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After the usual round of Christmas Eve activities — listing to carols from King's, mater peeling chestnuts, me cooking supper — we found ourselves caught up in a long discussion of whether it is possible to consider the literary merits of book independent of whether the process of reading the book was enjoyable.

I argued that it was quite possible to read something, to be aware of its skillful use of language, it's polished prose, it's insighful characterisation and fine narrative, whilst finding the whole process of reading the thing deeply unenjoyable. My uncle argued that literary merits were inextricably linked with enjoyment but, not being a great reader (by local standards, at least), he found himself somewhat short of examples. Pater finally clinched the argument for me by citing as Henry James as an example: an undoubted a master of the craft of writing whose books are almost unreadably dull — "It's only possible to read James in the middle of a day when you've slept well and don't have anything else on your mind. And even then, it's only possible if you read in extremely short bursts."

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August 2018

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