I’ve been going through my non-fiction and turning out a lot of stuff that I’ve never read or never want to read again. There goes a biography of Herzl, one of Philip K. Dick and two biographies of Ezra Pound (what was I thinking?); there goes a book on Yugoslavia called “The Improbable Survivor” (of its time, that one). I’ve no longer got anything by Boris Kagarlitsky, Meaghan Morris or Bernard Porter; my holdings of Chomsky, Pauline Kael, Anthony Summers and Brinsley le Poer Trench are all severely reduced. (B. le P. T. (a.k.a. Lord Clancarty) was the author of some of the worst UFO books you’re ever likely to see.) When the charity shop sees this lot, I said to my wife, they’ll think three different people have died. “In a way they have,” she said, consolingly.
What does that leave? I’m glad you asked. Here’s a complete list of authors by whom I’ve got three or more books:
Jan Harold Brunvand
Stephen Jay Gould
Jeremy Noakes and Geoffrey Pridham
The Noakes and Pridham volumes are a trilogy & were all bought together, which almost disqualifies them, but not quite. Sebastian Moore is or was a Catholic mystic; his books were all presents (from two different people). Douglas Reed was a British National Socialist (tendance Strasser); his loathing of Hitler seems to have made his views palatable to publishers (who apparently never asked why he hated Hitler). And the Perry Andersons only just survived the cull; I haven’t read any of them. One of these days, possibly.
Jake Thackray used to introduce a Christian-themed song by saying, This is a song of which I’m not particularly… ashamed. I feel a bit like that about hanging on to my Cameron and my Gould and all that bloody Orwell: not especially proud, but not, particularly, ashamed.