Reading

Michael Henderson in an article in The Telegraph writes of a certain novelist Philip Hensher (of whom I had not heard) who reads five novels per week; Henderson finds this amazing and a trifle dispiriting. He doesn't read anything like that number. Neither do I.
The last novel I started - and didn't finish - was Leavitt's "The Indian Clerk"; it was all going fine up to about the fourth or fifth chapter; I was quite interested in this brilliant mathematician, Ramanujan, who was brought over to England by Hardy the Cambridge mathematician; then the novel seemed to wish to concentrate on the sexual lives of these Cambridge "Apostles" and, quite frankly, I got bored. If they had not been homosexuals I'd have still got bored. Even the portrayal of Bertrand Russell, possibly the only heterosexual amoungst them, was rather boring.
But there are few novels these days of which I can read more than the first few chapters, sex or no sex. I am reminded of Samuel Johnson who was told by a friend that he had just read a novel; Johnson, amazed and stupefied said: "Right through?"
Well, I am a very slow reader. Though my reading of Thomas Mann's "The Magic Mountain" may actually break some kind of record in length of time to finish. It took me, off and on, twenty years.
I went to one of those weekends, some time ago, devoted to the study of the short story. At breakfast one morning I sat opposite Ian McEwan and mentioned to him that I had just finished the Mann novel after 20 years. He did not show any surprise. Or interest. Not: "that's rather a long time I would have thought," or "For Christ's sake are you dislexic or something?" No. Nothing. Not a dicky bird. Then he started talking about his own books and he appeared much happier and livelier.... We were onto his favourite subject I could see.
Perhaps he's like that famous novelist who said to someone: "Let's stop talking about me and talk about you, shall we? Have you read my latest book?"