![]() I was also curious because it was set in Nottingham, where I’d grown up. From what I remember, my sudden urge to read this two-decade-old novel stemmed from seeing the 1960 film adaptation on TV. I suppose I must have been about 17 at the time. I was drawn to Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, Alan Sillitoe’s 1958 debut novel, for just such unintellectual reasons. ![]() I’ve even occasionally bought books because of their attractive dust jackets. On the other hand, I’ve sometimes ended up reading a book for no other reason than that I came across a cheap copy of it. I must admit I’ve sometimes been put off a writer’s work by a humourless radio interview or a smug-looking publicity photo. Like most people, my own selections tend to be guided by an admiration for an author’s previous books or an interest in a specific subject. The point is, I suspect our choices are influenced by all sorts of factors we’re ashamed to acknowledge. ![]() ![]() Not that there’s anything wrong with Kingsley Amis’s novel: far from it. It can be hard to pin down one’s motives for deciding to read, say, Lucky Jim in preference to millions of other books. ![]()
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