The Case Files of Charles Maxwell-House Esq., Literary Investigator
Week 1: Reading habitats:
Following a glorious month in the country, researching for my new book Rural Pubs of England – friend or foe to the gentleman reader? I hastened back to the metropolis to continue my research in The British Library. The late Sir Alfred Beagles bequeathed to it a legendary collection of his extensive readership studies, (including his key findings as to whether it is possible to read, learn or even enjoy a text whilst in highly dangerous situations(1). And it was to these, largely forgotten, slightly water-damaged boxes that I was bound.
I made the daring decision to travel from my modest digs in P_____ to this great centre of learning upon the capital’s venerable underground railway, colloquially known as the Tube. Whilst voyaging on this harsh and inky subterranean network, I studied my fellow passengers with the habitual keen interest I fancy peculiar to myself.
It soon came to my notice that many of my companions found solace from the blank, pasty faces surrounding them in the oddly civilised activity of reading. And, to my even greater surprise, although daily newspapers were common, works of fiction appeared to be the most favoured form of distraction. Intrigued by this behavioural pattern I began to make a closer survey; it was only then that I discovered a rather sinister pattern emerging.
Indeed, of the thousands of commuters I observed over this period, four or five titles were all over the transport network like a rash: the crime thrillers of John Grispork were popular, for example, as were the novels of Vinny Pencenzi – an ex-EastEnd gangster turned romantic-novel specialist. However, one author’s works in particular recurred more continually in the sweaty palms of the travelling worker than any other. I soon recognised the mildly garish, shiny covers with but a cursory glance, and finally ascertained that they formed the collected works of one man – Dan Beige.
Intrigued, I went to my local chain store bookshop and swiftly discovered that this gentleman was thriving above ground as well. Yet upon sampling his pulpy-paged novels, my mind was sorely troubled. Could the general population really have fallen prey to Beige’s awkward charms? I struggled to believe it; yet the statistics that I had gathered were irrefutable. What is more, of the several booksellers I interrogated, many, instead of throwing unabated scorn on Beige’s runaway success under my assiduous gaze, ended up admitting sheepishly to reading these texts, nay boasted of it with quasi-religious fervour.
Having stayed up very late to sample more of Beige’s paltry plotlines (purely as part of my research, of course), I came to the conclusion that Beige was, metaphorically speaking, the cat-nip of the literary world – there was definitely something moreish about it.(2)
Although I went to bed deeply worried by my findings, being naturally of a positive disposition the next morning I awoke refreshed and feeling suitably inspired to bring my literary mission to the masses in a bold move reminiscent of Sir Alfred himself! Harnessing the well-documented anthropological principle of the Alpha male and his power to exert influence over others, I scrubbed my nails vigorously, donned my finest bottle-green velveteen suit and hurried to the barber’s for a whisker trim and set. Suitably impressed on happening upon my reflection in my own water closet, I selected a rare kid-leather-bound edition of Pamela: Or, Virtue Rewarded, and thus armed, set out once again for the Tube.
And so it was, that, flagrantly flaunting my freedom pass, I travelled all day and on all lines on this great network, thrusting my tome into people’s view in the hope that my confident demeanour would inspire them – even sub-consciously – to sample more esoteric reading matter. I can only imagine that I will soon see results as, in particular, I noticed many of the curious sub-species of Beige-reader giving me very attentive looks. Indeed many were staring outright.
After my final circuit on the Circle line I was done for and having delivered my precious volume into the hands of Mrs B_____, my housekeeper, I strolled down to my club. There I encountered my excellent friend Major Chomondley-Chaser-Hound snoozing, as is his wont, by the fire. He appeared fascinated by my findings, nodding at times, and was (if I may betray the dear old soul) slack-jawed with admiration to such an extent I feared lest dribble should overwhelm him. Then, clearly overcome by excitement he jerked his head up in a sort of spasm, and abruptly began relating a tale from his infamous Arctic expedition, some 70 years before.
As I sat there in the genial warmth I made plans to repeat the day’s experiment as many times as I could spare the time away from my many other great literary investigations. And if this excellent publication will allow it, you may well see my further discoveries on the reading habits of the metropolis set down within these pages. For the time being though, I bid you good day.
[Some names may have been changed – Ed.]
1) Sir Alfred met his untimely end reading ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’ whilst attempting to compete in an elephant rodeo in Rangoon
2) Nota bene: It has been observed by a mind far greater than mine – I forget who’s exactly – that the reading of bad literature is like experiencing a strangely satisfying bout of the old kybosh tummy. For a time, it rules your life, and then, with little warning, it melts away, leaving you feeling empty and a bit sore.
