The cities of my soul

Anatole France described his literary criticism as ‘the adventures of my soul among masterpieces’. We cannot all be critics, in the sense that France was, but he surely spoke for everybody, reviewer or not, who takes reading seriously. Books do furnish a room, and the best books decorate a life.

Although reading is an interior activity, as a book speaks directly to one person, one of the greatest joys in a well-lived life is reading in agreeable public places. The beach, where so many people do their annual reading, is not an agreeable place. The noise, heat and general irritation do not provide the reflection that one needs for serious reading, which is why most beach-loafers do not read seriously. In which case, why read at all?

No, it is the city that offers the best opportunity to read well. Any human settlement with a healthy civic life, awash with theatres, first-class restaurants, art galleries and concert halls, provides the ideal frame for this picture, though it is not necessarily true that the greater the city the better those opportunities are. New York’s qualities require no amplification, but while it is a superb city to buy books, it is not the best place to read them, being too intense. Amsterdam, another great city, is too claustrophobic. London, with its wonderful parks, offers more room to breathe.

We tend to recall the details of books that touch us, because they create an unrepeatable world, down to where, when and how we read them. Yet, although I have fond memories of reading Allan Massie’s The Ragged Lion in Pune, and Ivan Klima’s Love and Garbage in Colombo, it would be stretching a point to say that the Indian sub-continent makes an ideal accompaniment for the European novel.