Hello again!
Right now, as most of my friends would vouch, I’m on a bit of a cultural island, with no permanent resident other than me and Ed, though he lives in a particularly remote corner of this island (no offence Ed, of course *wink*). Of course, I share interests with many of my friends, whether it be playing classical guitar with Qesser, singing Frontier Psychiatrist with Yusuf, or sharing Gianina’s interest in indie film. This has led to the question of how I actually ended up here. Nobody in my family shares my musical interests (except, to an extent, my grandma, who introduced me to the wonders of such eras as the Greenwich folk scene), I am the only one who has ever taken an interest in biology, and when I tried to describe Birdman to them, they just burst out laughing.
So in this post, I thought I’d talk a little about literature, because I’ve not really done that in a while…
Except for trains, reading must have been my first ever real interest. I had watched Sesame Street from an early age, a TV programme I still swear by, and therefore was a competent reader before most of my friends had even begun to try. My dad used to always read to me and my sister before bed, probably my most avid memories as a kid, and these books were awesome.
Of course, Roald Dahl was always an idol of mine. I’ve read most of his books, and enjoyed all of those I had read (except The Witches. That was some scary stuff right there.) I remember the excitement I experienced of first reading the descriptions of the wacky Willy Wonka, and the sadness of watching the BFG get picked on by the other giants, or the confusion of the virtuoso grasshopper in James and the Giant Peach. However, none of these books had such a profound effect on me as Matilda.
I still recall all the emotions I felt whilst reading this book: from the novel events of the Wormwood household, to being creeped by the evil Agatha Trunchbull, to affection for Miss Jennifer Honey. It’s also suitable, given my situation, that Matilda found peace and inspiration by reading. This masterpiece is so typical of Dahl’s famous style too. Whilst his books are mainly children’s books, each still contains a moral, even if it means applying it in a rather R-rated fashion. The disrespectful and sickly Twits end up being crushed by their own weight. Fantastic Mr Fox leaves the three psychopathic farmers to die of starvation whilst waiting for him to emerge from a hole. Four children die in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for being greedy and selfish. Even Tim Burton didn’t go that far!
A similarly named literary influence as a kid was the Irish writer Roddy Doyle who, whilst bagging himself a Man Booker Prize for his inventive and unique novel Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha, wrote some pretty good children’s literature too! My main memory of his work was the incredible Meanwhile Adventures, which track the story of the Mac family, all undertaking various tasks, whether it be running up stairs, taking short cuts to Las Vegas or avoiding a big pile of poo. In fact, this book was such a revelation to the Jacobson household that, upon returning this book to the library, my dad declared it as the best children’s book he had ever come across. To which the librarian agreed.
However, at some point I did have to grow out of Dahl and Doyle, and this was when I became embroiled in series. This was a fairly dark period of my literary life spanning from Year 4 to about Year 8. By Year 8, the only books I was bothering to read were books in the Cherub series, which were all a load of rubbish, and I’m disappointed i my 12-year-old self for immersing himself so forcefully in them. There were also the Diamond Brothers books by Anthony Horowitz, which were/are amazing, and the Alex Rider series by Anthony Horowitz, which was not. However, the pinnacle of my series reading had to be Caroline Lawrence’s Roman Mysteries.
It may be the only series in which I am proud to have said that I read so many of them. This is because they were more than just a plot (which, admittedly, never really changed): they were faction. This meant that whilst the plots were fictional, the scenario was real. Thus, I was able to learn al about the port of Ostia and the gladiatorial games and Roman imperialism, all from the comfort of a book for teenagers. These books inspired me to study Classical subjects at school, something that continued from the age of 11 to October 2014 where, in the light of university applications, I was forced to drop A-Level Classical Greek. My study in Classics has opened so many doors, whether it be reading Homer and Sophocles in the original Greek, to analysing literary techniques in tragedy, to being able to say I did A-Level Greek. And it’s all down to Caroline Lawrence.
As a result of all of these inspirations, I have now found myself on my own little literary island. This includes everything from the beautiful poetic techniques of Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita to the plain mad Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut to the classic Jane Eyre. Even works that aren’t considered masterpieces, such as Alan Bennett’s The History Boys or David Nicholls’ Starter for Ten, are books without which I don’t know where I would be. Honestly, Brian Jackson from Starter for Ten is 18 (almost like me), a student of Bristol University (where I received my first university offer), has people make fun of him for his taste in music (like me), is clumsy (like me), is blissfully clueless about politics and philosophy (like me), loves University Challenge (like me), is hopeless around girls (like me), is socially clueless (like me) and has an issue with spots (like me). Genuinely, if any book was a biography of my own life, it would have to be Starter for Ten.
And on top of that, it is absolutely hilarious.
So if there was to be a conclusion from this huge tangeant, it would probably be to make your kids read Roddy Doyle, avoid Cherub and READ STARTER FOR TEN! You will not regret it.
My Factless Autobiography 