The Real Inspector Hound – Tom Stoppard

YOU DON’T READ PLAYS, you might yell at me. PLAYS ARE WRITTEN TO BE WATCHED, NOT READ!

And to that, I say two things:

1) STOP SHOUTING AT ME!

2) You’re right. And wrong. 

You see, while the history of plays has always told us that they were always performed to an audience, we always forget that said audience were, in fact, unlearned, illiterate and predispositioned to heckling. The proliferation of literacy in society means that the reading and writing of scripts is an artform reserved no longer for the exclusive classes of learning, but for any man, woman and child. 

Saying that, I must say that Stoppard is definitely a dish best had performed. He writes slapstick like none other. He makes literary quips like a rubber duck in tepid bath water. He, quite frankly, is a genius. Genius of the eye and of the pretentious academic mind.

But then again, so is The Simpsons. 

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone – J.K. Rowling

So I caved. I am like an angel, an angel of pretentious academic ideals who has fallen to coexist with the plebs. Actually, I rephrase: I am one who has gleefully skipped down to coexist with the plebs. Some might even say that I am a pleb disguised as a pretentious academic angel, but this is irrelevant; I digress (from the point that I have not yet stated) – I freaking loved the whole freaking Harry Potter series and I continue to freaking love it religiously.

There. I’ve said it. 

The first time I met our weenie little wizard warrior, I was in high school and he, technically, was already in his fourth year at Hogwarts. For a long time, I had fought the hype. I did not want to read it. My principles – while they aren’t strong – I like to think are kept. For at least a little while.

Currently Reading: The Forgotten Children – David Hill

How To Be French – Margaret Ambrose

Fact #1: This book is pretty terrible.

Fact #2: I totally ploughed through it.

Fact #3: I loved every single minute of that ploughing.

Bookspotting: Half-naked man v. Henry James

Location: Park near St Leonards Station

Book: Henry James – Portrait of a Lady

Situation: A half-naked tattoo-clad man is adjusting his crotch approximately ninety centimetres away from well-dressed suit engrossed in his book. Well-dressed suit pauses. Looks up. Smiles into the middle distance that is the man’s tattooed chest. Looks back down. Starts reading again.

Shakespeare – Bill Bryson

Now, as we all know, Bill Bryson is a legend amongst arm chair travellers and bestselling book lists alike. You may also know that this means that, on principle, I already hate the book. Call me a judgemental elitist ignoramus, but so is Bryson the God – all he did while ‘travelling’ through Europe in Neither Here nor There was come in by train/plane/car/definitely-not-mule, check in to the nearest and most expensive hotel and proceed to heartily complain about everything. Sure, the man writes an entertaining prose, but – Jesus Christ – see more than just your bar fridge before you decide to launch a career in travel literature.