Having reached an age when the number of novels I can realistically read is no longer seemingly infinitesimal, I have hit upon one single attribute that I demand of any book that I do actually choose to read.

I must actively look forward to the prospect of returning to it.

I do a lot of reading at bedtime.  Whatever novel is sitting on my bedside table, I want to have a feeling of pleasurable anticipation in being able to pick it up again and continue reading the story.

Partly, it is this linking of place and experience, which has brought about this stipulation.  I do not want to dread bedtime because I have an unpalatable book to read.  I want to look forward to bedtime so that I can read my book.

It little matters the subject matter – classical literature; detective novel; even childhood favourite.  Equally, it doesn’t matter whether it is a book I have never read before, or one that I have previously read half a dozen times, all that is important to me is the prospect of being thrilled at returning to read it.

Now, this criteria does not necessarily exclude ‘tough’ reads.  Some ‘tough’ reads can still be eagerly anticipated – I am not one to shirk a Henry James.  By looking forward to reading, I am not establishing myself exclusively as a pleasure seeker.  Call me a literary masochist, but I believe it is possible to look forward to some degree of reading pain.

But, what I am increasing intolerant of is literary indifference.

And, while I recognise that some very worthy books will fall by the wayside of my prejudice, I am going to make no apology for preferring to read the Hardy Boys over James Joyce.

© Fergus Longfellow

Fergus Longfellow always makes a point of looking forward to bedtime.