I have had a reading crisis. It doesn’t happen very often but when it does it throws me somewhat. I started reading ‘Shuggie Bain’ by Douglas Stuart which is the recent winner of the Booker prize. The novel has a very autobiographical basis, is exceedingly well written and the description is intense and powerful, but I had only reached the halfway point when I could take no more and closed the book. The way of life on Glasgow housing estates in the 1980s was so egregious, so visceral and ultimately so depressing that it was just too much for me.
There was a time when I considered it my failure if I didn’t finish a book, even if I wasn’t enjoying it. With the passing years this view changed. These days I read only for pleasure, not even for the good of my education, so why continue if it is not giving me any enjoyment?
Thus I moved on and decided I ought to sample Sally Rooney, the current international bestseller and darling of the publishers. She has written 3 novels, the second of which the BBC televised: Normal People. Well, I read that one and half of her newest offering: ‘Beautiful World, Where Are You?’ And then I stopped. I decided the prose reminded me of my prolific teenage diaries (now disposed of to save my children and grandchildren grief!) I’m not sure what words describe this level of introspection. It is exhausting and I found I became desperate for some straightforward narrative. And (and maybe that should be in capitals) she dispenses totally with inverted commas.
There is no speech punctuation and yet I understood clearly who was talking. That is very disconcerting for an English teacher who spent hours trying to convey these intricacies of English grammar to children. Maybe Sally Rooney is writing for millennials. She herself comes into this category as she is 30. One fact I like about her is that she is reluctant to leave her home in Ireland and positively refuses to become involved in lengthy book tours, appearances and interviews. Anyway, I could read no more.
So it was, reader, that I walked around to the other side of the bed, rather hoping that I would find something appealing in those piles of books. Carlo Rovelli, Stephen Hawking, Brian Cox? No, definitely not for me. Biographies of Ben Britten and Michael Tippett? Well maybe but not just now. And then I came upon ‘London Parks’ by Hunter Davies and picked it up. Both the author and the title appealed to me and I felt this would be the antidote to my failed fiction experiences of late.
Hunter Davies was a journalist working in popular culture in the 1960s and 70s. I remember reading him in the Observer (and now the Sunday Times) and I remember being aware that he was a trusted friend and confidante of the Beatles. He was married, until her death, to the novelist Margaret Forster (her books have their own shelf in one of my bookcases.) Since those heady times he has continued living in Hampstead and is still writing, both books and articles. He writes as if you were having coffee with him and engaging in an interesting conversation and I find I like that.
In this book he decided to take a year and walk the parks of London, writing about each in turn. He did not aim to produce a guidebook – more an accessible, sometimes amusing, amble around the greenness of London. Our capital is by far the greenest city in Europe and of course the pandemic and the lockdowns have emphasised the need for these areas and their importance for physical and mental health, particularly where people live in high density areas with no outside space of their own.
I wonder how you would define a park? It seems straight forward at first maybe but what would the constituent parts be? Does a park have to be a certain size? Does it have to have a children’s playground or carefully planted gardens? When is a park really a ‘green’ or a ‘common’ or indeed a ‘heath’? During research for his book Hunter Davies contacted all the London boroughs to enquire how many parks they each had within their boundaries. He thought it would be a simple question but inevitably it was not. Many differed greatly with their definitions and some admitted they just didn’t know. I love social history and despite the title, this book is full of just that. It was a comforting, companionable read.
So, I am not telling you that the fiction at the beginning of this article is poor or bad in anyway, just that it didn’t work for me at that particular time. Possibly you might love those books. However, I was grateful for a gentle, accessible non-fiction book on London parks when my reading habit had gone askew. Now I need to find the right book again. As Emily Dickinson said, “I am out with lanterns looking for myself.”