Customer Reviews

Shakespeare Wrote for Money

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I knew nothing about Nick Hornby's monthly "Stuff I've Been Reading" columns in "Believer" magazine until yesterday when I came across this book in my local bookstore, bought it on impulse, and then read it in a couple hours. If you too are unfamiliar with Hornby's column, it was an amiable and often humorous survey of the books Hornby had bought and those he had read the previous month. SHAKESPEARE WROTE FOR MONEY (I guess I somehow missed the source or derivation of that title) is a collection of 15 "Stuff I've Been Reading" columns, the third and last such collection.

SHAKESPEARE WROTE FOR MONEY is on the meager side (131 pages), but that is one of only two criticisms. Hornby's reading interests are diverse and eclectic, and his columns are informal and informative, never stuffy or donnish, and usually both fun and funny. The quality of the last three columns (and this is the second criticism) dropped markedly, as if Hornby was losing interest and motivation, and indeed in the last column he announces that he is quitting the gig. A bonus is the funny and kind introduction from Sarah Vowell, whose humor and style is similar to Hornby's.

Examples of Hornby's (1) wit and (2) insight:

(1) Hornby juxtposes a book about the Band and another about the Stasi: "It goes without saying that the two wires that led me to the books * * * came from different sockets in the soul, and power completely different * * * electrical/spiritual devices: [the books] are as different as a hair dryer and a Hoover. Yes. That's it. I'm the first to admit it when my metaphors don't work, but I'm pretty sure I pulled that one off. (I wish I'd hated them both. Then I could have said that one sucks, and the other blows.)"

(2) In the course of commenting on the unrelenting depressive effect of Cormac McCarthy's "The Road": "How many times have you read someone describe a novel as 'unflinching,' in approving terms? What's wrong with a little flinch every once in a while? * * * Yes, it's the job of artists to force us to stare at the horror until we're on the verge of passing out. But it's also the job of artists to offer warmth and hope and maybe even an escape from lives that can occasionally seem unendurably drab."

SHAKESPEARE WROTE FOR MONEY was not so special that I am inclined to borrow or buy either of the two predecessor volumes, but it did provide me with two hours of entertaining and pleasurable reading and it did alert me to a half dozen other books that I am inclined to borrow or buy.

"Shakespeare Wrote For Money" is Nick Hornby's latest and last collection of his "Stuff I've Been Reading" columns from "The Believer Magazine." The format, a monthly informal essay that begins with a list of books bought and a list of those actually read, is conversational and personal. The first collection, "The Polysyllabic Spree" was a winning surprise, turbo charged with Hornby's wit, enthusiasm and authentic warmth for books, his audience and life in general, all delivered in a caffeine-jolted voice. He's the cool kid on the bus who lets us all sit with him. You get the idea he cares what we think. He never apologizes for being punch-drunk in love with reading.

Now at the end of his "Stuff" career, his voice and style are no longer a surprise but remain something to enjoy. He's not bouncing off the walls anymore, which makes one wonder if he's traded to decaf and quit smoking. He takes some breaks, too; and there's one month where football on television became a priority and another when he's reviewing films to vote in the Brit version of the Academy Awards. But when he's on, he's on, as when he wants to wholly admire "On Chesil Beach" but he can't entirely let go an unintentional anachronism author Ian McEwan lets slip in a reference to the Beatles and the Stones. He wonders what's wrong with flinching when reading "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy. This time around (columns from 2006 to his last, September 2008), Hornby discovers, for starters, a wonderland in Young Adult novels, chats up his brother-in-law's books because they deserve it, and notes how many recent books are devoted to particular years, like "1599: A Year in the Life of Shakespeare."

I came away with some titles to follow up on and a lot of fun conversation from the other side of the pond. I don't blame him for moving on, but I'll miss these columns.

I stumbled on this book at a library book sale last weekend. I'd read Nick Hornby's The Polysyllabic Spree and Housekeeping vs. the Dirt, but didn't even know there was a new collection of his Stuff I've Been Reading columns from The Believer Magazine. Not only did I find a book I knew I would enjoy, but at a bargain price!

The book starts with a fun introduction by Sarah Vowell, but the bad news is that this is Hornby's final collection of columns for the foreseeable future. The good news is that this short collection is at least as enjoyable as the previous compilations.

As usual, we scrutinize what books Hornby has bought each month and which books he's read. We take special interest in his thoughts on the books we've also read. And we consider his advice about which books to add to our own list.

A highlight for me in this volume was Anna Funder's Stasiland: Stories from Behind the Berlin Wall, which I was pleased to find that he enjoyed as much as I did. He also did the obligatory plug for his brother-in-law's latest novel, The Ghost by Robert Harris. Although I thought The Ghost was better than the previous novels, Pompeii: A Novel and Imperium: A Novel of Ancient Rome, I still wouldn't go so far as to recommend it. But then again, Harris isn't my brother-in-law.

Since Hornby has recently written a young adult novel, Slam, he has more young adult books on his reading list this time around. I was intrigued by two literary criticism books he mentions: Francis Spufford's The Child That Books Built: A Life in Reading and Daniel Pennac's The Rights of the Reader. Those are going on my list.

A typically amusing section has Hornby discussing the complicated love lives of Penelope and John Mortimer, in which he condemns John, not for cheating on his wife, but for neglecting to read her books. "This is unforgivable," he declares. "If I ever caught my wife not reading something I'd written, there's be trouble."

I'm a huge fan of Hornby's columns in The Believer and loved his first collection of them in "The Complete Polysyllabic Spree". It collected the columns from Sept 03 to June 06 and reading his views on the books he reads, I picked out some fantastic reads. These included books I wouldn't have found out for myself like "Citizen Vince" by Jess Walter, "Persepolis" by Marjane Satrapi, "Hangover Square" by Patrick Hamilton, "Train" by Pete Dexter and "The Men Who Stare at Goats" by Jon Ronson. There were a few books I tried which Hornby recommended but I'll continue the tradition of The Believer and not mention the books I didn't like (besides you might like them). It also includes the most impassioned introduction about reading I've read, and is a reason unto itself to check this book out, as well as an hilarious review of Iain M. Banks' sci-fi novel "Excession" which is a joy to read and is classic Hornby humour.

This is the next and unfortunately last book of the series. It picks up from the last book with the columns from Aug 06 to Sept 08, rounding out a 5 year stint in The Believer. The only edition available seems to be The Believer's publication of it as Penguin seem to have passed on it. Unfortunately, I can see why.

Unlike the last book, none of the books Hornby talked about which I tried were any good. He seems to have run out of steam and interest. One month he fails to read anything and witters on about how busy his life is. Another month he reviews DVDs. That's all fine by me by the way but part of why "The Complete Polysyllabic Spree" is so special to me is because I share an enthusiasm for books and love to read them and, strangely, read about people reading them. With Hornby not doing that I'm not interested.

Another reason why I loved the first book was that it introduced me to books I'd never have encountered by myself. With this book Hornby's recommendations are dull at best. Flash in the pan books about iPods, WW2 battles, and Ian McEwan novels aren't things I would read even if I hadn't heard of them but those kinds of books are so ubiquitous that even if I tried reading them I'd be bored. Also Hornby's writing has become a bit mundane. A bit, dare I say it, Literary? I hate it when populist writers try to become critically acclaimed as well. Stephen King's gone down that route and now Hornby has as well. Consequently his writing has lost the spark of vitality and wit that it had before and has a cautious, self aware tone to it.

It's a shame too because "High Fidelity" is both one of my favourite books and films and "About a Boy" is his superb and worthy contribution to Western literature. Now he churns out tat like "Slam" and apparently this book too. Ah well, at least "The Complete Polysyllabic Spree" is still out there. Get that instead of this and then see if the library stocks this if you want to read more. I wouldn't bother spending the fiver on this.

I discovered Nick Hornby by accident when I picked up the The Polysyllabic Spree, the first of the three collections of his book criticism originally written for the Believer magazine. He followed Spree with Housekeeping vs. the Dirt and ends (unfortunately) with Shakespeare Wrote for Money. The title is a throw away line from the book but is also classic Hornby. This little demythifacation (is that a word?)of the Bard tells us that Hornby realizes that any writer is first, a person (like himself) who struggles to get words on paper in a satisfying order, with narrative arc and skill, who is also trying to Say Something worth reading. And, maybe, make a living. There is not an ounce of oracular pronouncement, not a whit of assuming he is better read than you or I (but, of course, he is) and he jabs at High Literary Merit criticism on a regular basis. Hornby is funnier than you and I are, in that dry British way I can only envy. Barred, he says, from saying anything unkind about any writer, he still manages to point out that some books, while they may deserve to be printed (writers need to eat, after all), do not deserve to be discussed. His enthusiasms can be enormous, but they are replaced (or augmented) a month or two later with a new enthusiasm. He takes time off to root for Arsenal (his home team), tease his friends (Sarah Vowell comes up), smoke and to be thrilled and a teeny bit jealous of the writers who conquer narrative arcs, effective language and insight. He ranges through 'literary novels', mysteries, graphic novels,political history and current events,genre benders and anything else that catches his eye.

If you can say with honesty that you have been known to read three or four books a month, pick up these far too short collections and get some tips from a guy you'd want to have a beer with. Maybe two. Bring a pencil, because you'll want to remember some of his recommendations.

I'm not a reader of The Believer, and I wasn't overwhelmed with The Polysyllabic Spree or Housekeeping Vs. The Dirt, and I'm even less enthusiastic about this book, which I bought only knowing its author and no idea what would be on the inside. I love Nick Hornby's novels, and tolerated his earlier columns, but I think this book was a bridge too far. Having read many of the columns already, the pattern emerges, even to the point that I wondered if I had already read this book. Against type, he makes jokes out of facile word play; it's the sort of writing you'd expect from someone who hasn't anything to say and not that much time to say it.

Perhaps I've read too many of his columns, but I had the feeling that I was in the pub hearing the same stories that I've heard over and over. A reader of a monthly magazine column might not notice that, but reading these bits straight through tends to highlight the similarities between each column.

I said this for Hornby's previous collection of essays on his monthly readings and purchases, but it bears repeating: You know what's more fun than writing about great books? Reading a great book about reading good books and writing, written by a great (and a personal favorite) writer. Hornby doesn't only make great recommendations, but his columns are about the nature of reading and literature in general. In this collection, he brings up a few interesting points. First, that the literary world seems to equate gloom, gore, and darkness with truth and beauty. Makes no sense. Second, Hornby writes about what really makes a reader, and how maybe parents and teachers are quite going about it the right way (as a constructivist teacher, a student of Dewey, Frank Smith, and other educators that have been saying this for decades, this I already knew). Hornby also delves into the rich world of young adult literature (annoyingly after he's already written his own young adult novel, Slam, but as his novel is incredible and also heartily devoured by a few of my students, he is forgiven). His promotion of great young adult literature was much appreciated by me, who has enjoyed the good stuff and spat on the bad stuff in the "genre" (that I also teach). Excellent essays. Excellent writing, as always. Grade: A

I LOVE HORNBY. He's so interesting and funny. And a damn good writer too. This trilogy: The Polysyllabic Spree, Dirt vs. Housekeeping, and now Shakespeare Wrote for Money -- they're brilliant and I'm so sad he's not writing these reviews anymore ... I hope it's just temporary.
Excerpt:

... a novel I had just abandoned by a senior, highly regarded literary figure ... It wasn't just the opacity of the prose that led me to abandon the novel, however; I didn't like the characters who populated it much, either. They were all languidly middle class, and they drank good wine and talked about Sartre, and I didn't want to know anything about them. This is entirely unreasonable of me, I accept that. But prejudice has to be an important part of our decision-making process when it comes to reading; otherwise, we would become overwhelmed. For months I have been refusing to read a novel that a couple of friends have been urging upon me, a novel that received wonderful reviews and got nominated for prestigious prizes. I'm sure it's great, but I know it's not for me: the author is posh -- posh English, which is somehow worse than posh American, even -- and he writes about posh people, and I have taken the view that life is too short to spend any time worrying about the travails of the English upper classes. If you had spent the last half century listening to the strangled vows and the unexamined, usually dim assumptions that frequently emerge from the mouths of a certain kind of Englishman, you'd feel entitled to a little bit of inverted snobbery.

And yet another Excerpt:

I recently discovered that when my friend Mary has finished a book, she won't start another for a couple of days--she wants to give her most recent reading experience a little more time to breathe, before it's suffocated by the next. This makes sense, and it's an entirely laudable policy, I think. Those of us who read neurotically, however--to ward off boredom, and the fear of our own ignorance, and our impending deaths--can't afford the time.

Brilliant! Describes me to a tee.

A friend kindly lent me this book. I'll freely admit that I'm not a big fan of Hornby in general, and actually had no idea that he had ever written monthly columns for the Believer magazine about his book purchases and reading experiences. (This book was the last collection of these columns.)

I found it a sprightly and entertaining read. He managed to talk me into adding some authors to my wish list who would normally be pretty far outside of my normal round of reading. I was particularly pleased at the attention that he gave to Young Adult, since I'm starting to read more widely in that genre right now.

I imagine that this will become dated, with time. It seems as though it would be especially good for Hornby fans.

A book about books by an author of books with extra book sauce.

Nick Hornby is a charming writer. His collection of essays from The Believer about the books he has read (or feels he ought to have read) make excellent reading, and when transported to the bookshop, make a handy reading guide.

Prepare for late nights with the bedside lamp.