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jonscott9 's review for:
The Polysyllabic Spree
by Nick Hornby
This is a compendium of a year's worth of Hornby's columns about books bought and/or read in The Believer magazine. The tone is colloquial like whoa, a bit skittish. Hornby, who's penned About A Boy and A Long Way Down, among other novels, is (unlike much of what he attempts to read) high readable himself. This little jam of a book flies over 140 pages.
Yes, it is fun to commiserate with a for-real writer who laments things like being given book recommendation (or, worse, being gifted books outright):
“Usually, of course, I treat personal book recommendations with the suspicion they deserve. I’ve got enough to read as it is, so my first reaction when someone tells me to read something is to find a way to doubt their credentials, or to try to dredge up some conflicting view from my memory. (Just as stone always blunts scissors, a lukewarm “Oh, it was OK,” always beats a “You have to read this.” It’s less work that way.)”
The title comes from the moniker he's given an imaginary (or are they?) squad of Believer mag honchos who issue edicts to him as to how he will write his column. (One stipulation: Abandon any book that's not going well, and DO NOT mention it by name.) He imagines them in flowing robes, 12 of them (6 of each gender of course); of course this is meant to drum up the Polyphonic Spree, those be-robed indie choir rockers, as Hornby (also author of Songbook and High Fidelity; need I say more?) is some kind of music snob.
This book (I was -- gasp -- gifted it!) is hardly necessary but sometimes insightful and often amusing. Poignant and yet funny are his thoughts on books about autism; his own son has the condition. He gushes over Dickens and Vonnegut and more, interspersing some poems and excerpts he loves amidst his own columns/chapters.
Here's Hornby on novels, their epic and lengthy qualities:
“But there comes a point in the writing process when a novelist—any novelist, even a great one—has to accept that what he is doing is keeping one end of a book away from the other, filling up pages, in the hope that these pages will move, provoke, and entertain the reader.”
And on how one can Wiki his way to impressing others:
“A good chunk of coming across as educated, after all, is just a matter of knowing who wrote what: someone mentions Patrick Hamilton, and you nod sagely and say, Hangover Square, and that’s usually enough. … ‘the truly cultured are capable of owning thousands of unread books without losing their composure or their desire for more.’”
I honestly feel better on the other side of thumbing through this read. That's what he intended, and that's what matters.
Yes, it is fun to commiserate with a for-real writer who laments things like being given book recommendation (or, worse, being gifted books outright):
“Usually, of course, I treat personal book recommendations with the suspicion they deserve. I’ve got enough to read as it is, so my first reaction when someone tells me to read something is to find a way to doubt their credentials, or to try to dredge up some conflicting view from my memory. (Just as stone always blunts scissors, a lukewarm “Oh, it was OK,” always beats a “You have to read this.” It’s less work that way.)”
The title comes from the moniker he's given an imaginary (or are they?) squad of Believer mag honchos who issue edicts to him as to how he will write his column. (One stipulation: Abandon any book that's not going well, and DO NOT mention it by name.) He imagines them in flowing robes, 12 of them (6 of each gender of course); of course this is meant to drum up the Polyphonic Spree, those be-robed indie choir rockers, as Hornby (also author of Songbook and High Fidelity; need I say more?) is some kind of music snob.
This book (I was -- gasp -- gifted it!) is hardly necessary but sometimes insightful and often amusing. Poignant and yet funny are his thoughts on books about autism; his own son has the condition. He gushes over Dickens and Vonnegut and more, interspersing some poems and excerpts he loves amidst his own columns/chapters.
Here's Hornby on novels, their epic and lengthy qualities:
“But there comes a point in the writing process when a novelist—any novelist, even a great one—has to accept that what he is doing is keeping one end of a book away from the other, filling up pages, in the hope that these pages will move, provoke, and entertain the reader.”
And on how one can Wiki his way to impressing others:
“A good chunk of coming across as educated, after all, is just a matter of knowing who wrote what: someone mentions Patrick Hamilton, and you nod sagely and say, Hangover Square, and that’s usually enough. … ‘the truly cultured are capable of owning thousands of unread books without losing their composure or their desire for more.’”
I honestly feel better on the other side of thumbing through this read. That's what he intended, and that's what matters.