Paperweight [antikvár]

Introduction Welcome to Paperweight. My first act must be to warn that it would be a madness in you to read this book straight through at one sitting, as though it were some gripping novel or ennobling biography. In the banquet of literature Paperweight aspires to be thought of as no more than a kind of literary guacamole into which the tired and hungry reader may from time to time wish to dip the tortilla chip of his or her curiosity. I will not be held responsible for the mental indigestion that is sure to be provoked by any attempt to bolt the thing whole. Snack books may not be the last word in style, but for those sated and blown by the truffles and quenelles of the master chefs in one kitchen, or flatulent with Whoppers and Super Supremes from the short-order cooks in the other, it may just be that Paperweight will find a place. Perhaps, however, it will be the other end of the alimentary canal that furnishes us with a clue as to how to manage this book: its natural home may well turn out to be the lavatory, alongside The Best of the Far Side, an old Harpic-stained copy of The Sloane Ranger Handbook and everyone's cloacal favourite. The Collected Letters of Rupert Hart-Davies. It may be that each article of the book should have been flagged with a number or symbol indicating the length of time the article would take to read, that number or symbol corresponding with the health of a reader's bowel. In this way the reader could determine which sections to read according to his or her diet and general enteric condition. The whole book could then be got through without ever impinging on the customer's quality time. But whatever use you find for Paperweight, whether you do follow a lavatorial regime, whether you take the hint of its title and press it into service as a desk accessory, or whether you merely wish to deface the photograph of tliat disgusting man on the front cover, I wish you years of trouble-free, stain-resistant use. To collect together the swarf of six or seven years of occasional toiling in the workshops of journalism and radio (an absurd vii