Bookshelves are like unicorns – rare, mythical creatures that appear only in the most aristocratic of gardens. ‘Ah, yes, this dystopian novel pairs well with the polycrisis we are experiencing’ won’t trip off the tongue if you’re busy commuting in between work. This shouldn’t – and, thankfully, doesn’t – bother non-readers. Most people being surround-sounded by social media, television on tap and round-the-clock information canapes, supply for the leisurely, nuanced ‘main course’ of the long read for the few remains plentiful. What this should also underline is that with such a small, tasteful readership, the writer – supplier of this luxury – is actually freer to pursue quality, rather than go down the rabbit hole of complaining about ‘no one reads these days’. They do. You just have to be read – and paid – by them, not ‘everyone’.
