WITH A CRUSHING inevitability, slow-burning scandal has begun to threaten the very existence of a hitherto infallible institution. Faithful members are experiencing a predictable pot-pourri of emotions. Denial. Shame. Acceptance, of sorts. It was only a matter of time before things came to a head and the hierarchy was forced to hold secret talks to discuss what, if anything, might be salvaged from the debacle. Facts have to be faced. Our book club is in crisis.
It started so well. We were never one of those stereotypical clubs you hear about on poorly researched radio programmes. In gender equality terms, we were exemplary. There was no ageism either. We had members in their 70s and in their 20s. We had an author, a retired professor, a student, a politician and a civil servant, who before joining had never actually read any books unless you count Robbie Fowler’s autobiography.
One of our more memorable meetings took place in the Dáil. When we retired post-discussion to the bar, the then Minister for Finance Brian Cowen was kind enough to allow a couple of star-struck members to parry with him on the complexities of Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali. We were the envy of book clubs across the land.
As a founding member, I am well placed to analyse when it all started to unravel, the cracks appearing as on the spine of a well-loved book. I place the initial decline of the club at about the same time as one of our members chose a cook book for the monthly debate. Not just any cook book – Ripailles by Stéphane Reynaud, a giant tome that cost an arm and leg and then told you what to do with the arm and the leg and pretty much every other bit of a duck, which was grand, but it was hardly Tolstoy or even Tóibín. As I said at the time: “What next? A motorcycle maintenance book?” It didn’t stop me tucking into the French delights cooked by the person who chose the book, mind you.
Around this time there were a couple of key resignations. Author, a founding member, cried off, citing “work commitments”, when everyone knows authors just drink coffee and watch Columbo for most of their working day. Student said he had too many essays (episodes of Countdown more like) to catch up on. Politician stepped down claiming ignorance of the fact that being in a book club meant having to read books chosen by other people. That excuse didn’t go down well with the secretary of the club, I don’t mind telling you. (See? We have a secretary. We are, we were, the Impac prize winners of the book-club community.)
Since then, our numbers have been dwindling. The secretary has recorded too many occasions when only four or five of us have gathered to discuss, say, Away by Amy Bloom or The Lady with the Dog by Chekhov.
In the good old days we’d have had a room of 10 people all chatting away about Home by Marilynne Robinson. From Raheny to Kilpedder to Rialto, a usually decent crowd turned up to get stuck into smoked salmon and cocktail sausages while appraising We Need To Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver and The Green Fool by Patrick Kavanagh. Cerebral times.
When only five of us turned up to read How to Talk About Books You Haven't Readby Pierre Bayard, a book only half of those present had actually read, incidentally, talk turned to how we might fortify the club. Long into the night over French fancies and paté (a quality spread), we discussed methods of separating the wheat from the chaff, the Cormac McCarthys from the Jeffrey Archers, if you will.
That night, the secretary emailed all members demanding to know whether they wished to continue in the club. Two resignations were forthcoming. A few committed members reaffirmed their book-club vows. We are still waiting to hear from a few others. They know who they are.
The upshot is that those who have decided to stay in the club will now have to sign up to a new list of protocols and disciplinary procedures. Any future recruits have to swear an oath of commitment and show a willingness to provide more imaginative canapes at book-club events. (There is only so much smoked salmon and cocktail sausages one can take. Anything by Mr Kipling is welcome.)
Setting up a book club, laying down the rules and then changing the rules whenever the mood takes one, must be a similar buzz to the one people experience when inventing a religion. I have a fresh insight into how L Ron Hubbard must have felt when he was putting that stuff into Scientology about the spaceships. It’s exhilarating, and, as with all the best religious leaders, the power has gone to my head.
Now, I just have to set up a website to make it easier for the defectors to do the honourable thing and make way for the truly faithful who will purchase and, a novel idea this, read the books from now on. Countmeoutofthebookclub.ie should do it. New members, form an orderly queue.
THIS WEEKEND: Róisín will be singing “Naaa-na-na-na-na-na-na” like a person possessed along with other like-minded individuals at the Paul McCartney concert at the RDS