Keeping Schtum
I braved our local library’s reading group last night. They were discussing Magnus Mills’s All Quiet on the Orient Express, one of my favourite books. I was one of the few people who liked it (which in itself stunned me: I’ve lent the book to several people in the past: they’ve all loved it as much as me). One woman asked how anybody could possibly empathise with the book’s hero, who is something of a spineless drifter, unable to say no to any of the increasingly demanding requests made of him. Her reasoning went along the lines of “anybody like that who can’t stand up for themselves, who just goes along with whatever they’re told… well, you could accept that in a teenager, but beyond a certain age, you’ve got to think there’s something slightly sub-normal about anybody quite so timid.”
As I was sitting next to her, she turned to me and asked whether I agreed. I sort of mumbled something which could perhaps be taken for half-hearted agreement.
Somehow I think the subtlety of my protest was lost on her. But… well, what else could I say? I mean, I didn’t want to offend her or anything.