I am unsure what my old English Literature teacher, Bruce Ritchie, would have made of this chapter. I count myself blessed to have been taught by him at A-level, and having grown up in a house that was not especially into books or English literature (that is some understatement), it was no mean feat of his to inspire our class of somewhat lazy, precocious late adolescents to read at all. And then to begin to love reading. Here, I do mean ‘love’. I have never stopped since. That said, my adult novel habit would probably have disappointed Bruce. It is rarefied by any measure. I read exceptionally, very few novels – perhaps one or two a year – and mostly choose to graze on history, politics, theology and social theory. Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby was one of the set texts for our A-level class, and it is some 45 years since I sat in Bruce Ritchie’s class at his feet, as we debated the text with one another and its multiple layers of meaning.
Continue reading →