My Pseudo Bookstore Self

I hate those entries that start "I have a confession to make". So very melodramatic, so very anticlimatic. So, when it's my turn, I have resolved, I shall start my little piece with a sentence that goes "I hate those entries that start..."

My little bit of mental Moibus strip over and dustbinned with, here comes the chase.

I own some of the greatest literature ever written. Not my personal view, of course. The collective opinion of thousands of critics, reviewers, " all-time lists", back-cover blurb extracts, you name it. On whether or not that view is deserved, I am silent.

I haven't read them, you see.

Not through lack of opportunity. I have forgotten the number of times I have glanced, longingly, at Midnight's Children, wondered whether I should actually make another attempt to start it, then decided to give myself three hours of unabashed pleasure, and picked up an Alistair MacLean instead.

Now, don't get me wrong. Alistair MacLean was one of the greatest authors ever to pick up a pen, while Rushdie, though a critic's darling, is, well Rushdie. His Moor's Last Sigh was a delight to read, while his collection of essays, Step Across The Line, is one of my favourite non-fiction books. However, reading Rushdie (or Umberto Eco, for that matter) requires a certain degree of reader involvement, a certain exercise of the intellect, and a certain emotional involvement. Reading an Alistair MacLean, on the other hand, is pure adrenalin rush, reminding you that you can be, albeit vicariously, Boy Scout and Blade Runner and Luke Skywalker and Marine all rolled into one. Thrilling, simply thrilling.

My long suffering wife would undoubtedly disagree with this, but I am dangerously close to concluding that books are meant to be bought, not for their intrinsic literary value, but for their bookshelf value. Bibliophilic sex-appeal consists, in large part, of owning the right books, and most people would assume that if you own the book, you have read it.

Therefore, in a move that I have deemed masterly, I have got in my possession large volumes of some of the allegedly finest "literature" on the planet. Nothing new about that, everyone has a decent collection of books these days. However, I have taken this one step further, and have stopped bothering to actually read these books.

Obvious Question: Will I get caught out as a fraud? Here is where my stunning "Do-Not-Read" model comes into play.

The trick is to actually read one book by a particular author, and then own lots more of his/her works. Thus, I have read the stunning LA Confidential by James Ellroy, but I own a couple of his other works, carelessly strewn about my house.

Umberto Eco- I have dog-eared his Name of the Rose, cursed his Foucault's Pendulum, but have read both many times. I now own other books of his- Baudolino, some non-fiction essays which I cant remember the name of.

There are manyof them- the list of authors whom I've read a single book, or a few books of, and have then picked up other works of theirs. Hanif Kureishi, for instance, Amitav Ghosh, Graham Greene, Anthony Burgess, John Steinbeck, even the wannabe intellectual's best friend, Jack Kerouac- the list could go on and on.

Of course, I do intend to actually read all those books some day. War and Peace, Heart of Darkness, The Bell Jar, Rabbit, Run....but until I actually get down to it, I may as well assuage my conscience by using them to prop up my carefully constructed bibliophile image.