Find ultimate reality show between book's covers

I want to urge non-readers to get a real life and embrace the written word. Photo / Thinkstock

I know every generation fears for the future, that this generation is killing everything meaningful, they're spoiled, overly demanding, lack values and have no such thing as originality, let alone grit. No appreciation for anything because they have everything - end of an older person's rant.

But this time the fears are well-founded, as the world becomes more materialistic, hedonistic, videos rule supreme and hardly anyone reads either newspapers or books. The video subjects? Cute animals and funny kids, or some "amazing" surprise role-breaker like a homeless person playing pretty average piano. Self-reflection? None.

The only form of it is seeing yourself mirrored in some reality television portrayal, supposedly having your character put to the test by eating live bugs, surviving in a jungle, a desert island, or just having to get on with people in a suburban environment, and failing.

These facile moments have nothing to do with any reality except that of the shallow and stupefyingly inane, where childish behaviour is elevated to represent some higher form of character or lack thereof.

The Americans have elevated this empty public display to an art form, if you can call it that when you see World Wrestling antics of grown, steroid-pumped child-men attacking each other in a ring with metal stepladders; giant oafs bellowing threats of physical mayhem to would-be opponents. It is like watching the decline of the Romans in high-def stereo with the volume turned up, just in case you miss the point, which is: there is none. Hey, it's just light entertainment, isn't it? Absolutely not.

So, says the old man from his armchair. A country, a once-proud nation now going into cultural decline, what happens to its writers and poets? What of the land whose inhabitants worship celebrities and can get a video zoom-in of how these celebrities live, enjoy vicariously the bubble-jacuzzi - no-one calls it a spa any more - count the number of bedrooms - oh, and don't forget the bathroom count? Enjoy the swimming pool, have a virtual ride on a private jet? Why the hell would they be interested in what writers and poets have to say?

Because, duh, our wordsmiths give a society meaning. Are you kidding? How many square metres does meaning have? How many millions does it cost? Nothing? Seriously? You said nothing? Then it ain't worth jack. Is it to do with being famous? Not necessarily and not usually. Just serious. In a world that does not do serious. Not like in a poem.

I have beside me 941 pages of Pablo Neruda's poetry. I am a quarter way through a second read and no doubt will start all over again in a few months' time. Neruda's words speak to me like nothing I have ever known. Not music - despite an obsession with it - not literature, even though I read at least thrice my favourite novelists like Doctorow, Winton, Leonard, Crace, etc. No, only Neruda's words give my imagination flight and my heart an understanding of itself, its depths, shadows, places of blinding light where inevitably enlightenment dwells.

I could quote him in every column, every novel I ever wrote and wish, on reflection, I had. But I have stopped mentioning his name because the number of zings on the scorecard reads exactly 1. It was much the same when I'd mention Gerard Manly Hopkins' name years ago before I was a published author. Who's he play for? Never heard of him, mate. Is he on TV? In a movie? None of that - mate. He was 19th century English poet whose "terrible sonnets" awakened something profound in this person at 21 years old. I'd never heard of him either. My older brother gave me a book of his works.

On our living room bookshelf a 40-year-old edition of Hopkins sits quietly among other literary giants. My wife and I are glad and appreciative to have him and Neruda, along with Shakespeare and Bryson, etc, etc. We love books and I have a particular love of poets. I love the rhythm and the insights. The beautiful construction, the original architectureof words. I love the whole concept of a thinking culture. Much as I love rugby and boxing.

On my deathbed I want to rage against cultural darkness. I want to urge non-readers to get a real life and embrace the written word. I've already selected the songs for my funeral, along with poetry and literature I'd like read out. I do not want these to reflect me so much as something far greater. Reflection not on self, but on our marvellous ability to contemplate, ponder and be amazed. But how many will be listening?