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320 pages, Hardcover
First published March 1, 2022
It occurred to me that my greatest love outside family and work had always been a love of reading fiction; of all the novels I had read, Jane Austen’s were my benchmark for pleasure as her heroines had been models for the sort of woman I wanted to become. A nostalgia for those books swept over me. So I decided to think of recovery as a rehabilitation of my reading life, and to start by revisiting the six novels. I wanted to re-read those passages that had made Austen’s fiction important to me: the bons mots, the well-worn quotations and the lively conversations. I didn’t know it then, but I was embarking on an untested approach to reading. I was making Austen’s novels a starting point for exploring the satisfactions and dissatisfactions of my own life, framed and illuminated by her fictional universe.
In real life we read both for pleasure and beyond pleasure. We read to pick up clues that help us to navigate our lives and relationships, and expand our understanding of ourselves and the world we live in. And on re-reading Northanger Abbey as I undertook my reading cure, I became convinced that this novel, like the others that Austen produced, was doing that for me, stimulating me to ruminate on fiction with a renewed awareness that what had been missed in the past might now be a guiding light for the future.
Elie Wiesel’s novel Night is one of the earliest and most powerful testimonies to the enormous void in moral awareness in the absence of empathy. The Nobel prize-winning author reflected on why the heirs of Kant and Goethe, Germans who were among the best-educated people on earth, were not inhibited by their education from behaving as they did when they set out to exterminate whole human populations — not just Jews, but Romani, homosexuals, and people with intellectual or physical disabilities and mental illness. According to Wiesel, it was made possible by the fact that education — including education constructed around great literature — took the wrong direction. By emphasising theory and concepts and abstractions rather than values and consciousness and conscience, it subverted its own intentions. He was implying, I believe, that the factors contributing to the development of an empathetic consciousness were discouraged by the educational approach.
That’s the thing about reading: our brains hold an archive of everything we have ever read. I have noticed that, in some mysterious way, reading memories surface from nowhere to connect with a random present moment. From Austen, Elizabeth, the Bennet family and marriage I wander into Margaret Drabble’s and Penelope Mortimer’s territory; I tune into remembered resonances with Graham Swift and Mothering Sunday, wander on to comparisons with Henry James and Isabel Archer, and then reflect on my own life and my own memories, pleasant and otherwise. That’s the rather messy business that we readers engage in as we look for coherence in what we are reading. It is also how many of us come to terms with our own lives, making some sort of sense of our life stories as we read.