Monday, November 21, 2005
The Flashman – George MacDonald Fraser
I decided this year to mop up those long term residents in my bookcases, the ones I’d had for years but never got round to reading, those epic poems and big novels that vanity had made me buy. I’d give them a try or get rid of them. Also, I’m painfully aware of my ignorance of literature, of all those “classics” of which I know nothing. So I made it a resolution to at least make an effort – I wouldn’t be overly-familiar with them, but it’d be nice to be on nodding terms. I became po-faced is what I’m saying. Until this. Until Flashman. The covers had always put me off – they seemed a little… Sharpe’s rifles. I needed a prod (recommendations by various people I respect) and a nudge (a Waterstones sale) to tip me over, but over I went.
People always talk about the historical accuracy of the Flashman books, that they’re well researched. But go too far down that route and you get twenty pages on sail formations – hello Patrick O’Brien*. Besides, this highlighting of accuracy is just a veil used to hide the naked enjoyment that people are too guilty to admit to feeling. Because this book is really good fun. It took me back to how reading used to be before my protestant work ethic kicked in: staying up too late because you can’t put it down, delighting in the actions of the characters. If I used phrases like “rip-roaring” I’d use it here. There are other reasons to read novels, of course, the insights into the human condition, the blah blah blah. But although it may contain many things, Rabbit, Run does not have a caddish soldier being tortured by a dusky Afghan beauty, and it is the poorer for it.
* Although Post Captain is pretty good, if only because one of the characters walks the entire length of France disguised as a bear. A bear!
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I decided this year to mop up those long term residents in my bookcases, the ones I’d had for years but never got round to reading, those epic poems and big novels that vanity had made me buy. I’d give them a try or get rid of them. Also, I’m painfully aware of my ignorance of literature, of all those “classics” of which I know nothing. So I made it a resolution to at least make an effort – I wouldn’t be overly-familiar with them, but it’d be nice to be on nodding terms. I became po-faced is what I’m saying. Until this. Until Flashman. The covers had always put me off – they seemed a little… Sharpe’s rifles. I needed a prod (recommendations by various people I respect) and a nudge (a Waterstones sale) to tip me over, but over I went.
People always talk about the historical accuracy of the Flashman books, that they’re well researched. But go too far down that route and you get twenty pages on sail formations – hello Patrick O’Brien*. Besides, this highlighting of accuracy is just a veil used to hide the naked enjoyment that people are too guilty to admit to feeling. Because this book is really good fun. It took me back to how reading used to be before my protestant work ethic kicked in: staying up too late because you can’t put it down, delighting in the actions of the characters. If I used phrases like “rip-roaring” I’d use it here. There are other reasons to read novels, of course, the insights into the human condition, the blah blah blah. But although it may contain many things, Rabbit, Run does not have a caddish soldier being tortured by a dusky Afghan beauty, and it is the poorer for it.
* Although Post Captain is pretty good, if only because one of the characters walks the entire length of France disguised as a bear. A bear!
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