I need to write about last night’s book group…
Have you ever been in a room with a group of people who had a common purpose?
An addiction, if you will?
Even if you haven’t, sit there for a moment and imagine it.
Picture, for a few minutes, that you’re sitting on a comfortable chair in a large, light, airy room.
There’s a lot of natural light; makes the room seem even more comfortable, friendly.
The collection of pleasantly not-discordant modern art hanging on the four walls adds to the ambience.
There are a dozen participants in this meeting.
Each sits there, looking relaxed yet slightly nervous at the same time.
A small amount of chat gently buzzes around the room; conversation is polite – people reacquainting themselves since they saw each other last.
The meeting is called to order.
The organiser asks the group who wants to start.
It’s an older woman.
But instead of standing up and saying ‘I’m Mary and I’m an alcoholic’ she starts to talk about the book she’s just finished reading.
And Mary is so completely enthused about the book that as she speaks she believes.
She’s so caught up in it that as you listen you begin to believe she could walk out of here and sell it to the first adolescent youth she found.
To close her summary she reads a short passage and bloody hell she makes it sound even more interesting.
How is that possible?
And you sit there.
Breathless.
Excited.
There’s a pause.
And then a round-group discussion starts.
People add their own views, ask questions and a conversation builds with ‘Mary’ temporarily holding court as the holder of specific knowledge.
When things falter the group’s chairperson relaunches the ‘Who’s would like to go next?’ question.
The next speaker – also a woman, also of a more senior generation – starts to tell of her book…
A biography of Ted Hughes which, obviously, goes in to a degree of detail about Sylvia Plath.
This speaker is also completely enthused.
You don’t know if it’s a cumulative effect that has built on the platform reached by the previous speaker.
You don’t care if that’s what it is.
You’re too caught up in her enthusiasm, her passion, her intellect to care.
You feel infatuated by the work she’s talking about.
Even before she’s finished you make a mental note that you’ve just got to get hold of a copy of that book!
And so the evening goes; onwards and upwards.
Later, things peak.
Another group member speaks about a book that you read a few months ago.
A work you didn’t like but did at least finish out of respect for the author.
But she reads a passage – a long piece of prose you remember.
And in her reading she transforms the book, reframes it for you.
It becomes a work which you want to sit down and read again.
Try to read again, but this time you’re going to try harder.
By the end of the evening everyone has captured at least some small part of your mind.
As the evening gets later even the small number of people who didn’t like their books find favourable things to speak of.
When it’s time to go home you feel mentally exhausted.
Elated.
And privileged.
It is a privilege to spend a couple of hours with a collection of disparate folk who share a common bond.
Books.
People who are so enthused by their common love that their fervour is infectious.
People who enjoy their books even when the book they’re reading gives them no enjoyment.