A Tale of Two Authors...

Like many other writers, I didn't win the Nobel Prize for Literature last week. Congratulations to Làszló Krasznahorkai on his much-deserved accolade. 

I say 'much deserved' but the truth is, I haven't read any Làszló Krasznahorkai books to my knowledge. I'm sure they're marvellous. In fact, when I scroll his Wikipedia, it's clear he knows what he's doing. He's won a bunch of stuff, including the 2025 Man Booker International Prize and the 2013 Best Translated Book Award. He's obviously brilliant and I applaud his success.

Announcements like this remind me of my lack of interest in 'Good Books'. 'Good Books' are different from good books. Good books are books you enjoy. They're stories you race to read, reread, and lose yourself in. They're like old friends that take you away from all this, providing succour and amusement amidst the busyness of life. 

'Good Books', are an entirely different matter. They weighty and worthy. They can be bleak and unforgiving. Whilst the skills of their author are undoubtedly top notch, they're never books I want to reread. When I get to the end of one, I feel smug pride that I did it. Like climbing Everest or cleaning the house. 'Good Books' can be found on my bookshelves but they've been read once, if at all. Meanwhile, there're next to other books that are falling apart from having been read so often. They're the books that win the awards of my heart.

Me at uni.
 Barely taking it in.

I've said it before but it bears repeating. I felt very differently back in the day. When I was studying English Lit as part of my combined degree. I was so busy cramming my head with Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Webster, that over three years, I failed to read for fun. Can you imagine? Having been an avid reader my entire life, I spent the uni years reading prescribed content that mostly bored me. I could bang out a thousand words on a collection of poems or a particular play, but the reading material held no enjoyment. I finished uni with a brand new mindset - how wonderful that I don't have to read ANYTHING ever again.

That viewpoint lasted all of five minutes. After everyone packed up and left my house share, I had a spare weekend until I was leaving myself. A flatmate left me a Jane Green book and I idly had a look. That book filled my final weekend, and I was back - ready to love books once again. This time, however, I'D be in charge of my reading material.

Me, after uni,
reading for pleasure.

So why bring this up now? Well the world lost a literary giant last week. Not someone that troubled the Nobel Literature panel, but a beloved author nonetheless. Jilly Cooper, creator of the Rutshire Chronicles, died at the age of eighty eight. Her stories are really something. Long before I'd read one, I'd dismissed her work as trashy. I still had that English Lit snobbishness about me. When a colleague foisted Rivals on me at work, I took it to be polite. I remember planning to read the first couple of chapters, then hand it back pretending I'd finished. I'm sure you can work out what happened next. I DEVOURED it. 

Rivals was thrilling. Rutshire - a county filled with local TV 'celebrities', an ex-Olympian turned politician, and social engagement after social engagement - was Little England deliciously satirised. Then there was the sex. So much sex! Funny, camp, and almost always consensual. (The one non-consensual scene in Rivals is depicted as clearly not OK.) The sex is often gloriously concerned with women's pleasure, which for a novel written in the1980s, feels revolutionary. Because of the frequency and sometimes casual nature of the story's hook-ups, it's easy to think that's all there is. Wrong! Jilly Cooper's genius is in her gossipy description of place. What, on first glance can SEEM like a rambling saga, is really a masterclass in world-building. I want to live in Rutshire. I want to be Rupert Cambell Black's neighbour, I want to be best friends with Taggie, and I want to EXIST in this world. How lucky was I that there was a whole bunch of Rutshire-based stories in which to immerse myself.

Taggie and Rupert: working beautifully
in fiction but whose very existence 
would be insufferable in real life.

That's the genius of Jilly Cooper. Because at no point in REAL LIFE, would I want to exist in that world. In reality, I'd find Taggie insipid, I'd hate the constant obligation of socialising with the neighbours, and I'd find Rupert Campbell Black an absolute PERV. But on the page? I want it all! That's the power of storytelling. That's the power of Jilly Cooper's literary legacy. 

I reread Rivals last Autumn, after the TV series aired on Disney. I love that Jilly Cooper got to see her characters find a whole new audience. I love that she was exec-producing the series right to the end. I love the unwavering affection people have for her stories. When the news of her death broke, the outpouring online was lovely to read. 

Good books stay with you. They make you see the world in a different way. They provide comfort and escapism, whilst exploring truisms and tenets. Warm congratulations to Làszló Krasznahorkai on his deserved accolade. I'm happy that his work has been given this recognition and honour. Likewise, congratulations to Jilly Cooper for creating a world so beloved by millions, for being an author that gets repeatedly reread, and for providing pleasure and joy to generations. It would be a boring world if all the books on the shelf were the same.

Have a lovely week, folks.