After those early certainties, we are on our own. Reading, notes Spufford, allows us to construct ourselves out of the environment, the family, and silence:
By the time I reached The Hobbit's last page . . . writing had softened, and lost the outlines of the printed alphabet, and become a transparent liquid, first viscous and sluggish, like a jelly of meaning, then ever thinner and more mobile, flowing faster and faster, until it reached me at the speed of thinking and I could not entirely distinguish the suggestions it was making from my own thoughts.He is a self-confessed 'fiction-eater', who doesn't really 'get' non-fiction. Fiction comforted him during an unhappy childhood, and wrapping himself up in a nice warm novel is clearly a reassurance still. This limited his adolescent reading. He found adult books difficult - they didn't tell you what to think, whereas he 'thought that reading was intrinsically a bargain in which you turned off your own powers of judgment'. Even book-titles could not be trusted. Was The Centaur about a centaur? It was not: 'it turned out to be just some bloody metaphor'. This limitation makes the latter part of his book less sympathetic - instead of moving on to Dickens, or Waugh, or even Graham Greene, Spufford plateaued at science fiction. He puts up a good argument for genre, but genre doesn't need an argument: genre is there for readers who are too tired to read. It soothes and it consoles, but it doesn't excite or enlighten.
But apart from this, I am with Spufford all the way in his elegant, imaginative exploration of the mind of the reading child.
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