Just a bit of light reading

She put her book in the windowsill so that all the world could see how intelligent she was.


Today's entry is inspired by my friend Portia. She wants me to talk about the dreadful habit that some people have of buying "Intelligent" books for the sole purpose of putting them on the shelves to look clever.

I have to say, I am partly guilty of this myself. I do buy books intending to read them, because it's a waste of money buying books you're not going to read. If you're going to do that, then why not spend the money on something else? But there is a huge gap between buying the book intending to read it, and actually reading it. I should know.

For example: I saw the Oscars this year. I know that Philip Seymour Hoffman won for "Capote". It looks like a good movie. I should really watch it. I was in Notting Hill the other day, in a bookshop. I bought "In Cold Blood". I felt really smug and intelligent.

Unfortunately, it's still sitting on my window sill. That's right. WINDOW SILL. I unpacked it from my bag over a week ago, and put it on the windowsill, meaning to read it. I haven't read it.
And it's not like I'm never going to read it; I just have to be in the right frame of mind to read something deep and hard-hitting, and that's the problem with reading "Intelligent" literature, I think. You have to be in the right mood to read books like this, and then you can (Well, I can) rip through them in a day and a half.

This is my confession: For me, the "right" mood to read intelligent literature is when there are other people around who would be impressed. It's awful, I know, but if I'm going to be going on a long train ride, or take a plane somewhere, I'll pack my most responsible-looking, highbrow book so that people will look and think "Wow. She's clever. And Hot." And, of course, there is a whole art to how you can hold the book so that others around you can read the title of your book but without it seeming like you purposely hold it that way.

Everyone else is probably really unimpressed by it, but the nasty little sprite inside me is giggling gleefully when I nochalantly open my well-thumbed copy of 'Anna Karenina'. (Note: If your expensive edition of great literature is not well, thumbed, then you may have to cheat by remembering to spend 5 minutes every day opening pages at random; maybe giving it to a small child to chew on, and folding down the corners of random pages in order to make it seem like you've read it a million times before 'And it's such a bad habit I have, but I simply love this book so much, I couldn't tear my eyes away from it for 2 seconds to reach for a bookmark! Actually, I was reading this book when I gave birth to my son. Look! Here's a bit of placenta on page 57!')

So, in conclusion, I'm a snob, and if you see me in Waterstone's looking at a posh book, thump me over the head with it, and send me packing to the Detective Fiction. I'll be as happy as a pig in mud.

Comments and questions welcome. What do you do with your great works of literature??