Society
Forget books on shelves as status accessories. Only the insecure need to look "academic"
Published 06 March 2000
Yesterday morning, three men in brown coats from London University called round to my flat, stacked 620 books into eight large boxes, and took the lot away to Senate House library for "sorting and disposal".
I blame Stuart. He and I had been together at York in the early days, but he left to set up a psychological consultancy, which now advises major blue-chip companies on how they might improve their employees' motivation, teamwork and leadership.
"Doing any academic writing at the moment?" he asked, when he called round between meetings for what he had described on the phone as "catch-up time". I mentioned my contract with Paragon Books to produce a lively introduction to sociology for members of the general public. "That sounds tedious," said Stuart. "How much do they pay for stuff like that?" "£750," I told him.
"Do people still read books?" he asked. "Why would anyone want to plod through an academic text when they can pull so much stuff down from the Internet? How many of these books do you ever look at these days?" He briskly selected a fat volume from one of the packed shelves that line every side of my living-room. "This one, for example. When was the last time you read The Authoritarian Personality? Or Dimensions of Cannabis Use by Stephen Ablett?"
"It's not a case of reading them," I told him. "They're there for reference." He was undeterred. "So when did you last refer to these? When did you last think: I really must have another look at an ancient book on smoking dope written by some tosser of an academic who'd never had a joint in his life, and only wrote the entire thing to enhance his chances of early promotion? Look at this. Understanding the Brain by Gordon Woolacott. Published 1967. Wouldn't you say that there might have been the odd advance in our knowledge of the brain in the past 33 years? Do me a favour."
After half an hour, he had rattled through most of my shelves and proved to his own satisfaction that 50 per cent of the books I had been dusting so assiduously for years were either outdated or irrelevant. His conclusion was rather devastating. "I know why you keep all these useless books. They say 'academic'. When some 12 year old from television comes round to ask for your opinion on devolution, they can sit you in front as a way of saying to the viewers: 'This man knows what he's talking about. Look at all his books.' But that's what makes you so out-of-date. Such an old buffer. One thing I always tell top managers and entrepreneurs is that they must clear their office of books and paper. Only the insecure need to bolster themselves with such status accessories. Good wine needs no bush."
I might have shrugged off this indictment if only he hadn't piled each of his examples of "useless books" on the coffee-table and left me with the task of returning them to the shelves, making sure that my 1963 edition of The Structural Organisation of the Soviet State by G H Tottman was alphabetically aligned with my 1971 edition of Whither the Family? by Sarah Tutill.
It was an impossible task. Instead of getting on with it, I found myself continuing his barbarian cull, pulling book after book off the shelf and piling them in heaps across the floor. The next day, I rang Senate House library. "I was wondering if you'd be interested in about 600 books on various aspects of sociology and social psychology?"
"Are you an academic?" asked the voice at the other end of the line. "I used to be," I said.
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