“Autobiography is only to be trusted when it reveals something disgraceful. A man who gives a good account of himself is probably lying.”

“Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities. Truth isn’t.” I love fiction, around 90% of the books I own are “made up”‘. I love the fact that anything can happen, that someone’s imagination has conjured up the story, the characters, the events. There’s something safe about fiction. If it all gets a bit upsetting, or a bit dark or a bit difficult to read, you can always remind yourself that it’s not real, but autobiographies tell a tale that, no matter how harrowing, is true. An autobiography is a person’s life, in black and white, the good parts and the not-so-good parts.

As someone who cries at the drop of a hat (not literally – hat-dropping doesn’t seem serious enough to warrant tears unless perhaps it was a favourite hat and it was dropped onto a bonfire, that would be upsetting), I tend to steer clear of the autobiography section. For a start, I hate the covers. I like books that look nice, I judge every book by its cover, in fact I judge most things by their covers – in Marks and Spencer I choose desserts based on the photo on the packaging, and photos of celebrities looking over-airbrushed do not for a nice cover make. It’s as though they’re saying “I wrote this, and to make that clear here’s a photo of me”. J.K. Rowling didn’t plaster her face all over the Harry Potter books, did she? Yes, the photo isn’t there because they wrote it, it’s there because it’s about them but it still irritates me. Russell Brand had a nice drawing (by Shepard Fairey for his second book who did the “Hope” posters for Obama) instead of a badly posed photo. It wouldn’t be so bad if these “celebrities” (as let’s be honest, they’re normally just D-list exposes) even used nice photos but they never do. The photo issue aside, if I went to a bookshop and, for a change, looked at the autobiographies, I guarantee over three-quarters of them are by celebrities that I, and probably the majority of other people, couldn’t care less about. Apparently Justin Bieber has an autobiography? Actually, I know this to be the case, as Amazon listed it in “reads of the week”; I don’t think I’ve ever felt more let down. Obviously much of this animosity stems from a general hatred of Justin Bieber, but he’s about seven (ish) – what on earth does he have to write about?!

However, I don’t wish to tar all autobiographies with the “too young to have anything to say, or too stupid to have anything to say” brush; admittedly, some are rather good. Russell Brand aside, some autobiographies are actually written by people who are surprisingly self-deprecating. I say surprisingly because you don’t expect this from those in the public eye, yet remarkably, it’s often the most famous who are the most humble. Nelson Mandela, who outwardly appears as though he has no flaws, presents rather a different side of himself. It is an autobiography which seeks to show you something different, it teaches and informs and is something to take a lot from. The saving grace of many autobiographies is that they have the ability to give guidance, to encourage thinking and self-examination. Eugene Sledge’s book “With The Old Breed” details his time fighting in Peleliu and Okinawa; it opens up a world that many people know nothing about and in that sense I think there’s a lot of value to be gained from such life stories. Similarly, in looking for an autobiography, many are too quick to grab the newest celebrity best-seller. Just because someone isn’t famous, isn’t in Heat magazine, and  wouldn’t be recognised in the street, doesn’t mean their life is any less worthy. In fact, when you consider a lot of celebrity autobiographies, it is more often than not the ones written by “normal people” that are most poignant, touching or informative. David and James Livingston’s “Blood Over Water” made me cry a lot, and they’re just two normal guys competing in a (very famous) boat race.

Autobiographies are often too truthful. Sometimes the element of fiction is comforting, it’s a nice reminder that it’s not real and that no matter how many pages I’ve cried over, it didn’t actually happen. An autobiography is an alarmingly open glimpse of a person’s life, with all of the horrors and difficulties they had to face. When I cry reading an autobiography it’s for a real human being, for someone who has suffered more than I could ever begin to understand. Fiction is a sort of safety-net, if things get a bit difficult, the author can make them right again. On a lot of occasions I’ve avoided an autobiography because I have a  feeling I won’t like, or be able to cope with, what’s inside – I know that there’s going to be parts that are upsetting and painful and empathy is an emotion I’m very familiar with. However, sometimes I really just couldn’t care less – Katie Price, take note.

“Because horror on Earth is real and it is every day. It is like the flower or like the sun; it cannot be contained.”

I hate criticising books, I like to see some good in all of them. In a way books are like men, if you dig deep enough you find that they’re not really that bad, there’s normally a few redeeming qualities. That said, I occasionally find a book pretty poor. This always disappoints me, it’s like buying dessert from Marks and Spencer and it not quite living up to expectations – very rare, very surprising and ultimately rather upsetting. It’s even worse when everyone else thinks the book is great, and when they make a film that everyone thinks is great.

 “The Lovely Bones” was a very, very surprising instance when I thought the film was actually better than the book. And the film wasn’t even that good. I watched it online as unfortunately I was in the midst of exams when it was released. This was probably for the best as I cried my way through the majority of it. Plus, the cinema tends to annoy me. I always end up stuck behind someone who talks too loudly, or eats popcorn too loudly, or a couple who kiss their way through the entire movie. I don’t understand people who go on first dates to the cinema, why would you want to sit in the dark in silence? If I was planning a date it’d be somewhere we could talk, plus I cry so much during practically every film that we’d have to go see something like X-Men (although I did have a little weep at Wolverine – at the point where I realised Hugh Jackman and I will never be together) so that he didn’t see me sobbing hysterically.

The book wasn’t awful, it just wasn’t good. The first time I read it, I thought it was alright then I re-read it after watching the movie and realised that during the first read my judgement had clearly been clouded by tears. I don’t mind a bit of an unrealistic plot; I’ll be the first to bestow the virtues of “Harry Potter” or “Lord of the Rings”, but I don’t like the use of the ghost. I don’t like that the novel is narrated by the girl murdered at the beginning. It just seems a little awkward, a little creepy I suppose. The premise is good, the book attempts to portray the struggle faced by the parents of the girl whose life is so tragically cut short. But I don’t like her parents a lot, I don’t like how her Mum leaves her Dad, abandoning her husband when he needs her. I like her Dad’s desire to find justice but not the way he goes about it, he becomes obsessed with it, involving his other daughter in his ridiculous and dangerous plans to ensnare the killer. I don’t like the killer either. Well, obviously not. But the character annoys me, he’s not well established in the sense that there’s so much more potential for him. Even at the end of the novel where he reappears and it finally becomes interesting, he dies in the most ludicrous way possible. I’d have preferred some more development of his character and the story, some progression and a better ending I suppose. It would have been nice to see justice reached, to see him punished, instead of a ridiculous icicle-induced death. Yes, an icicle. The ending seems rushed, as though Alice Sebold ran out of paper, or time, or just stopped caring. Another hundred pages would have been nice, a better ending and less loose ends.

Reading a book is like learning to drive, it doesn’t always go well at first but eventually it’s fine, although I do have a friend who crosses himself before he gets in a car with me, so perhaps this isn’t the best analogy. Books take time, at first glance they can appear rubbish, at second or third read they can appear rubbish, but I like to think there’s something good in them all. I’m incredibly careful with my books, I tend not to let people borrow them (I’m not a library) and I hate curled up pages or creases in the spine. A few of my books have, due to over-reading, become somewhat less than perfect however, so the general rule is that any which aren’t in good condition are so good I had to read them multiple times. Or so bad I had to read them multiple times. And “The Lovely Bones” certainly looks out of place in my collection of pristine novels.

“Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing themselves”

Even for those who like reading, “War and Peace” is challenging. For a start it’s about a million pages long (approximately); I bought a copy for a friend recently and had completely forgotten how huge it is. Although it’s a bit of a struggle, finishing it is worth it, for the sense of achievement at least. To be honest, in between reading it, which shamefully took me a good few weeks, I read at least four Agatha Christie novels and the seventh Harry Potter.

The novel isn’t as one would first think, merely about War, it’s about the lives of the people affected. It gives a wonderful insight into the experiences of each character, and shows the more human aspect of War . At the novel’s opening there are rather a lot of characters, probably a few too many and it’s fairly hard to remember who each of them is. Some of them are far more prominent than the others however, and have a story that is more important in the framework of the novel as a whole. That’s one of the wonderful things about books, the characters aren’t part of the story, they are the story. A friend of mine who is a wonderful writer says that he always starts with the character and lets them tell their story. I think that’s fantastic and such an excellent understanding of how a novel works. In terms of characters, I loved Countess Natalia who’s described as “not pretty but full of life” which says a lot about the book itself; it concentrates on what’s important. And what’s important isn’t what you would first think is important.

“War and Peace” delineates the events leading up to Napoleon’s invasion of Russia, but the conflict provides a mere backdrop for the complicated love stories which are the really the main feature. The novel comprises numerous themes; I think you can judge a book’s value based on whether there are themes. For instance, in most modern trashy romance novels the theme is betrayal, or self-discovery, or affair and to be honest I just don’t think that measures up. “War and Peace” examines numerous themes; vanity, pre-destination and regeneration are all highly important. Admittedly, there are certain points where the themes over-shadow the characters slightly and it can be difficult to understand what is happening. In a way, it’s like a soap opera. The novel may be about a serious subject and the undertones are rather depressing, but it is the interaction between the characters and the progression of their lives that makes the book so highly regarded.

It’s certainly not the easiest of reads, but the effort required is worth it. Initially it’s incredibly difficult to remember who each of the characters are, and I ended up with countless sheets of paper covered in notes. What’s remarkable is the sense of equality – Tolstoy accords the same amount of time and effort to each character, regardless of their place or status in society. Through the eyes of Pierre, the chief protagonist, we see the impact of Napoleon’s invasion of Russia, we see how the everyday lives of five families are affected by the strife. The sign of a good book is its ability to make you feel empathy, to make you feel for each of the characters and Tolstoy achieves this marvelously. As the book progresses, you feel sorry for Andrew who is trapped in a marriage with a woman he has “become bored of” (to be honest, as harsh as this seems, she is bloody boring), you feel hatred towards Helene who is essentially a  bit of a hussy (although I was rather impressed by her ability to ensnare men), and you feel so much affection towards Pierre for being so human in a time when few other people, especially of his social standing, were.

Tolstoy uses his protagonist to voice his own opinions; the main beauty of  a novel is its ability to be truly personal, it is impossible to write well without drawing on your own experiences or feelings. The book may be long, and in places rather hard-reading but it’s passionate and truthful and full of  emotion. In a way, it’s one of those books you have to read just to say you have. The friend who I bought a copy for said he’d always wanted to read it and at over 1500 pages long, it’s quite the achievement to finish it. And as I told him, if it’s not going well it least it’ll make a good pillow on a long flight.

“I don’t care to use such language. And if I did, I wouldn’t use it for anything a pair of girls could do, you need a man for that I think you’ll find.”

What makes a book a classic? Who decides what goes in the “classics” section in the bookshop? Apparently, well according to The Times but I generally  take most of that to be true, in order to be a classic, a book must have morality, effective language, truthfulness, universality and timelessness. But there are a lot of novels that meet those criteria that aren’t traditionally classics, or weren’t written hundreds of years ago. “Tipping the Velvet” is fairly contemporary, in the sense that it was written within the last twenty years. It may have been set in the nineteenth century but it examines some issues that, in those times, were exceptionally risqué.

The title is incredibly suggestive for a start, and it does mean what I thought it meant. Being classy, innocent and reserved it’s not something I want to discuss in a lot of detail, but they reveal the meaning about halfway through the book. Don’t google it, I dread to think what results would come up. In terms of the lesbian relationship aspect, it’s rather strange to think that something now considered normal was practically unheard of in the 1890s. Basically, working-class Nan (who’s far too obsessed with the theatre) falls in love with Kitty (who works in the theatre). Aside from the issue of them having to keep their illicit affair….. illicit, Kitty is so far in the closet that she’s practically in Narnia. As with so many love stories, it follows the pattern of A loves B more than B loves A, eventually, due to A finding B in bed with someone else (in this instance Kitty sees Nan visiting her parents as the ideal opportunity to indulge in some sex with someone of the opposite gender) realises this and moves on. Cue much tears, other ill-advised relationships then settling down with someone altogether more suitable.

Aside from the whole love issue, the novel also concentrates on the differences between men and women, between rich and poor and is an interesting portrayal of how different things were only a hundred years ago. Nan spends a large portion of the novel dressed as a man and it’s interesting to see the differences in the way she’s treated; she attempts to explore London but is only able to do so when people think she’s male. Only around a century has passed, yet the differences in terms of social attitudes towards men and woman are outstanding. In fact, only twenty years after the period in which the novel was set, women were campaigning for the vote and by the early 1970s had fought to receive equal pay. The manner in which people are treated as a direct result of gender is a concept which permeates the novel, as is the idea of the stark difference between the classes. Nan struggles to cross the class divide and transcend from her working-class background into the high-class glamorous theatre world, but she doesn’t discover it to be how she expected. To be honest, it’s just not worth the effort, she was far happier when she wasn’t trying so hard to impress or so hard to be someone else.

With regards to being someone else, the novel is essentially about discovery. It’s about discovering who you are, and who you want to be. And who you want to be with. The more colourful parts aren’t always comfortable reading, and the BBC adaptation starring Keeley Hawes (that bird from “Spooks”) was fairly racy, but the sexuality element is interesting. When the novel opens, Nan is just an ordinary girl with a love for the theatre, there is nothing to suggest that she will later “have relations” shall we say, with another woman. It raises the question regarding sexuality – is it definitive or is it more of a spectrum? Nan falls in love with Kitty because of who she is, irrespective of her gender. Is love something that is based upon the person? Does it matter if they’re male or female? The novel encourages self-examination, it encourages thinking and encourages the changing of any pre-conceptions. However, I can see why it’s been considered fairly controversial – it’s rather raunchy and I blushed while reading a lot of it, so it looks like it didn’t suddenly make me think I should start having sex with women. Although then again, for Eva Mendes I could be tempted……