I’ve decided to sort my books. I have four bookcases in my room, giving 21 shelves, and another two cases in the attic. Lots of books, most of which are where they are simply because that’s the only place there was room for them.

So now they’re not on the shelves, but rather on the floor. Yay. All are being catalogued and sorted, and will then be reshelved according to an approximation of the Dewey Decimal System. An approximation, because there are various books/types of book that I want/have to put in different places.

Various facts and figures:

• I’ve catalogued 750 books so far, and haven’t started on those in the attic.
• I’ve only found 3 duplicates (as in, exactly identical books). One’s Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, one is Pears Ultimate Quiz Companion, and one is a 1964 Livres de Poche edition of Zola’s Germinal.
• There are 34 Harry Potter books on my shelves, in five languages, with only the one duplicate.
• Somewhat inevitably, the busiest Dewey numbers are 440 and 840 (French Language and French Literature, respectively).
• The ISBN was invented before the barcode.

But, when nothing of an old past endures, after the death of the people, after the destruction of the things, alone, more frail but more alive, more immaterial, more persistent, more faithful, smell and taste remain for a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, on top of the remains of everything else, bearing unfaltering, on their almost impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory.

To be fair, once you work out what he’s talking about, it’s quite a beautiful sentiment about the power of taste and smell to bring back long-forgotten memories. But seriously: 17 commas in 65 words? That’s overkill. “Their almost impalpable droplet”? Huh?

You need the free Macromedia Flash Player to watch this video. Download it here.

If you’re reading this in a feedreader, or in Facebook or the like, you’ll have to click through to the actual post. Make sure you do, though – it’s awesome.

Heh – in America, they call Wally Waldo. Who knew?

Lezard is too busy doom-mongering to explain himself properly. For starters, what is literary fiction? Last time I checked no one could agree on a definition other than it was whatever whoever happened to be talking at the time considered to be good. (Let’s not get into that debate here, suffice to say it is frequently little more than a means to look down on everything that is considered not to be literary.) Next, the only example Lezard offers of this ’slow and painful death’ is the rise of the reading group.

He accuses reading groups of denigrating ‘books because they do not contain characters’ readers ‘ “like” or “can identify with” ‘. I would argue that Lezard is guilty of exactly the same crime. We all are. Few of us persist with a book we find a bore. The few of us that do are either studying it or being paid to read it. So in the same way that a reading group of new mums in Surbiton might not find much of interest in a mannered story of a middle-aged melancholic widower lost in his ‘grief, loneliness and isolation’ so a melancholic, middle-aged Lezard might not be devouring Possession.

Lezard’s rant seems to have been prompted by the Arts Council’s decision to withdraw funding from Dedalus Books, a small publisher focusing mainly on small-run literary fiction and translated works. Now, the Arts Council’s recent sweeping cuts deserves its own post (which will, probably, follow shortly), and is, frankly, appalling. But the fact that Lezard is using this funding cut to bemoan the death of literary fiction is as small-minded as it is misguided.

The idea that only small publishers can legitimately publish “literary fiction” is, quite simply, tosh. Looking at my bookshelf, ignoring the textbooks, I have (a shockingly small) four books with me (most are at home – these are just the few I’ve bought recently). All of those would have to be classed as literary fiction. Rambling internal monologue? Check. Long words? Check. Absence of Holy Grail/young wizards/spies/z-list celebrity? Check. Two were published by Hodder, one by Penguin and one by Random House. As Colin Brush points out in his Penguin Blog post, Penguin publishes John Updike, Dave Eggers (of whom I am not a fan, but the less of that the better), Zadie Smith, Toby Litt (of whom I am a great fan) and Pat Barker (even greater fan). Lezard seems to be suggesting that once a novel is published in the mainstream (that’s to say, it appears with a 3 for 2 sticker at Waterstone’s), it stops being literary. “Literary fiction” is the domain of those select few who “know” a good novel because it is hard work to read, apparently.

And blaming reading groups for the downturn in literary fiction? Bollocks. I’ve never had the inclination to join a reading group, but those that I have brushed across in my travels have never hesitated to read a novel that might be classed as “literary”. Yes, they read Captain Corelli’s Mandolin and Possession, but equally they eagerly seek out the less-mainstream. Those I know – and, I admit, they may be in a minority – are happy to read about something other than a character “they ‘like’ or ‘can identify with’”. For that is what reading is about: discovering others, characters you don’t know, don’t like, don’t want to know or like.

The definition of “literary fiction” is something else. I’ve always considered “literary fiction” to be a novel that you have to struggle through reading, but when you finish it you feel a sense of accomplishment and fulfilment. Unlike certain other “novels”, which are the complete opposite. These “literary” novels do not have to be necessarily “high-brow” or touch on a concept, a lifestyle, a character way-out-of reach of reach of the reader. Nor do they have to be aimed at the minority. After all, what is a book for if not to be read by as many as possible?

Now, I wholeheartedly agree that Dedalus should be supported in bringing lesser known literature to those who want to read it (I’d love to read this, for example), but suggesting that withdrawal of its funding signals the end of so-called “literary fiction” is, simply, rubbish.

I started at Nottingham High School two weeks later, and got round to reading the book sometime that term. I couldn’t put it down. The idea that this boy, nine days older than me*, was suddenly whisked away to a secret school for wizards was utterly enchanting to me. I had just started at the High School, a 500-year old institution with arcane traditions, strange rules and (to an 11-year old) imposingly grand buildings where I knew no one and which was about as different as you could get to my primary school, and, while I couldn’t exactly relate to the magic element, I knew exactly how alone Harry felt when he first arrived at Hogwarts.

I didn’t read book two, the Chamber of Secrets, when it was first released. I don’t know why – I guess I missed it: Potter-mania was still practically non-existent back then – the first book had not been published in the US, the film rights had not been sold, “muggle” was not in the OED, there were no midnight launches. I eventually borrowed it from David, I think. Book three, the Prisoner of Azkaban, was released on the last day of my second year of school, when we finished at lunchtime, and David and I walked down to Waterstone’s to buy it that afternoon. Harry’s published school years coincided exactly with my own, and it seemed almost as though he was growing up at the same time as I was (although I didn’t have the transfiguration classes, evil dark wizards or house-elves).

The next four books were released at two-year intervals, so that link was slightly lost, but there was still some connection present. Harry and I developed together. When a new book was released, I rushed to buy it, not because of any hype**, but rather as if to find news from an old friend.

My Harry does not look like Daniel Radcliffe. My Hogwarts is more Durham than Alnwick, more Nottingham High School than Oxford. My Ministry of Magic does not resemble an underground station. The potions master is more like… well, I’m not going to say. But you get my point. I transferred into Harry’s wondrous world the people, the places, the things that I knew and loved or hated. Which is, I would argue with anyone, exactly the point of fiction, and especially of the type of fiction that Rowling writes.

And now, whether or not Harry is dead (I’m not going to spoil any endings for people who haven’t read book seven yet – there are plenty of other places for that), it is clear that we are not going to hear any more from his world. His story has come, quite definitively, to a close. It feels almost like moving away from somewhere and knowing that you’ll never speak with an old friend again.

If this reads like sentimental twaddle about a fictional character, then yes, I suppose it is. Harry is not real. I have no problem with that. I’m not one of those “fans” who obsess over every single detail of the books, or who ’ship certain relationships. I am well aware that there is no Hogwarts, no Ministry of Magic, no hippogriffs. But the joy of Rowling’s writing, whatever its flaws, was that she created a world that was so believable, characters that were so engaging, experiences that were so, well, real, that as an 11-year old, I had no problem imagining that they could exist. And I have stayed there for 10 years, happy to suspend my disbelief and follow the escapades of someone who grew up with me, someone who encountered things that I could only dream of, someone who, outside of his adventures, faced the same day-to-day joys and troubles that I did, someone to whom I could relate in those times when, perhaps, I had trouble getting close to people in the real world, someone with whom I could escape to another time and place when I really needed to get away from this one.

And now, I know that I won’t hear from him and his other friends again. And I’ll miss them. But it was fun.

*Yes, pedant, I know Harry was born in 1980. But he first came to life, just before his 11th birthday, in 1997. And that’s how I know him.
**The only book I ever bought based on hype was the Da Vinci Code. I wish I hadn’t. It eats at your soul and messes with your mind, rather like a tapeworm does with your digestive system. Damn you, Dan Brown.

Yes, it contains “bourgeois, paternalistic stereotypes of the period – an interpretation some readers may find offensive” (in the words of the Tintin’s UK publisher, Egmont). But surely that’s a reason to keep selling it? The stereotypes are so ridiculous that no one could possibly take them seriously. We studied the text in one of our French modules last year, for exactly this reason. It tells us exactly what the Belgian attitude to their colonies was in the early 20th century. No one’s suggesting we ban Othello because of it’s stereotypical representation of moors, are they? (It’s probably next, actually.) Are Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales anti-Christian? Ban ‘em.

The Gollywogs have been removed from Noddy. The new Famous 5 adventures showed Julian doing the washing up and Anne and George having adventures. Now, I don’t want to get on the PC-gone-crazy bandwagon (because I loathe those people, with a passion), but this is stupid. Literature – even (I’d say especially) children’s books – is an artefact of it’s time. We need to embrace the quirky stereotypes found within and educate children as to why they are wrong. Removing them altogether just prompts future generations to invent their own.

In the (somewhat bastardised) words of Voltaire, “I absolutely disagree with what you say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it.”

Incidentally, number five on Amazon.co.uk’s best-selling books chart right now? Tintin in the Congo, probably Tintin’s first appearance on Amazon’s chart. It’s right behind Potter and Campbell, and just in front of Richard Dawkins. There’s a joke there somewhere, but I can’t find it.

I reserved my copy yesterday at Chapters in Montreal. While UK booksellers are battling it out over who can make the biggest loss selling Potter (Amazon and Waterstone’s are both selling it for £8.99 – less than half price – as I assume are WHS and Borders), I had to pay C$34.34 for my Canadian reservation. That’s just under £17. Pfah. That’s still C$11 off the publisher’s price, but still… I notice the Chapters website lists it for C$23.04, so maybe I’ll get money back when I buy it, or something.

Now, Chapters in Montreal will be open at midnight on the 21st, and I’ll be hanging around in Montreal waiting for a flight to Washington D. C., so I may very well be tempted to pick mine up then. I’m still mildly gutted that I’m not working at Waterstone’s for the release, since we had such a blast the last time, so this might make up for it a bit. Anyway, we’ll see.

While waiting for Book 7, of course, we can pass the time with Film 5. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is released here (and most other places) on Wednesday. No doubt the cinema in town will be showing it. I’m trying to hunt down the nearest IMAX (there must be one in Montreal), as, apparently, the last half hour or so is being shown in IMAX 3D, which, knowing how the scene reads, ought to be pretty spectacular.

So, Harry Potter fortnight is finally upon us. A quick warning for those of you in the UK who’ll get hold of Book 7 a full five hours before I do (because, David, that’s how time zones work)… Don’t You Dare Spoil It For Me.

What’s interesting is that, in association with the Daily Telegraph, Waterstone’s is carrying out the Great British Literary Census to investigate what and how Brits read. It’s been done before, but hey.

One of the questions is as follows:

How do you answer that? Shakespeare is the most important author Britain has produced in the last 1000 years (well, ever), so he should absolutely be taught in schools. But his plays are also relevant and interesting. A teacher who can’t make Macbeth or the Tempest into an interesting and relevant lesson should go back to school.

As always (just ‘cos it’s something I always do), I headed off to Waterstone’s Picadilly. And who should follow me through the front doors? None other than everyone’s favourite convicted perjurer. Baron Archer of Weston-super-Mare was launching his new “novel”, a fictional retelling of the events of the New Testament according to Judas Iscariot, and was doing a short signing and television interviews in the store.

More 4 News was there, too.

I’ve spent the last 24 hours trying to work out a joke about Archer, the Bible, and Judas… but I thinkthat pretty much it doesn’t need anything doing to it..

(My photo at Flickr)

Ulysses I can well understand. I’ve never, ever met anyone who has actually read the whole thing thorugh (certainly no one who understood it). I started once, got about two chapters in (so, a good couple of hundred pages…) then gave up. I couldn’t cope.

But Vernon God Little and Harry Potter 4? Pierre’s book is not even 300 pages long. It is, admittedly, not a terribly readable style, but it’s a fairly engrossing story, pretty much an updated Catcher in the Rye. And Goblet of Fire is one of the more readable instalments in the series. Surely people weren’t put off by the length? It is true, though, that a book ostensibly set at a school doesn’t necessarily need to spend the first 150 pages describing the summer holidays…

I’ve just finished (yes, finished – apart from Ulysses, I tend to struggle through books) Nick Hornby’s Complete Polysyllabic Spree, a collection of his “Stuff I’ve Been Reading” columns from the Believer magazine. Now, I’m not a fan of Hornby’s writing in general – I vaguely enjoyed About a Boy, but High Fidelity and Fever Pitch didn’t really do much for me. But it turns out that he reads the same sort of things I do. So, unfortunately, having read 400 pages of (basically) book reviews, I now have a long list of books he enjoyed that I want to try. Meh.

He makes some very good points about “popular” fiction as opposed to “literary” fiction. What’s the point, after all, of a critically successful novel if no one wants to read it? Reading should be about enjoyment – you should be able to sit back and relax for as long as you want with a book, without it feeling like a chore.