No One Round Here Reads Tolstoy: Memoirs of a Working-Class Reader

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Mark Hodkinson grew up among dark satanic mills in a house with just one book: Folklore, Myths and Legends of Britain. I can’t be bothered giving much more time to this self-centred monologue, so I’ll just say that that “awful school” inspired me - three post-graduate degrees, a life of working with disadvantaged communities, shelves (and a Kindle) full of books (including Tolstoy); and never did it let down either my brother or my sister- or anyone else I knew.

The author's journey takes him through his time in local journalism, his adventures in publishing and his thoughts on various authors and bands. As they walk through the Lake District chomping on apples, “I half expected him to suggest a game of hide and seek”. I lived in Manchester around the same time for a while and there's so much more I wanted to know (a sequel on football would be nice! At that point, the books shifts into a slightly different perspective, more about Mark's career and how it intertwines his reading, and his reading drives his career. I felt like I was living a parallel life: part of me on the sandy streets of Algiers, drinking strong coffee at Celeste’s restaurant; the other slightly feverish in snowed-in Rochdale.It’s a sad fact of this day and age, but with this fact libraries need to bend and re shape themselves to encompass so much more and embrace the new.

In No One Round Here Reads Tolstoy I saw reflected my own experience of growing up in an almost bookless household. It is not just about books though, it is about his take on life and is full of the happy and sad memories he still carries with him. Although Hodkinson and I have very different taste in reading material, I recognised the relationship he has with his books; they are a place of refuge and safety away from a complicated world. I am reminded of the nursery rhyme about the old woman who lived in a shoe…and the joke oft told about how lucky she was to have a shoe to live in.But I am a reader and self proclaimed bibliophile; have lived as far north as Sheffield and do worry about having too many books.

Hodkinson recaptures all the innocence, joy and magic of childhood and the seemingly endless curiosity and adventure that comes along with it, and of course there is a long list of delightful authors, titles and bands to hunt down afterwards too. but I really wanted to read the main narrative, and then another grandad section would appear, which I would try not to skim before resuming the thread. There was one book in the house, kept on the top of a wardrobe with other revered items such as his cycling proficiency certificate. Until he moved house it hadn’t really occurred to him quite how many books that Hodkinson actually owned. I don’t agree with all of them, of course – that’s just how it is with books – but he is insightful, thoughtful and independent.Yes, this is a pretty brutal review, and I only feel comfortable about this because the book has received a lot of favourable press which I feel needs tempering. This is a funny, charming and delight to soak up, an unashamed celebration of a working class life/childhood and all of the simple and profound pleasures it brings along with it. This was a thoroughly enjoyable and highly readable overview of another lifelong bibliophile’s development.