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Metaliterature

I took a moment last night, between nappy changes (not mine you guttersnipes) to consider a proposition that I have been bandying around for a number of years, more in idleness that in all seriousness. It was something I pinched wholesale from "The Worms Can Carry Me To Heaven" by Alan Warner, which I read quite a few years ago it would seem. His protagonist gives up reading anything other than travel guides and pamphlets because he has calculated that the time he has left to live (projected) is less than the time it would take to read every book he has collected in his library. "What a conclusion!" I thought, "What would it take for me to run to such a morbid assessment of my prospects in life? What strength in belief a man must have to make this decision and then stick to it!" I immediately resolved to use this line whenever a conversation came up when, faced by the book-buying public, I was forced to listen to another person bemoaning the lack of space in their house thanks to the unrelenting collecting instincts of the bibliophile. Indeed, I've used it more than I care to remember.
Now though, having read exactly 30 pages of less-than-challenging English prose since 31st January - that's 1.4 pages per day! - I have come to the rather unsettling conclusion that unless things change greatly - in the hierarchy of my "spare time", in the daily routine etc etc - I may have already passed the tipping point where I myself may as well give up on literature.

Shit.

Of course, being the kind of guy who prefers to keep doors, options and a load of books (concurrently) open, usually by not committing to anything, occasionally by refusing to be pigeon-holed, often by being a perverse mother, I would rather not sign off on the rest of my life just yet. As I've 3 months left to out-live Jesus, the next big life milestone, it would feel somewhat premature so to do. Nonetheless, by virtue of the fact that I have gone from reading 3 books a week on the commute to Jack Town to reading one book (let's say a Pynchon-esque brick of a novel, for argument's sake) in a little over 3 years, I may need to revisit some reviews I've posted around the web to fill up the worryingly blank pages of my book-based blog.

Still, let no-one say that I am all black dogs and no silver linings! One can still revel in the beauty of books (and bookshelves) whether one plans to read them or not! For those, you should really have a look if you haven't already, at Book Shelf Porn. I'll leave you to sample the delights, but if you, like me, are wary of randomly clicking links in randomly uninspiring blogs, have a gander at this here picture:
It's a cabinet designed like one of those pin-art thing-a-mies - you just push the books in! I think I'm in love with a piece of furniture...
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Stay angry, people.

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Back to you, sir.

It’s all a little bit exciting, if you’re me, which I am, to have revived something so Hanoverian as a literary feud! Such a back and forth brings to mind the savaging of John Rae by Charles Dickens post Franklin expedition (including the publication of Rae’s rejoinder in Household Words ), or the attacks by William Hazlitt on, well everyone. I only wish I had the intellectual vigour of a Hazlitt or indeed any of the great correspondents of the past, to be able to maintain a contiguous train of thought for longer than a lunch time, and to not to be interrupted and thus de-railed by something so mundane as a game of football. Still, to be galvanised at all in this age of short attention spans and antipathy to anything other than apathy is a miracle, and it is to football that, my wife’s scorn notwithstanding, I can give credit on this occasion. Swipe I set myself up for a pretty meaty swipe in retaliation for my retaliation previously . I sort-of lost the plot a little bit in places,
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