I suspect that Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell will be, for me at least, this year’s equivalent to Jonathan Lethem’s The Fortress of Solitude (a title I still haven’t read, despite its recent paperback release). Last year, there were at least twenty-two moments in which I had the hardback for The Fortress of Solitude in my hand, but ended up putting it back before hitting the cashier. Some of the reasons were as follows:

• “Oh shit! Magical realism!”
• “Motherless Brooklyn was good, but would you have purchased that in hardcover? Put it down, you fool!”
• “Quicksilver! More challenging!” (Little did I know.)
• “I’ll get it in paperback.”
• “I’ll borrow [insert name here]’s copy.”
• “I should probably read all of Lethem’s back catalog before this one.”
• “More pop cultural references subbing for plot? Come on, get real.”

And so on…

None of these reasons, of course, were fair. Most of these were irrational. And yet it happened again and again. Nothing against Lethem, but I found myself unwilling to commit myself to the man (and yet quite willing to take crazed chances on crummier titles).

And now I find myself in the same boat with Jonathan Strange, afraid that I’ll be terribly disappointed if I read it now. I came very close to picking the thick tome up the other day, but some stubborn impulse in me resisted. How could I join the crowd? How could I get excited about some book that everyone and their mother was declaring as more popular than Jesus?

This impulse, of course, is pure snobbery. It has something to do with the book reviewing climate and the endless din buzzing around readers and publishers alike. And yet almost every book afficionado is guilty of this. How many titles have eluded your immediate perusal because the kool kids kouldnt stop talking about it?

The way it works is this: To be an effective literary enthusiast, the unspoken goal is to wander off the beaten track and find the titles that no one else has read. And not just that. Ideally from some lofty parapet (preferably delusional), the literary enthusiast can let loose spitballs and catapault leftover caviar while simultaneously mocking the great unwashed for reading The Curious Incident of the Dog at the Night-Time or The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay behind the curve. Alternatively, why not delve into something highly unfashionable? (And if that’s the unspoken rule, now might be the perfect op to read Lethem.)

Which is why I’m glad I read David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas well before everyone else and why it was nice to read William Gibson’s Pattern Recognition without the sound of a thousand Slashdot fanboys coming my way. Mark my words: if Cloud Atlas wins the Booker, it will be slammed as mercilessly as DBC Pierre’s Vernon God Little. Just because. And that’s silly.

I’m tempted to read Jonathan Strange just to spite the bastards.

Not content with unleashing sexist, short-attention-span snippets upon a unsuspecting magazine market of illiterates, Maxim publisher Felix Dennis has turned to poetry. Apparently, Mr. Dennis has been at it since 2000. Fortunately, Return of the Reluctant has obtained an exclusive look at Mr. Dennis’s poetic oeuvre. Here’s a small sample from Mr. Dennis’ “Throwing My Love Into the Barbeque Grill,” which was rejected (as of last week) by seventeen publications (including Cocker Spaniel Quarterly):

Fifty words! Too much to read
Let’s cut it in half so we can clear out
And get that hun to bob her mouth
Fast cars, big tits, what’s wrong with that?
I’m with Delta Phi Alpha for life

Pour the wine and they’ll believe
I’m hip! I’m rich! I’m a poet!
I made more cash than Guccione
And I paid all my writers to pen baloney
Where’s the next sleek and sexy Croat?

What it takes is a steak and a coupla brews
Over the edge, with some red meat to stew
Get a few Swedish models and a few Polish dogs
Dress ’em down, keep your pet in your pants
Keep the look garish and carefree

You’ll end standing up at the barbeque grill
What a thrill!
Better than the window sill!

And she’ll be there reading your latest issue
This time, she’s there. You won’t need a tissue

These days, our hair is falling out faster than a Niagra clip. (Or possibly not. Our propensity to exaggerate is well known.) Neverthless, it’s brought forth an important issue: to shave or not to shave, that is the question. Now the last thing the world needs is another bald Caucasian guy in his early thirties. However, the m/sq. has expressed happiness over hypothetical condition. Oddly enough, it may be H.L. Mencken who might send us over the edge.

David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas has made the Booker shortlist. Again, we here at Return of the Reluctant cannot say enough about how fantastic the book is and how disappointed we are that the American copy is only available in paperback. The novel deserves nearly every plaudit it has received. However, if you need additional arguments, here are a few U.S. receptions:

• Mark’s thread
• Jeff Turrentine, The Washington Post, August 22, 2004
• Peter Keough, Boston Phoenix, August 27, 2004
• Tom Bissell, The New York Times, August 29, 2004

Unreadable? Not on this side of the Atlantic, baby. The Telegraph must be very embarassed right now.