Holiday Reading

Weekends pass, as weekends do when you have family, in a haze of chores, jobs postponed from the week, and in our case, taking it in shifts to have naps so that we don’t a) crash into a tree falling asleep at the wheel or b) slaughter everyone in a sleep deprived frenzy.  Tallulah enjoyed her second week at karate, and I failed to go for the second week.  I will also fail to go for the third week as I will  be in London.  I may actually go for the fourth week but let us not bet hard cash on it.  It would be a shame to be disappointed.

I have been studying hard.  I have finished an entire month’s worth of study in a week.  I should now be limbering up to write my essay.  I am just waiting for an e-mail from my tutor before I sally forth. This is good because it means I have the perfect excuse to stop and make inroads into the ever increasing pile of books by my bed.  I am quite grateful for the hiatus.

As I have been trying to think deep and meaningful thoughts about postmodernism and its influence on children’s picturebooks, and this is quite wearing, I have been amusing myself drawing up lists of books that I may or may not take on my forthcoming holiday.  Jason and I have discussed this and he is going for the daring, minimalist approach.  About four miles from where we will be staying is a rather pretty little town called Sydney by the Sea.  It is famous for its second hand book shops.  As you might imagine, we visit it quite a lot when we are on our holidays.  Last time we went, Jason forged a fruitful bond with one of the bookshop owners.  He read the books he had brought with him from the U.K., sold them to the bookshop chap and then promptly spent all the money buying new books to read.  Repeat to fade.  He has decided to only take one or two books and then go and see his supplier when we arrive.

I applaud his decision, certainly in terms of the weight of our luggage.  I cannot possibly think of doing it myself though.  I would rather go without underwear than be underprepared in the reading material department.  It makes me nervous if I haven’t got a book in my handbag, one in the car, one hidden in every room etc.  I fear having nothing to read.

Here is my tentative short list:

A Dance to the Music of Time: Summer by Anthony Powell

The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest by Stieg Larsson

War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy

Catch 22 by Joseph Heller

The Sword of Honour Trilogy by Evelyn Waugh

Selected Diaries of Virginia Woolf

It’s quite weighty isn’t it?

The thing is, that I actually really want to read all of these books. Then I have so many other books, most of which are miles shorter and promise to be an ‘easier’ read, that I tend to put all the goliath’s on the back shelf for later when I have time.  I am of course, totally fooling myself on the whole ‘more time’ thing.  There will never be any more time unless I make time.

I find that when I am on holiday I make more time to read, especially in North America where the television is abysmal and I’d rather jab my eyes out with sticks than watch anything.  I also have to read what I have bought with me, because there is nothing else unless I buy new books.  Of course, I always buy new books, because I am me, and I am incapable of not buying books, but I do tend to read what I have bought with me before I embark on my new, shiny books.  This way I actually get significant amounts of backlog shifted whenever I go on holiday.  Last year’s holiday in France saw me reading some Grahame Greene I had been putting off for an eternity, and Lark Rise to Candleford, both of which I’d had kicking around the shelves for about five years.  I can’t say that I enjoyed either of them, but I had significantly less book guilt after I’d finished them, and I left them in the house so I didn’t have to think about them again.

I think my greatest achievement was going for a holiday a few years ago where I finished the entire Avignon Quintet by Lawrence Durrell.  I gave myself eye strain in the process but it was worth it.

And if I finish War and Peace this year I will actually have achieved one of my new year’s resolutions as well as being able to be a smug literary toff in the process. What’s not to like?  At the moment I am poring over Beatrix Potter’s ‘The Tale of Peter Rabbit’ in order to write 2000 words of meaningful intellectual argument about it.  I shall probably need the light relief of War and Peace after that.

So, what are your holiday reading habits?  Do you go for the beach bonk buster, or industrial espionage or the literary greats.  Answers on a postcard smelling of Ambre Solaire…

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