As you might have guessed, this isn't actually going to go on and on about how the world is a sadder place now J.K. Rowling has finished her 7 book series. I myself was swept up in the whole Potter mania that lasted the best part of 10 years and found myself stood outside Waterstone's at midnight for the release of the last installment, so I am in no position to pass judgement.
In fact, at the minute I find myself mourning the loss of the spare time I had to read what I liked, regardless of its place in the wider literaty world. As some of you may know I'm in the middle of an MA and so most of my time is spent either writing and editing my own material or reading what seems like endless reams of poetry and essays. While i'm sure i'll be glad of the extensive reading - and be a lot better off for it - I do miss being able to pick up books with titles like 'How to turn your loose change into a killer robot' or '101 horrific stories that happened to me the other day while I was cleaning behind the oven'.
I feel there is a part of me that is longing for, well, let's not beat around the bush, CRAP books, be it poetry, novelty one offs or any number of pulp fictions. I miss being able to get into a snug position anywhere in my flat (usually somewhere in close vicinity of a blanket or duvet), grab a handful of some food stuff I know will either kill me or colour my insides luminous and be quite content that the anecdote or prose im reading can be flushed out of my brain at any point. Thankfully my girlfriend's parents bought me the latest issue of 'I'm Jeremy Clarkson, here's what I think and if you don't think it as well then you're either a woman, gay or French'.
The title may have been slightly different but you get the idea.
The point is, I keep it in the bathroom cupboard so that whenever I feel like drawing a bath and shutting off for a while, I turn to Jeremy (a scary thought in itself) and let the analytical and contextualising side of my brain sleep.
It may be worth noting at this point that I am one of the many people whos mind has an endless capacity for completely useless information. It takes me a lot of effort to stay focused on what I'm doing and trying to accomplish. Tell me what flavour crisps Hugh Jackman likes and chances are i'll remember it until the day I die. Tell me I have to pay the electricity bill today and I'll most likely be reading my books by candlelight that night. Go figure. I digress.....
I think because I am completely at sea with the amount of material I've ordered off Amazon in the past few weeks and have to battle through (and some of it really is a battle) that I long for being able to be mindless from time to time. Personally, it's the most soothing thing at the moment to be able to read something and not worry about what my thoughts on it are. I can quite happily think 'ah Jeremy, you big xenophobic bigot' and turn the page care-free.
Word of warning to the individuals who may have has the misfortune of marking my most recent coursework. If at some point I fall into discussing why I loved the latest Prince of Persia romp on PS3, please persevere. I get back to the original train of thought eventually, it's just the trashy, dormant part of my brain screaming for some TLC.
Fear not, come reading week I'll bathe it in the loving glow of whatever atrocious movie is out at the time and 'Des Lynam's Funniest Footballing Fatalities'.
I bet Auden himself couldn't resist a title like that.
Nicholas John Hancill
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