Sir Bob Jones
nopunchespulled.com
It’s a fairly regular occurrence for economists, historians and the like to poke fun in studies at the age-old practise (common with the ancient Greeks) of older generations bemoaning the contemporary decline of life when compared to the “good old days”. Stuff ran such an article recently in which an economist produced figures to show we’ve never been better off.
The problem with these advocacies is of necessity they’re confined to measurable economic data. But there’s a lot more to life than those concerns, important though they are.
For example, it’s indisputable that contemporary generations are spectacularly ignorant when compared with say my schooldays generation.
Once, my then 18-year-old son, beneficiary of our best private schools’ education in Wellington and Sydney, was blown away when I showed him my 1953 3rd form text books at then newly opened Naenae College.
It was rough as guts and positively anarchic outside of the school room but by God, we received a terrific education. Having put numerous kids through our supposed top private schools, I’m shocked at the mediocrity and nonsense, these outfits serve up, especially the private girls’ colleges. Maori wonderfulness and the bloody Treaty are seemingly priorities.
Older academic friends recount their dismay at the general ignorance of incoming new university students. A major culprit is the cell phone but in my eyes, an even bigger one is the decline in book-reading.
Currently, throughout the Western world, 75% of fiction is read by women. It baffles me.
I rate fiction, and especially comedic writing as one of the greatest joys in my life. High on the list of pleasures is creation of my libraries in four countries.
This zeal traces back to my state house childhood in the 1950s. We were all dead poor, nevertheless, every state house in my milieu contained libraries. I still recall them.
Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath” was a standard, reflecting the impact the 1930s depression had on the working classes. But we also had “Cannery Row” which in the context of the times was remarkable, and specially its successor “Sweet Thursday” written in the 1950s when Steinbeck had lightened up from his early days gloom. Those two books had enormous influence, particularly in America with young people aspiring to become marine biologists.
Betty Smith’s “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” was in every home, so too it’s copycat “The Harp in the South” by our own lovely Ruth Park. Norman Collins, who Evelyn Waugh enjoyed ridiculing, published “London Belongs to Me” in 1945 and every home seemingly had a copy. As a boy I loved it and I was delighted to pick up a copy in a second-hand bookshop recently.
One oddity was a book “Abyssinia on the Eve” written by a Hungarian, Ladislas Farago in 1935. It was a very readable account of then Abysinnia with lots of photos. But why did so many homes have it? I can only speculate that the pending Italian invasion, a pre-runner to the Second World War sparked the interest but right up until about 1970 copies were commonplace in our second-hand bookshops.
Book reading is highly addictive and it saddens me that so many young folk these days have never experienced it.
That said, the industry is on the rebound with more books being produced than ever before and in Britain, the number of bookshops on a sharp rise.
A fortnight back we drove down to Wigtown (look it up), a delightful two-hour trip. I was last there about eight years ago and expected a declining scene given its remoteness. But to the contrary and we had trouble finding a park. Heaps more bookshops had opened and the town was packed, so too its restaurants and cafes which had sprung up in response. Talking of lunch brought back an amusing recollection.
On that occasion, chatting to Shaun Bythell who had started it all, we’d asked where we could get lunch. Only the pub across the road, he’d advised. So we bowled over and into an empty dining room. Quaffing our wine, after about five minutes a middle-aged bloke came in and in the typical fashion I’m accustomed to in Scotland, pulled up a chair and poured himself a drink.
“You chaps look like you know a thing or two,” he said. “I desperately need advice. What I want to know is are all women bloody mad?”
We solemnly assured him they are. It transpired he’d bought the business a fortnight earlier and that morning, succumbing to its pressure she’d walked out.
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