Books

The London Underground used to be a happy place for authors. We would get into a carriage and see rows of people, studiously ignoring their neighbours – unless their neighbour was a dog – and reading a newspaper or an actual, physical book. The same went for the New York subway and, to a lesser extent, all train networks. Today you get into a carriage and everyone is staring into the same phone screens that they stare into most of the rest of the day. Books give us some ability to see through, as well as put into perspective, the troubles of our time I try not to be judgmental about this, since I always try to see the best in people, however disgusting they might look.

Many decades ago (or so it seems, it was actually January 2023, but things move fast in AI-world) I wrote a Spectator piece claiming that The End of Writing was coming, thanks to AI. In return for this favor, I got large amounts of angry and derisory scorn, mainly from writerly types, who banged on about the uniqueness of human creation, but also from techy people, who pointed out that as a mere hack I could not possibly know anything about AI, and anyway AI was just a glorified next-word-predictor. The French, being French, have responded with wise philosophy, or cowardly evasion, depending on your taste Now, I'm not the sort of cheap, mean-minded person who says “I told you so,” so I'll just say “I told you so.

It was 1937, an age away, when JRR Tolkien's book The Hobbit was first released. There are people alive who remember that year, but not many. The Hobbit was published by George Allen & Unwin after Stanley Unwin commissioned a review of the typescript (standard fee, one shilling) from his ten-year-old son, Rayner. When he reviewed The Hobbit, CS Lewis said it was a children’s book “only in the sense that the first of many readings can be undertaken in the nursery.” “Bilbo Baggins was a hobbit,” it read, complete with a ten-year-old’s errors, “who lived in his hobbit-hole and never went for adventures, at last Gandalf the wizard and his dwarves perswaded him to go. He had a very exiting time fighting goblins...

Shepherd Market, W1, has many ghosts, some of whom are literary. In the shadow of Patrick Leigh Fermor’s former digs – the scene of ‘wild and continuous’ parties in the summer of 1933 – Heywood Hill has just celebrated 90 years of bookselling. In today’s Republic of Letters, we have a true book-loving Queen and she is a marvel. To mark Heywood Hill’s anniversary Her Majesty graciously toured our tiny shop. She talked about her love of all kinds of books (The Cazalet Chronicles in particular) and gamely joined Jerry Vinalon and Jay Lomot, our splendid professional book-packers, in helping them gift-wrap parcels. She signed a postcard which one lucky book subscriber should find in their next package. Not every customer is so fortunate.

A school in Greater Manchester has stripped 193 books from its library because they are ‘inappropriate’, liable to upset pupils and thus a safeguarding risk. Among the dangerously destabilising material: Michelle Obama’s memoir and George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. Who was entrusted with identifying these literary IEDs? An over-zealous head? A prurient librarian? A demented child psychologist? Nope. A humble AI bot. While writing my latest novel, The Hawk Is Dead, much of which is set in Buckingham Palace, I asked ChatGPT to produce a simple floor plan. Not a tough assignment – much less taxing than diagnosing nearly 200 books as existential threats to adolescent wellbeing. It got the Palace’s orientation wrong. For more than 200 years, the East Wing has faced the Mall.

I am glad that BBC Radio 4 is producing a series called How Reading Made Us, presented by the subtle, super-literate Times of London columnist James Marriott. I must declare an interest. Roughly 98 percent of my earnings over 45 years have depended on the fact that plenty of people like reading. Now we are thinking harder, however, about the fact that form affects substance. The idea of an encyclopedia, for example, as developed (from classical roots) in the 18th century, was that all needful knowledge on a particular subject could be assembled and consulted in a book or series of books. With AI, there is little need for this form. The form of a book, which often seemed so compendious, can now seem cumbersome. Fiction, too, is affected by form.

Every couple of years a columnist-cum-novelist will inevitably stoop to shameless self-promotion. In my defence, at least the novel released this month is germane to the political moment. Lest its simple title, A Better Life, come across as lame, I asked the designers of my British and American hardback covers to use imagery that conveys the book’s focal subject matter: immigration. See, proponents of unfettered mass migration have eternally assured us that most illegal immigrants – or as the Biden administration instructed federal law enforcement to call them, ‘newcomers’ – are merely seeking ‘a better life’. This explanation is routinely trotted out as an irrefutable justification for a potentially near-infinite imposition of foreigners on western polities.