With apologies to the late James W. Best for appropriating his image (from his 1935 Forest Life in India)

Friday, 19 April 2013

'Finding Myself Up My Own Arse'

One of my pet hates is non-fiction that, whatever the purported subject matter, is actually all about the author's 'journey of discovery': in other words, all about the author. All authors are vain, but writing about oneself in the guise of something else is pure conceit. Judging from the number of such books published, though, they obviously sell, so what the hell do I know? (I can see the blurb now... 'In Finding the Weretiger, Patrick Newman tells the self-indulgent true story of how he bummed around Asia with his head up his arse looking for an elusive mancat – and instead found himself.' Something along those lines, anyway.)