I would read the London Review of Books from front to back. I had to read it all, from front to back. I couldn’t miss any part of what I then saw as the absolute requirement of reading the London Review of Books and absorbing all of the information contained in the London Review of Books (excluding classifieds and incidental advertising about books, copywriters, book-based dating etc). 

I certainly couldn’t dip in and out of the London Review of Books. The London Review of Books told me, so I thought, everything that I needed to know. The best people would provide me with the best information about what I needed to know. It was a joy and my mind expanded and my taste developed and I became a refined intellectual.

I couldn’t read fast enough to keep up

This reading of each and every London Review of Books ended up making me very anxious; or perhaps, my latent anxiety overwhelmed my joy of reading the London Review of Books. I couldn’t read fast enough to keep up with the bi-weekly production of these reviews of books.

I was reading nothing other than reviews of books in the London Review of Books. I had no remaining time to read the books they were reviews of, nor any other book. I no longer took any joy in the London Review of Books; it simply became a task or duty to read each copy before the next was delivered, and I began to skim read and hated myself for skim reading the London Review of Books, because I loved the London Review of Books.

Copies of the London Review of Books in their cellophane wrapping piled up, and I began to be frightened of them, frightened of the reading demands the London Review of Books was placing on me. 

Eventually I had to stop reading the London Review of Books, and the pile of London Review of Books filled a drawer which I kept entirely for the London Review of Books. I terminated my subscription because I could not accept reading the London Review of Books without reading it front to back (excluding classifieds, and incidental advertising etc). I couldn’t touch a copy for years, and refused offers from friends of their (used and filthy) copies of the London Review of Books; those friends who couldn’t throw away their own copies due to the high status of the London Review of Books, and its high cost.

This year, after having said how I used to love and now hated the London Review of Books and couldn’t handle my subscription to it and would never want another one, my neighbour subscribed me behind my back and for free to the London Review of Books; a free gift subscription. They were delivered to my home, now sealed in a paper envelope rather than the cellophane (environmental responsibility).

I opened the London Review of Books, the first I had opened for ten years, and prepared myself for a front to back read. I liked how folded it was, and how much better it was to read a fresh copy than the used (filthy) copies which had been pushed on me by friends who primarily wanted to indicate to me that they read the London Review of Books by offering their (used and filthy) copies  — thinking that I respected the London Review of Books and its users. 

I began reading and my attention wouldn’t hold. I skipped ahead and read half of one article, a line of another, a title of another. I tried to read the poetry and I still couldn’t understand a single line of it, and had no will to try.

Whereas before I could only think TJClarkPerryAndersonTariqAliNealAscherson thoughts, now I could think of no such London Review of Book thoughts, not even MariaWarnerJohnLanchesterJamesButlerAdamMarsJones thoughts could enter my brain. My brain could take in no London Review of Books information, and could form no London Review of Books thoughts.

All this learning was in two dimensions

I considered what was wrong. Part of it was that every article was written in a this is how things are tone, all so tasteful and knowledgeable and clever. Yes, I knew that I would learn a lot, but it felt like all this learning was in two dimensions. It was a very narrow field. 

I considered: I had read the London Review of Books in order to belong to the LRB club and the knowledge I had wanted to acquire was wholly in order to become a member of this club. And the way the London Review of Books reviewers write — their style — is that of the self-assurance of a certain sort of group of people who are self-assured, or who want to write and be read among — and be among — those who are self-assured.

I reflected that England is one big private members club, and the LRB is just a part of this club (the letters “LRB” being a spoken code to enter that club). I discovered that this LRB club wasn’t in Bloomsbury, but in Hampstead, and I discovered that having been invited to play croquet on Hampstead Heath, in the Hampstead Heath Croquet Association, in which the words “elle are bee” occurred frequently.

I don’t want someone writing to me as if I were a member of their club, or want to be a member of their club. Everything in this country is a private members club, in which cordial agreement, shared references, and a shared picture of the world is required. A shared belief in what are the right views about the right subjects is required. These people — you? — know the facts and know how to pronounce the facts in the right way. Each article, each sentence of the LRB asks: are you a member of our club? aren’t you a member of our club? Club members look down from their vast knowledge, supported by the vast institutions of their education and the vast institutions of their working life. LRB is a performance of Englishness, just as much as the Hampstead Croquet Association is — often attracting performances by those most insecure in their Englishness.

I reject this LRB club and I will not become a member of it and nor will I cancel my free subscription to the London Review of Books.