Well, the themes do–but the filmmaking doesn’t. From the uneven acting to the intrusive soundtrack (those washing-machine noises!) to the choppy cinematography, this movie (originally a BBC4 television project) is best viewed as a sort of time capsule.

However, it popped into mind again when I thought of time capsules after reading this excellent blog post about e-books and home libraries. It’s true that digital versions of bound volumes do not “make a room” the way that traditional paper books can. But the question on my mind is how we treat our home libraries overall. Are they time capsules? Everchanging assortments? Displays of taste or status?

Not only do I think that books can play all of the above roles and more in anyone’s home–I think that considering which roles books play in one’s own home can affect how we think about e-books and their roles in private spaces.

In my house, I have one set of bookshelves that is set up as a time capsule–it holds all of the books authors I’ve interviewed have inscribed to me. Not far from those is my “To Be Read” shelf of books that I’m not considering for review or recommendation, but still would like to get to before the end of the next, oh, decade. I have two shelves above my workspace that are dedicated to inspiration–one for writing, one for spiritual guidance. In my living room the shelves are filled with volumes whose titles spark conversation or whose covers are as glorious as their content, as well as books I like to lend, while in the bedroom my nightstand stacks of books teeter precariously, everchanging selections that wind up on different bookshelves once they’ve been read.

Those books give life to those rooms. I cannot imagine living without them. Yet even if I switch out books from time to time, even if I use those books frequently, even if those books are beautiful and interesting and vital, at some point they become objects on shelves, no more and no less useful than a bunch of washing machines used as movie props.

The real work is in what those books do for my mind. And yes, part of what they do for my mind is to provide a lively backdrop; I love to let my eyes roam across book spines as I think and work and relax in the various rooms in my house.

Once upon a time–back in the good old “My Beautiful Laundrette” days–all of my reading material was in paper form. However, not all of the content I consumed was so–obviously, since I was also watching Stephen Frears movies! We all watch television, see films, and listen to the radio, as well as read books. While I’d like to believe that I choose my books carefully, I know that some of the volumes on my shelves are not as good as some of the greatest movies out there. Yet I don’t try to “keep” or shelve those movies, at least not in the same way I do books.. Why do I want to keep and shelve books?

My point is that we think differently about books, and I think we need to keep thinking about why we think differently about books if we don’t want them to become dated relics of an earlier age. Why, in earlier ages, a library was a place where the books were attached by chains to the shelves and no one could take them home. Do we want to return to that? Probably not. In earlier ages, only the very rich had more than a small shelf of books in their homes. Do we want to return to that? I doubt it.

I don’t have an answer to what comes next. Might we all wind up with tablets programmed to display our current reads, displayed on our otherwise-empty bookshelves? Or will our home libraries become document lists on our devices? But would either of those scenarios be worse than a home library haphazardly filled with a bunch of books no one ever actually reads?

“My Beautiful Laundrette” can be called a time capsule only because people still watch it. A time capsule that is never opened or viewed is simply a relic. While future archeologists might welcome a good hoard of books, those of us who love to read and believe in the future of books and publishing should probably plan on digging up some solutions sooner rather than later.

That’s why I am comfortable compiling a Bottom Ten list, too. I am not claiming that those books are in any way the “worst.” They are just the books that didn’t work for me, and I try hard to give reasons why, not just nastiness. I think it would be interesting and instructive if more critics and book reviewers took the time to do this, to show us how and why books fail in a civilized manner.

A few notes on why it’s particularly difficult to come up with a Bottom Ten list: First, I read a lot, but I choose my books carefully. After two decades in the book business, I know a lot about my own taste; I don’t read tons of books I dislike, and very few that I out and out loathe. Second, I will not put a debut novel on this list, or a book by an author who is a friend (although, friends, I love your books, each and every one!). One last procedural note: It should be obvious, but these are in alpha order by author, no other rank implied.

I first published these lists in 2010, and while I compiled them in 2011, did not publish them anywhere. So this counts as the second official iteration (I will have to dig out the first one and re-purpose it, as the site it was written for no longer exists). I intend to keep going.

TOP TEN:

Arcadia by Lauren Groff (Hyperion Voice, March 2012): The beauty of Lauren Groff’s writing in this rise and fall of a utopian upstate New York commune is matched only by the beauty of her protagonist Bit’s soul. Bit, whose parents help found Arcadia, may have to one day leave this paradise for the cold world–but its lessons, good and bad, stay with him.

May We Be Forgiven by A.M. Homes (Viking, September 2012): Each time I think I’m through with the anti hero, a protagonist like Harold Silver comes along: Completely flawed but also wholly sympathetic, a bumbling everyman for our troubled 21st-century times. Homes covers a lot of ground in this smart, funny, unexpected take on the modern family.

The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey (Reagan Arthur Books, February 2012): What happens when infertility’s dashed dreams meet the hardships of early-1920s Alaskan homesteading? You might think you know the answer–then you might think Ivey provides the answer–then you’ll discover that what is wrought from snow and tears may be transitory, but also transformative.

The Orphan Master’s Son by Adam Johnson (Random House, January 2012): It’s rare enough to sink fully into an author’s imagined world, let alone a character’s consciousness; Adam Johnson achieves both in his tale of North Korea and its citizen Pak Jung Do. By the time you realize that this is an account of Kim Jong Il’s rise to power, you’ll be fully invested in his fate.

Bring Up the Bodies by Hillary Mantel (Henry Holt, May 2012): Much has already been written about and awarded to this remarkable sequel to Wolf Hall; however, I’d be disingenuous if I didn’t include it on my Top Ten. If anything, Thomas Cromwell’s voice, character, and tragic flaw are all clearer in Mantel’s version of “Anne of the Thousand Days.”

Pure by Andrew Miller (Europa Editions, May 2012): Many historical novelists show us “big years;” Miller explores a quieter one, Paris in 1785. It’s pre-Revolution, but engineer Jean-Baptiste Baratte finds the cemetery he’s been called to exhume may have a future purpose. What he chooses to do with that knowledge is the stuff of a powerful novel.

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller (Ecco Books, March 2012): Even if no one chooses Miller’s opus as the best book of the year, it should garner some attention as the best book based on a classic of the past decade. The scholar’s beautiful retelling of the relationship between Achilles and his beloved Patroclus is no dusty myth, however; it’s a modern classic.

Hide Me Among the Graves by Tim Powers (William Morrow, March 2012): Vampires, zombies, and Christina Rossetti? Who could resist? This genre-defying novel is a smart, scary, Chinese puzzle box, filled with descriptions of a London menacing in its pea-soup grime, matched by a clever plot about death and resurrection. A rewarding read.

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce (Random House, July 2012): I find this book nearly impossible to describe because it actually transcends itself again and again; Joyce takes the idea of imitating an old-fashioned “Pilgrim’s Progress” seriously. Harold Fry is an elderly man who takes a walk to see an old friend. Read it. You must.

Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter (Harper, June 2012): A down-at-heel Italian coastal town contrasted with Hollywood, with Richard Burton thrown in? Yes, please! Walter, it seems, can do anything; this novel couldn’t be more different from Financial Lives of the Poets, yet it’s even better, even more wholly realized, and a must-read of 2012.

BOTTOM TEN:

The Chemistry of Tears by Peter Carey (Knopf, May 2012): I am convinced that the title has something to do with one of the main characters’ medical dilemmas–but I could be wrong. Alas we’ll never know, and I’m not convinced Carey is sure, either. This glorious mess of a book about 19th-century automata and a 21st-century lunatic needs some WD-40 and duct tape.

The Legend of Broken by Caleb Carr (Random House, November 2012): Thrilled was I to receive a fat new galley from the author of The Alienist; sad was I when it turned out to be a dense brick of unreadable pseudo-Germanic mytho-crypto-history. Or something. Look, Entertainment Weekly gave it a D+, the first time I’ve seen that grade in the mag. Steer clear!

Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon (Harper, September 2012): I am one of the people who love The Yiddish Policeman’s Union, so I feel qualified to say that this year’s Chabon disappointed me. Like the French, it’s got chops, this hymn to the Berkeley-Oakland borderlands. I just wanted more of Archy and Nat and far less of their midwife wives.

The Twelve by Justin Cronin (Ballantine Books, July 2012): It’s really Cronin’s own fault. What book could live up to The Passage, the first volume of his trilogy about a creepy vampire virus that throws the US of A into a post-apocalyptic nightmare? Trouble is, The Twelve feels exactly like the waystation it is, the middle book, the Jan Brady of blockbusters.

Broken Harbor by Tana French (Viking, July 2012): Uh-oh, another book with the word “broken” in its title… Trust me, this one is far better. French is terrific. However, she’s landed on my Bottom 10 this year for an implausible motive and ending, as well as a few key details left unexplained. Wonderful voice in Broken Harbor, so don’t pass it by, but do think on it.

Heading Out to Wonderful by Robert Goolrick (Algonquin Books, June 2012): Look, I was the first person (really, I was!) to get behind A Reliable Wife. I think Goolrick has talent in spades. I also think I know why this book didn’t work for me, but I believe it’s the author’s tale to tell and not mine–suffice to say I don’t think he “stuck” the ending, despite gorgeous writing.

In Sunlight and In Shadow by Mark Helprin (HMH Books, November 2012): Helprin has written several undeniably fantastic books (I’m partial to A Soldier of the Great War, although I know many who stand by by Winter’s Tale), but this novel? Not one of them. Bloated, discursive, and just plain misogynistic, it also has obvious devices, like a crazily unrealistic deus ex machina.

In One Person by John Irving (Simon & Schuster, May 2012): We can go to the mat on this one, but I’m still disappointed, despite the cheerful cross-dressing grandpa and the wondrously understanding tranny librarian. Really, the obsession with breasts? The creepy bath? The creepier frottage? I felt I had parted someone’s temporal lobes without permission.

Abdication by Juliet Nicolson (Atria Books, May 2012): Nicolson has chops as a historian, and this historical novel’s trouble is that she brings to many of those to bear on a plot crammed with characters, research petticoats fully aflutter as the pages turn. My favorite character was not Mrs. Simpson, but a sympathetic young female chauffeur who deserved a book of her own.

The Casual Vacancy by J.K. Rowling (Little, Brown, October 2012): You knew this would be on here, didn’t you? I am so pleased that despite its bad reviews (mostly deserved), this book is gaining traction. Wait, did I just say that about a book in the Bottom Ten? Yes, I did. Rowling didn’t craft a wholly satisfying work of fiction, but she does leave readers who finish with haunting ideas.

TOC NY 2013— The publishing industry will gather at the Tools of Change for Publishing Conference in New York City, February 12-14, to explore the forces and solutions that are transforming publishing.Save 15% on registration with the code COMM15

I explained to him that I did not–I receive fewer nonfiction books and pitches these days because I tend to write about and talk up fiction, although that could change any day depending on what project I’m working on at the time. His disappointment, however, sparked a dinner conversation about why men tend to choose nonfiction over fiction–especially because on of the books we discussed was Midnight in Peking, and our friend’s comment was “It was so good; it read like a novel!”

I said, “Why don’t you read novels, then, if you like that sort of ‘read?’” His answer was that he prefers to read books that teach him something.

A different type of learning

He might as well have waved a red flag in front of a bull. “Oh really,” said I. “That’s interesting, because I learn just as much from fiction as I do from nonfiction; it’s just a different sort of learning. It’s less factual and more psychological and emotional.”

Both our friend and my husband made those sort of “Well, there you have it” smirks that humans of both sexes are prone to display when they think they are entirely right. To these middle-aged men, fact trumps emotion, head trumps heart, and nonfiction means serious intent while fiction means frivolity.

It will not surprise any of you who know me that I was not going to let them off that easily. I have been listening to book people lament that men don’t read or buy or talk about fiction for so long that I’ve formulated an idea or three about why.

The bias against fiction goes back a ways, with men. While I won’t go back to the days of clay tablets and sticks, I will go back as far as religious scriptoria of the Dark Ages. Reading and writing have long been strongly identified as “indoor” work, the sort of thing that pale, industrious, and non-brawny types like monks engaged in while the warrior class was busy with plundering, pillaging, and hard physical toil. Jump ahead several hundred years and you see the Industrial Revolution’s division of labor reinforcing the idea that “easy” work, “feminine” work, is conducted inside, while “real” work, “masculine” work takes place on the railroad, in the factory, and (still) on the farm.

Factual prose vs. figurative language

Reading done by women could be “easy,” then, and since women were inclined to be interested in the sphere of the heart (how could they not, given that they were relegated to the sphere of the hearth, where the only action involved courtship and marriage?), imaginative literature–fiction–became something womanish and less serious.

Meanwhile, the reading done by men was supposed to be challenging and difficult, or it was worth less (i.e., became feminine). The bigger the book the greater the intellect (ah, yardstick measuring comes in so many forms), the bigger the words the greater the challenge, the more facts and figures… You get the picture.

The idea that boys like factual prose and girls like figurative language has persisted through the 20th and into the 21st century, which is why my industry colleagues rend their garments and despair as half of the reading public ignores half of the reading material out there. Men tell their families to buy them history books, biographies, and pundits’ tomes for holiday gifts and profess that they just “don’t read fiction.” However, take a peek at any man’s psychic bookshelves and you’ll probably see plenty of fiction: Thrillers, spy stories, mysteries, and more.

Men haven’t just been discouraged from reading “easy” books; they’ve even been discouraged from talking about those books, which hurts their chances of learning from them. Although many “book groups” are little more than an excuse to drink wine and gossip, there are many more in which members tease out meaning from contemporary and classic fiction, leaving meetings with ideas and not simply leftover cookies.

If those of us in publishing want to get men to read fiction, we need to do more than simply publish excellent fiction. We’re already doing that, and I don’t mean just fiction written by or for men; I know that my husband would love Ready Player One or A Visit from the Goon Squad or The Passage. He thinks that his time is important and shouldn’t be “wasted” on books that won’t teach him anything. We need to find ways to show men like my husband, men like our friend, that those books named and thousands of others can and will teach them things, sometimes as much as or even more than the best-written biography.

TOC NY 2013— The publishing industry will gather at the Tools of Change for Publishing Conference in New York City, February 12-14, to explore the forces and solutions that are transforming publishing.Save 15% on registration with the code COMM15