“I’m English, we read novels”

Apparently, this is what Hugh Grant replied when, in the fallout from the Divine Brown affair, he was asked by talk-show host Jay Leno if he planned on seeking therapeutic help for his “problem.”

It’s a fun joke. It ticks all the boxes: stupid Americans, genteel Brits, the whiff of self satisfied one-up-manship which is crucial to a good punchline. And really, when we get to it, isn’t self-important posturing what good literature is all about?

I heard the Hugh Grant anecdote while sitting in the audiences at the first day of the Byron Bay Writers Festival [an editorial aside at this point: is it a Writers’ Festival (a festival belonging to writers) or a Writers Festival (a festival that can be described adjectivally as possessing the quality known as “writers”)]. The first panel of the day was entitled Books I’ve Loved, Books I’ve Loathed [come on down: Jennifer Byrne, Robert Drewe, Susan Wyndham (SMH Lit Ed) and Carrie Tiffany (whose name sounds perfectly improbable)] but, in an effort at full disclosure and critical accuracy it would appear that the “Loathed” part was really just thrown in to sex things up a bit. In a nutshell, books “loved” include: the Milly-Molly-Mandy and Silver Brumby series, anything by Dostoyevsky (anyone Russian, infact), Madame Bovery, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, Remains of the Day, Cloud Atlas, Gould’s Book of Fish. (My ears pricked up slightly to hear Wyndham name drop A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and The Corrections).

I anticipated that the tent would be a haven for much appreciative “oohing” and “mmming” as the panel luxuriated in their “passion for books.” I wasn’t disappointed. There’s really no better place to start for a researcher looking for material on what attracts audiences to Writers Fests. Interesting, isn’t it? This passion is so much more approvingly regarded than, say, the passions Hugh Grant was indulging roadside in downtown L.A. Which is funny, since the price for a blow job is often less than a new release hardback, and (depending what you’re reading) a satisfying blow job might at least serve as a respite from wanking. But I digress… Ah, yes, the passion for books. So self-approving. Such smug satisfaction.

A passion for television. A passion for Nascars. Neither has quite the same ring to it. The aura is definitely not 24 carat. The question is, why not? I suspect it has an awful lot to do with the idea that Hugh Grant hinted at – novel are all about therapy and self-correction.

Reading books is good for us. Those who do it regularly have the smug satisfaction of being able to report to others our unashamed “passion for books.” Think of it as therapy: “My name is Jo and I’m a book-a-holic.” Or a different kind of self improvement group exercise: aerobics classes for the mind. Surely it’s this kind of group therapy that is a big factor in the appeal of book clubs. Who likes them, really? Don’t we drop out of uni to avoid having to read books to a deadline, to discuss them solemnly, to disclose some kind of lesson we can draw from our reading to the group. Imagine Oprah or Jennifer Byrne as the spritely young, lycra-clad instructor who inspiringly castigates us: “C’mon, 40 more pages, feel the burn!”

Maybe the appeal is that reading is one of the last things you can do while still feeling supremely virtuous. Reading is the intellectual equivalent of the fat-free French fry. No wonder so many people around me are nodding and making appreciative sounds while we listen to the panel discuss their socially acceptable addiction. “Mmm, Dostoyevsky…”