Friday, September 18, 2009

Richard Bach



When I was just a toddler I was taken to see the film version of Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Perhaps it was the Neil Diamond soundtrack that attracted my parents (my father was always a huge fan), or perhaps they imagined a Disney-esque animated feature filled with singing, cavorting seagulls. They stoically sat through the film, and later on it became a part of family legend - how insufferably bad and terminally dull was Jonathan Livingston Seagull. All throughout my childhood it was held up to me as the pinnacle of boredom. Should I complain of having nothing to do, my mother would roll her eyes and say, "Oh you're bored? Well you obviously don't remember sitting through the entire length of Jonathan Livingston Seagull..."
Richard Bach's novel, on which the film was based (what an idea!) was absolutely ubiquitous in the 70s. Every home had a copy, and as a child I would be drawn to it. With trepidation I would pull a copy down from my aunt's bookshelf and, just before I could crack it open, my father would shout, "Jonathan Livingston Seagull!? Ho ho, you're in for a treat there. Most boring book ever written. But it back, right now. Did I ever tell you about the time I took you to see the movie...?"
Years later I worked for a long period at Australia's then-largest New Age bookshop. I was surprised at how popular Richard Bach's novels continued to be. We always kept them in stock, and they would always sell a dozen or so copies a year, which is quite respectable for a backlist book. Even the dreaded Jonathan Livingston Seagull would be asked for on occasion.
Now, because of this childhood stigma I have never read a single word of any of Mr. Bach's books, so I'm not about to offer a critique. I'm sure they are lovely, and they are certainly an essential part of the history of New Age/Self-Help publishing, which means I'll have to be reading them sooner, rather than later.
Last weekend I went to the big book sale at the Great Hall at Sydney Uni, and it was heaven. I scored a box and a half of self-help classics, including a copy of Richard Bach's The Bridge Across Forever. I'll start reading it as soon as I've finished the wonderful Dennis Cooper short stories I'm currently reading. I don't like to have two fiction projects going at the same time.

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