlin Moran, The Library Book p92)

The books and the buildings, the services and resources offer all this and more to everyone, whatever age, erudition, wealth, class, colour, status, no matter what. Come in.

Library shelvesDSC00248

TWO: libraries nourished authors and readers. They are ‘places of incredible glamour, possibility, power, excitement and pleasure,’ according to Stephen Fry. Annie Dillard, writing in An American Childhood, describes her experience in Pittsburgh.

The Homewood Library had graven across its enormous stone façade: FREE TO THE PEOPLE. In the evenings, neighbourhood people – the men and women of Homewood – browsed in the library, and brought their children. (p81)

Here she found The Field Book of Ponds and Streams, and learned that other people in the city, despite the lack of ponds and streams, also borrowed this book. This is part of the mystery and wonder of libraries, the anonymous intimacy with other people who read the same books.

This was the most private and obscure part of life, this Homewood Library: a vaulted marble edifice in a mostly decent Negro neighbourhood, the silent stacks of which I plundered in deep concentration for many years. … I would never meet those Homewood people who were borrowing The Field Book of Ponds and Streams; the people who read my favourite books were invisible, or in hiding, underground. (p83)

Annie Dillard went on to write magical, close observations of life in ponds and streams, retelling the details of cycles and creatures around her home so that I felt I was peering over her shoulder at lacewings, muskrat, goldfinch and water currents when I read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

Val McDermid had a similar experience of devouring a library when she was growing up right across the road from Kirkcaldy Central Library. ’I would not be a writer,’ she claims in The Library Book, ‘if it were not for the public library system.’ See the comments on the popular Dovegrey Reader Scribbles blog from readers who would say, ‘if it were not for the public library system I would not be a reader.’

So save our libraries for the future authors now hunkering down among the shelves, and for the ones who will come after them and for the readers.

THREE: Libraries connect people. Here are two examples from fiction. The new British Library is the location for a short story by Toby Litt, and concerns a love affair conducted through the titles on the request slips for books. It’s called Rare Books and Manuscripts and can be found in an anthology of London writing: Diaspora City.

A librarian’s monologue in The Library of Unrequited Love, by the French novelist Sophie Divry, also concerns love among the stacks, but exploring in its rambling course the visitors, the purposes of a library, hierarchies among the staff, her work in charge of the geography section and so on. It’s charming, quirky and sad, and a very enjoyable gift from my kind sister.

Libraries provide connections with people who might be different in ways we recognise in ourselves, as Stephen Fry discovered growing up gay in Norfolk. And libraries provide connections to our past through memorials. My previous post was about an inaccessible library as memorial (Judenplatz in Vienna). This photo is of the war memorial in my local library in Stoke Newington, North London. It is a very long list of names.

Memorial in lib

FOUR: They embody communitarian and democratic values. Libraries affirm something important about relationships in the community without reference to economics. You want to read this book? Take it and bring it back in a few weeks. No charge. No deposit. And in that money-free transaction social value is affirmed not just between the library and the borrower, but between the library and its community.

And after the libraries are gone they’ll come for the other books, and then for the people who write them. Julian Barnes in The Library Book has a sobering story about a great event, the eponymous Defence of the Book, set in the future but echoing Niemoller’s famous lines First they came for

Who doesn’t love a library? People who cut council budgets, people who see libraries as ‘valuable retail outlets’, and people who abhor imagination, discovery and wonder. They don’t love a library. There are 4,200 public libraries in the UK. We must not lose them. Do you have another reason why?


And a couple of blog notes:

  1. The next post on this blog will be a review of Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont by Elizabeth Taylor, first choice for the blog reading group. Any recommendations for the next choice?
  2. My novel is out of its drawer and my short story sobered up. More on these soon, perhaps.


Filed under Books, Reading