Books at Bathtime
Wilson, Frances, New Statesman (1996)
A Little History of Literature
Yale, 288pp, [pounds sterling]14.99
How to Read a Novelist
Corsair, 384pp, [pounds sterling]8.99
A Little History of Literature, which begins with Beowulf and ends with bestsellers, is primarily a guide for teenagers, and John Sutherland brings to the vast and unruly subject some order, clarity and commonsense. Like Dr Johnson, he enjoys the chance to "concur with the common reader", and the common reader-addressed as though he or she were a bright-eyed Candide rather than a dead-eyed nihilist-will doubtless concur with Sutherland's views on the joys of genre fiction, the value of what Orwell called "good-bad books", the analogy between Wordsworth and Coleridge's Lyrical Ballads and the lyrical ballads of Bob Dylan, and the virtue of good film adaptations, such as the 1992 version of The Last of the Mohicans, which "complicates our response to the original novel".
There is no hand-wringing about the death of the book; Sutherland remains optimistic-"and with good reason"-about the place of eboolcs and the future of reading. Nor does he bewail the popularity of the fan-fiction websites that gave us Fifty Shades of Grey, and where Harry Potter and Jane Austen ob-sessives share their own spin-off tales. These forums for the common writer revive a form of storytelling that, like the Odyssey, "is not commissioned, nor is it paid for, nor is it 'reviewed', nor is it bought. It is not, as the term is usually applied, 'published'."
"Fanfic" is part of an evolving online republic in which writing is not a commodity but a "conversation", and Sutherland himself adopts an easy conversational gait as he leads the nation's youngsters, Pied Piper-like, away from their iPhones and into a written world from which he hopes they will never return. There are some good jokes along the way: Oepidus kills Laius at the crossroads in a fit of "road-rage", the muse is a "mean employer" who provides "inspiration but no cash", and religion in the age of Shakespeare was "literally a burning topic".
There are two million volumes of so-called literature in the vaults of the British Library and Sutherland's problem is the same as the one he ascribes to Laurence Sterne with Tristram Shandy: how to pack everything necessary for the journey that the book is about to take, when you have ten times more clothes than suitcases. Some essentials have to be left behind. First in go myth, epic and tragedy; comedy is excluded but then Sutherland finds humour in everything. Instead of sensation novels, such as Wilkie Collins's The Woman in White, there are enjoyable discussions of "proto novels"-like Cervantes's Don Quixote-where we "feel a novel trying to get out", and of "novels about novels"-such as Tristram Shandy-which make it hard for the reader to get in.
Wisely perhaps, Sutherland does not allow sex on this particular trip, which might explain the absence of D H Lawrence. Nor does he bring along Freud's "discovery" of the unconscious; but then, as Freud himself conceded, the writers had got there first.
Singled out for special attention are Johnson, Jane Austen, Dickens and Hardy rather than Trollope, George Eliot, Henry James or James Joyce. …