I can't read

You would think that having completed an Oxford degree in a course that, bar a few painful classes I missed whenever I could, was literature based, would indicate I had a certain kinship with books. Of course, being forced to read something for school is notoriously unpleasant and in the months leading to my finals* I started to yearn for Other Books. But how was I to know that those Other Books, that is works of literature not related to my course, that I had fantasized about for so long would prove impossible to read?

I believe it is relevant at this point to note that while many go round their time at Oxford working out how to read as little as possible, I had apparently found the way to read the most possible. I have never been a shy reader: the novels studied for my 19^th century authors were only, it seemed, an “amuse gueule” for the focus of my final year: the Divine Comedy and A la recherche du temps perdu. So how is it that I seem to have lost all ability to enjoy reading new books?

I tried The Unbearable Lightness Of Being which I had had praised by different friends in the past two years. I went “Nietzsche, Nietzsche, theories, no plot: bored now.” and left it. “Theories, no plot: bored now” from someone who had spent the last six months telling everyone they should read Proust?! I tried Virginia Woolf, maybe her love of Proust would mean I would have friendly feelings towards her style, plus I did remember enjoying The Waves all those years before Oxford... “Boy wants to go to lighthouse, mum seems protective like all mums, no explanations: who the hell are these people? Bored now.” While Milan Kundera had explained too much, apparently To the Lighthouse was too cagey. I decided that perhaps I was being too ambitious with all these highbrow books. Sadly, my tentative reading of a special new colour Diabolik, a concept I am not entirely convinced by as everyone knows Diabolik is a black and white comic strip, proved a failure too: there was a long flash back at the beginning, explain, explain and yes... I got bored with one of my favourite comic strips, which revolves around stealing jewelry, being chased by police cars and kissing one's attractive mistress.

I decided that the problem was I needed something completely new, so I turned to the classics with The Satiricon (in Italian translation), which was definitely high up on my desirable Other Books list. The quantity of sex seemed high enough to engender concentration and I read on until... Trimalchion's orgy. This was actually a bit I had been looking forward to: the striking similarities between the character and Berlusconi had been pointed out to me by a friend, and I was waiting for “the bit where he shows the dinner guests the construction plans for his own mausoleum”. But then came a series of pages covered by a long tirade each, where different people expressed their views on life. I fought on - that is, skipped most of the tirades - telling myself that it was all part of the genius of representing mundane conversation on paper. Had I not enjoyed the Guermantes' endless dinner conversations? But then there came another pig... so more food and... well, hadn't we already had lots of food being described? And yeah... bored now.

Rather than continue, I chose to spend the following hour staring at the sea with the unsatisfied expression my little brother had often worn on family outings. That was when I suddenly realised I had turned into a teenage boy whose attention span could only be elongated by video games. Sadly The Sims Medieval had proved an evil scam that would not work on my computer, so that option was no longer there.

One thing is having nothing to do on the beach, but the most problematic part of all is that I am starting my postgraduate studies next year, that is, bending towards a career entirely based on reading books. While I find it pleasant to think of myself as an artist stuck for inspiration, the rêverie is soon interrupted by the thought of marks and deadlines and all those efficient ways of measuring love of literature. If I don't enjoy it anymore, should I really go that way? I remember how refreshing my year out in Italy had been: I had done nothing academic, just food, friends and theatre, and then returned to Oxford to find I had actually got better at my course by doing nothing... Taking a year out every other year seems a little complicated to arrange. But now I come to wonder if the solution is staring me in the face: could it be that writing might get me over my reader's block?

Reg

*Exams Oxford University students sit at the end of their undergraduate degree. Having three years' work assessed in a couple of weeks is known to cause (amongst other things) weeping, premature aging and bike crashes.