Books, the Booker, and the fiendish Folio Society

In this world of instant electronic communication and gratification, and inane knee-jerk tweeting, it’s good to remind yourself sometimes of how amazing and rewarding the simple book can be. As a source of knowledge, insight, new ideas and ways of thinking, and for general mind expansion (and yes, entertainment and escape) it’s hard to beat. In the fast-moving world it seems to be often regarded as slow and outmoded, which misses the point that things of real worth take time to be properly expressed and assimilated, and that sustained experiences can ultimately be more rewarding than the short-lived. The media recently reported that the average British home contains just 138 books, most of which are unread; why do these people limit themselves so? Especially given the implication that around half of homes have less than this number.

These thoughts came to the fore during my recent reading of Eleanor Cattons superb, Booker winning, novel The Luminaries which I would recommend to almost anyone. Don’t be put off by the erudite prize, it’s a real page turner of a murder, mystery, and ultimately romance, set in the New Zealand gold rush of the 1860s. Don’t be put off by its Dickensian length of 800 pages either, I got through this a lot quicker than some books a quarter the size. In fact it is remarkably reminiscent of Dickens, with much beautifully atmospheric description and building of characters and place, and set in the same era albeit on the opposite side of the globe – I think he might have approved. It’s also a book that doesn’t insult the intelligence of the reader, building a plot of initially bewildering colour, complexity and angles, dropping snippets of information for the reader to work on, before gradually resolving the whole into focus. I’ll need another read to more fully grasp it, but it’s an impressive and insightful work for someone the young side of thirty and bodes well for the future of literature.

That such a fine piece of work, that can entertain the reader for several weeks or more, is available so affordably is also surely something to cheer; good books are particularly accessible and democratic art forms.

Yet books are also, beyond the words, physical objects of potentially considerable allure - particularly in the hands of certain publishers. While I may like to believe the magic of a book is in the words alone, and hence can be extracted from the tattiest of cheap paperbacks, like many I am susceptible to the seduction of a beautiful edition. In fact I have recently had to admit the grubby truth that a beautiful edition can fundamentally affect my willingness to engage with certain books, and how avidly I read them! Enter the fiendish Folio Society who have produced stunning editions of major works for decades, and who, disturbingly, now seem to know my every weakness and predilection. I love them really of course, not just because of their jaw dropping  publications, but because by succumbing to their charms in a measured and selective way I have found myself contemplating and then devouring highly rewarding fiction that I seem in the last couple of years to have very belatedly developed an insatiable appetite for. For although the house is full of books fiction is very much in the minority and it seems to be time to put that right, so thank you Folio for making this happen.

The fruits of succumbing to temptation! Folio editions may be a guilty pleasure, but a substantial and long-lasting pleasure nonetheless.

It’s also good to note that the Folio Society is not all about the cover; as the Booker prize faltered a couple of years ago when it showed tendencies (since reversed I would suggest) towards putting populism above writing quality, the Folio stepped in smartly with a major new international literature prize which promised no such compromises. Nonetheless its first winner, announced earlier this month in George Saunders Tenth of December, looks a fascinating read; perhaps you really can have your quality cake and read it. Indeed maybe that’s the ultimate definition of a true classic.