On reading Penelope Fitzgerald's 'The Beginning of Spring'

At the end of chapter nine I have put the book to one side. I go onto the web to see what others have to say about the complexities of writing fiction. I recall the label 'literary fiction' and I find a plethora of descriptions and definitions, some of which are diametrically opposed to each other. Not terribly helpful, though two observations are provocative.

"Literary fiction is the kind of writing which wins a Booker Prize."

Something worth thinking about. And I have half-a-dozen such prizewinners on my shelves. I started, but I never finished any one of them. They didn't move me. They didn't communicate. Ensconced in their ivory tower.

"You have to have studied at a university before you can understand literary fiction."

I absorb the implications of that thought. It's partway to explication.

I turn to chapter ten. I begin to read - slowly. It becomes hypnotic.

My conscious mind alerts. I'd been entranced by sequences of words, appreciating them as precious literary workmanship. And there they remain. Words on the page. Cerebral. Remote. Rarefied. I long for a shared experience of real flesh and blood characters. I want to be part of the sights, the sounds, the smells, that surround them. I yearn to be transported into the creations of the author's imagination. 

For now .. I rest. Earthbound. Unmoved.

francis cameron, oxford, 31 march 2014