By Ashley Lister
A good friend of mine
presented me with a book earlier this month: What is Literature? by Jean Paul Sartre.
Anyone who has spent more than ten minutes in my company
will have heard me make some scathing comment against the French. Some of my
favourite jokes are targeted against the French for their lack of cleanliness
or their inherent cowardice, or their general societal deviance.
I saw a genuine French
army rifle for sale on eBay last week. The ad said, ‘Never fired. Dropped once.’
How can you tell if a
Frenchman has been in your backyard? Your bins are empty and your dog is
pregnant.
Why do the French
smell so bad? So blind people can hate them too.
Yet, despite my penchant for sharing these unworthy quips,
my friend entrusted me with a copy of Sartre’s What is Literature? I read a little Sartre whilst I was studying my
degree. Sartre’s thoughts on existentialism had a mercurial quality where, at
one moment I would think I was reading the gibberish ramblings of a lunatic,
and the next I would think I’d been granted a momentary insight that
rationalised all the complications of existence.
I haven’t yet read all of What is Literature? It accompanies me to college on days when my
teaching means I’ll have an hour or two to spare between classes. It goes with
me on car journeys when the only other alternative is talking to family. It’s a
reminder that a good friend sufficiently recognised my tastes to select such an
appropriate gift. And, to me, nothing else sounds quite so much like a good
book.
3 comments:
Can I borrow it when you're done? ;)
I'm tempted to let you read it first so you can explain it to me.
And yes. Of course you can.
Ash
Another one for the list. I agree with the incoherent ramblings interspersed with insight observation. Thanks for sharing :-)
Post a Comment