Quite possibly this was nothing more than a potboiler. But since we’re talking about John Sutherland here, even a potboiler by him can prove perfectly enjoyable. The idea behind this book is to create a sort of literary calendar, an almanac if you like, with a bit of bookish trivia, a mini essay for each day of the year.
The selection is completely arbitrary and doesn’t even pretend to be anything else and as expected it’s a mixed bag. Some entries are fascinating, some trivial but funny, some baffling by their obscurity (I learnt more about 17th century English poetry than I ever needed to). The authors did try to make sure it’s not all about dead white men, so there is enough gender and ethnic variety to fend off the accusations of racism or sexism, but they hardly ever explore any regions outside of England and America. Although, of course, that’s the area of the authors’ expertise, so we shouldn’t be very surprised.
I learnt a great many things from it, most of which I have already forgotten, but some will stay with me forever, like the fact that Philip Larkin had apparently a big penis, Ezra Pound was a fascist, Cabrera Infante (who died in 2005) requested that his ashes are to be kept unburied until after Castro’s regime is gone (they are still unburied), Kenneth Grahame went crazy and wouldn’t change his underwear for months, all the royalties from Peter Pan go to Great Ormond Hospital for Children in London (they actually passed a law in the UK to prevent this title entering the public domain), and that gothic romance became a way of talking about the unconscious before Freud gave us the vocabulary for it.