This is one of those books that I bought purely because 'everyone's talking about it', it's a 'literary sensation', blah blah blah. And it is well written, and I suppose it's interesting in the sense that every intelligent person's life is interesting because articulateness enables them to turn ordinary events into great swathes of philosophy. But in all honesty, I found that while it made me feel worthy, and garnered approving looks from fellow bibliophiles on trains, I just couldn't get into it, and even found I was preferring to snuggle directly into my duvet at bedtime than pick up this book. As a result, I gave up at about page 100.
In its favour, I will say that perhaps I just wasn't in the right mood for it, as I have enjoyed similar books in the past, and I have left a bookmark - ok, the receipt - in it at the page at which I gave up, should I decide, at any further prompting and persuasion, to resume reading. My overall response to A Death in the Family, though, is that my life is too short to spend listening to Karl Ove Knausgaard philosophising about his own. It's no Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, that's for sure.
Showing posts with label autobiography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autobiography. Show all posts
Wednesday, 20 August 2014
Monday, 15 November 2010
The Fry Chronicles
And lo, the wind of Christmas blew in its annual drift of celebrity autobiographies. Obviously, Danny Dyer's was top of my list of must-reads, but it was Monsieur Fry's that ended up in my bag. And actually, I rather wish it hadn't been.
I love Stephen Fry as much as the next man, woman, child or endangered species does, but I found The Fry Chronicles cloying. It's not really, as it purports, about his time at Cambridge - this takes up a fairly miniscule amount of the book. The majority is concerned instead with, as Fry himself is at pains to stress in every other line, his enormous good fortune in finding highly paid work that he loved doing.
There is noticeably little about Hugh Laurie, for which there are many possible explanations: Fry didn't feel comfortable writing about him; Laurie didn't want anything but a few vague mentions; Laurie's American agents or lawyers didn't want anything but a few vague mentions; that's all to come in the next installment... I don't know, and, I realised as I read, that increasingly, I don't really care.
The problem I had with The Fry Chronicles is rather post-modern and is concerned with the set-up, which follows this pattern: Stephen tells us a story about how such-and-such a wonderful person (namedrop, namedrop) offered him a writing / acting / advertising job which paid an embarrasingly large sum of money with which he bought another house / car / computer, then proceeds to spend 4 pages whining about how none of this made him happy, and how he feels guilty that he still suffered from depression, and how he knows I, as his loyal reader, will HATE him whining about this, but how he still feels he must do it because that is his nature and after all, I'm reading the book because I am interested in his nature, aren't I?
Well, yes, Stephen, I suppose I am, but I am also interested in what that nature has to say about things outside of his own personal story. The parts where, for example, he uses Ben Elton's success as a springboard to give insightful commentary on the place of the arts in Thatcher's Britain, and suchlike, is far and away superior to whinging, self-indulgent moaning. His views on Rik Mayall, Alexei Sayle, class and alternative comedy are riveting and informative, particularly for one, like me, who was just old enough (in my early teens) to appreciate the rise of that scene. Now, that's not to say I wasn't expecting whinging, self-indulgent moaning, because of course I was, and I was expecting Stephen to apologise for it too, which he does at great length, but so much of it could have been edited out without taking away any of the sense. Stephen suffers from depression and feels guilty about it. We know this. He's told us before and he tells us again here. But once, twice is enough to get the measure of a man. Continuously telling us, and the measure begins to diminish.
I still love him, of course I do, and I still froth at the mouth for new QIs, but this book, unlike Moab is my Washpot, did not increase the fondness at all.
I love Stephen Fry as much as the next man, woman, child or endangered species does, but I found The Fry Chronicles cloying. It's not really, as it purports, about his time at Cambridge - this takes up a fairly miniscule amount of the book. The majority is concerned instead with, as Fry himself is at pains to stress in every other line, his enormous good fortune in finding highly paid work that he loved doing.
There is noticeably little about Hugh Laurie, for which there are many possible explanations: Fry didn't feel comfortable writing about him; Laurie didn't want anything but a few vague mentions; Laurie's American agents or lawyers didn't want anything but a few vague mentions; that's all to come in the next installment... I don't know, and, I realised as I read, that increasingly, I don't really care.
The problem I had with The Fry Chronicles is rather post-modern and is concerned with the set-up, which follows this pattern: Stephen tells us a story about how such-and-such a wonderful person (namedrop, namedrop) offered him a writing / acting / advertising job which paid an embarrasingly large sum of money with which he bought another house / car / computer, then proceeds to spend 4 pages whining about how none of this made him happy, and how he feels guilty that he still suffered from depression, and how he knows I, as his loyal reader, will HATE him whining about this, but how he still feels he must do it because that is his nature and after all, I'm reading the book because I am interested in his nature, aren't I?
Well, yes, Stephen, I suppose I am, but I am also interested in what that nature has to say about things outside of his own personal story. The parts where, for example, he uses Ben Elton's success as a springboard to give insightful commentary on the place of the arts in Thatcher's Britain, and suchlike, is far and away superior to whinging, self-indulgent moaning. His views on Rik Mayall, Alexei Sayle, class and alternative comedy are riveting and informative, particularly for one, like me, who was just old enough (in my early teens) to appreciate the rise of that scene. Now, that's not to say I wasn't expecting whinging, self-indulgent moaning, because of course I was, and I was expecting Stephen to apologise for it too, which he does at great length, but so much of it could have been edited out without taking away any of the sense. Stephen suffers from depression and feels guilty about it. We know this. He's told us before and he tells us again here. But once, twice is enough to get the measure of a man. Continuously telling us, and the measure begins to diminish.
I still love him, of course I do, and I still froth at the mouth for new QIs, but this book, unlike Moab is my Washpot, did not increase the fondness at all.
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Life On Air
I doubt there are many people who don't think Attenborough is God. Certainly, I think he's as close as we'll ever get to a higher being. On the environment and conservation, he makes more sense than virtually anyone else. For entertainment value, his programmes simply cannot be beaten. In light of this, Life On Air could be considered disappointing, simply because it is not the greatest book I have ever read - indeed, it's not even the greatest autobiography I've ever read. It is a little dry, a little "this happened, then this happened..." and there is a distinct sense of restraint that permeates the pages. However, it does do what it says on the tin, and it is most definitely not without many merits.
The focus is, as the title suggests, on the television side of Attenborough's life. There are brief insights into his personal life and the animals he has kept at home (a whole tribe of bush babies at one stage), but it is very much about what happened in the office, as it were. This, however, gives us a very interesting insight into the early days of television, and into BBC production values. On his new position as Controller of BBC2 in 1965, Attenborough says:
"...we were not in the business of producing carbon copies of programmes that were already being shown on other networks. Nor would we accept mindless programmes... We would present single gigantic productions that occupied an entire evening on subjects of particular importance that needed examination in depth... Following this came stylish serials based on novels such as Henry James, Sartre, Tolstoy... Music?...analyses of difficult modern works using scores with notes that animated as the music sounded so taht even viewers who were not accustomed to raeding musical scores could follow the structure of the music."
It sounds like dream television to me, but I'll not depress myself considering where it all went wrong.
Life On Air is absolutely an enjoyable read - how could it not be? Look at the author! It is written in Attenborough's distinctive voice, and is full of humourous anecdotes, history, archeology, zoology... The hardback is rammed with colour photos, an aspect lacking in the paperback. If this man holds any interest for you whatsoever, Life On Air is a must read - just don't expect it to be as groundbreaking as his tv programmes.
The focus is, as the title suggests, on the television side of Attenborough's life. There are brief insights into his personal life and the animals he has kept at home (a whole tribe of bush babies at one stage), but it is very much about what happened in the office, as it were. This, however, gives us a very interesting insight into the early days of television, and into BBC production values. On his new position as Controller of BBC2 in 1965, Attenborough says:
"...we were not in the business of producing carbon copies of programmes that were already being shown on other networks. Nor would we accept mindless programmes... We would present single gigantic productions that occupied an entire evening on subjects of particular importance that needed examination in depth... Following this came stylish serials based on novels such as Henry James, Sartre, Tolstoy... Music?...analyses of difficult modern works using scores with notes that animated as the music sounded so taht even viewers who were not accustomed to raeding musical scores could follow the structure of the music."
It sounds like dream television to me, but I'll not depress myself considering where it all went wrong.
Life On Air is absolutely an enjoyable read - how could it not be? Look at the author! It is written in Attenborough's distinctive voice, and is full of humourous anecdotes, history, archeology, zoology... The hardback is rammed with colour photos, an aspect lacking in the paperback. If this man holds any interest for you whatsoever, Life On Air is a must read - just don't expect it to be as groundbreaking as his tv programmes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
