I’ve got Pure, by Andrew Miller lined up to read
next. I read his first novel, Ingenious
Pain, about ten years ago. Here’s what I remember about that – it was a
period novel about, I’m pretty sure, a man who couldn’t feel pain. And I
enjoyed it. That’s it, that’s all I can tell you about that highly thought-of,
prize-winning book. I might as well not have read it. The same goes for pretty
much every novel I read these days, and every film I see for that matter, good
or bad, they fade, they disappear like a photo left in the sunlight. So what’s
the point? Is it just about the pleasure in the moment?
It would be
good if reading a book was more like listening to music, more of a sensory
experience. It’s easy to remember a loved piece of music, even easier to remember
a gig. Listening to The Pretenders play Brass in Pocket at the Marquee, The
Specials at the Lyceum, The Clash at Lewisham Odeon. I saw some good gigs.
Hearing Beethoven’s Violin Concerto on a friend’s car cassette player as he
drove me away from the hospital on a sunny day in 1982. I remember the sounds,
sights, textures of those experiences, I associate layers of feelings with
them.
But books?
Films? Slipping away. Going, going, gone. Shards and tatters of memory,
twisting and turning as they vanish, dwindling, out of reach. I used to review
books. For the TLS, The Spectator, Kaleidoscope on Radio 4. Couldn’t tell you
much about those same books now. In an ideal world, memory would be a resource,
something you could turn to, file through, like your own personal Wikipedia.
You consult a memory, examine it, and find it in some way helpful. Maybe I should
work harder at it, make lists of books I’ve read, even a few notes about each
one. Is that a bit weird though, a bit anal? It makes life sound like an exam
for which you’re being continuously assessed. Our tastes may create us, but that doesn’t mean we have to remember
every step along the way. Maybe it’s enough that a
book retains a resonance, an emotional weight. Something lingers.
That title, Going, Going - it's from a Philip Larkin poem, right? One that's actually got nothing to do with memory. I haven't checked, but I'm pretty sure ...
