In which Bert takes up literary criticism

Sunday morning, and Bert stays in bed with his book.

When he comes down I ask him,

What are you reading now?

J.M. Coetzee. Dusklands.

Is it good?

It's shite.

Why read it then?

It's really two novellas and it shouldn't take long.

But why is it shite?

Because of how he writes. Never says what he means, just fliff-flaffing about. It's esoteric. What does esoteric mean anyway?

I don't actually know for sure. Look it up and while you're at it check out what's being said about Dusklands online.

Is that not cheating?

No. It's a really good thing to do. Helps you to understand the book, maybe get more out of it.

A little time passes. 

Bert has just found out about the world of books online. He says,

Ha! I'm not the only one then. It says here that those that find fault with Dusklands concentrate on the obliquity of the book's method.

He goes back online. Doing his research. Some minutes later he waves his phone in front of my face. I am looking at a picture of Frank O'Connor's Dutch Interior.

Bert says,

Look at that! The state of it! Spine's hanging off it! And they're looking £40 for it.

I say,

It's probably a first edition. But I wouldn't want it in that state.

I look up our paperback copy to see what that is worth. Seventeen pounds.

Bert says,

You should sell it. It's a load of shite anyway.