Book Memory

It was Wednesday and it was raining. Light, drizzly, rain and although it wasn't what I would have called cold, the wind definitely had a chill. However, this is not a weather report so let me move forward with the story. I’d just been for lunch with a friend near Bank and I had plans in north London with another friend later that day for dinner. It was two in the afternoon and I had around four hours to kill. Given the weather conditions, a stroll through the park was out of the question. I’d also already had about four cups of coffee so finding a Starbucks or somewhere similar was probably not the most prudent of ideas. Besides, a four hour stint at a coffee shop is pretty excessive by almost anyone’s standards. Instead I decided to peruse Leadenhall Market's shops as a time-filling exercise, firstly because I was in the area, but more importantly because it was warmer inside! To cut to the chase I made a visit to Waterstones and it was here that I was confronted by a book I haven’t seen, let alone thought about, for well over a decade – Sue Townsend's "The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, aged 13 ¾’’. It conjured memories which had been long forgotten.

I bought it of course, how could I not. I was a late-comer to Sue Townsend's classics (apparently this instalment is thirty years old), however when reading it about fifteen years ago it left such an impression on me that I can remember exactly what I was doing at the time. Sounds strange but I think, looking back on it, it was the first book I actually enjoyed reading (and also the first book I wasn’t forced to read). I reckon it’s a little like the first time my Dad took me to a football match, such was the power of the experience that I can remember exactly what was going on in my life at that time. I suppose it’s true with anything that is important; it helps you to contextualise your life. In the case of Adrian Mole, seeing this book took me back to my secondary school days. For a split second I was sat in our school's far too modern-looking library, with the sounds of shouting from the sports field outside rising above the noise of the commercial lighting system. Most of my memories from school seem to contain bad weather, so maybe the conditions on this wet Wednesday were partly responsible for jolting my memory too.

Adrian Mole (not personally of course, but his diary) had provoked a strange reaction in me, and this got me thinking. I hadn’t needed to even re-read the book, just the sight of it had provided enough stimulus to spark off an entire chain of repressed memories. I liked this feeling and I wanted more. When I got home I examined my bookcase to see if there were any other examples which concealed such vivid memories. There were, and unsurprisingly they were among my favourite list of books. However, the memories affiliated to them were a mixed bag.

One Day – I read this book whilst living in a flat, roughly sized ten feet by ten feet, in a house off Portobello Road; cracking location, crappy flat. Features included a cockroach infestation and a mouse problem. My bed was on stilts and gave what the estate agents called "a mezzanine level", but was actually a bunk bed without the lower bed. The idea being to put the bed above the floor and utilise the space below. The outcome was a bed about four feet from the ceiling and more often than not a writer with a sore head. At the time I had boycotted TV and had no internet connection. I moved into the flat for pretty much the sole purpose of finishing a first draft of a book I was working on. I came close to insanity a few times. One Day had not really taken off back then (well, not to the extent it eventually did) so I had no idea what to expect. When I finally opened it, I finished it on the same day. It gripped me from the opening, to the final sentence. I recall feeling profoundly hard done-by when the book ended, thinking. ‘This was the book I wanted to write’.

1984 – Possibly one of my favourite books, and by my favourite author. I read this for the first time towards the summer of my final year at university. My girlfriend at the time had lent it to me to read, and as such I felt obliged to do so. I am so glad I did as I really enjoyed it and it also came in useful because I managed to reference it in one of my final year exams, where I discussed the impact of technology on society. Despite the depressing nature of this book (although also brilliant), it will always remind me of a girl, the summer and of the end of university. This book has nothing to do with any of these things, however I will always attach these memories to it.

The Picture of Dorian Gray – For anyone who has had a lousy summer break then you’ll know that

entertainment of any description in a quality form is a welcome distraction. Oscar Wilde, in this his only full length novel, achieved this nicely, supplying a welcome break from my mundane summer holiday, if only for a day or so anyway. I bought this book along with Pride and Prejudice in the interval between my second and third year at University whilst at home in Bath. I purchased the two because they were books, I thought, I was supposed to have read. I hated Pride and Prejudice, it bored me half to death and I must confess that to this day, despite a few more attempts I have never managed to finish it. With ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ it was a totally different story (obviously – see title). I was engrossed and couldn’t put the thing down. I recall finding an oak tree in one of Bath's parks and sitting under it for hours uncovering the sordid Victorian world described in its pages. That summer it rained, I was living with my parents after experiencing the freedom of University and my love life was flatter than a pancake (possibly even a crepe, as they are flatter still). However, this book gave me a welcome respite from these depressing truths. So thanks Oscar.

Then We Came ToThe End – I really enjoyed this story, but seeing the cover of this book now makes me feel ill. I loved it for the fact that, in the context of work, it seemed to know exactly what and how I was thinking and feeling. Books which can relate to you in this way are very rare and this one does it marvellously well, a very well-written and thought-provoking book. So why do I feel nauseous around it now then? Simple really, I spent two weeks in hospital when I was reading it and those two weeks were possibly the most traumatic of my life. I would have never admitted it at the time but I was scared to death, and the book cover now just serves as a reminder of that period. It’s a shame really, because I doubt I’ll ever re-read the book now, despite its enjoyable nature.

Now I will leave it at that I think, as listing more would be a bit self indulgent and honestly that was not the point of this blog. The point is simply to acknowledge that beyond the story, a book can have many more meanings, formed by a reader's own life and their own experiences.  Wilde comments plainly in his preface to ‘The Picture of Doran Gray’ - “It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.”

I couldn’t agree more.