'The book is mightier than the film, the play or the website.'

'I wish to propose the motion the book is mightier than the film, the play or the website'.

The last time we went to see a play my husband sat next to a blind man who, as soon the lights dropped, slouched against my husband's shoulder. A few seconds later he was fast asleep. While my husband was concentrating on his accidental supporting role, I was trying my best not to accost the man sitting to my left. He had clearly come to the theatre simply in order to eat. As soon as he sat down he brought out a big plastic bag full of sweets and crisps, each one apparently wrapped in the most brittle cellophane available. Even before the curtains rose he'd started: clearly these sweets were difficult to access.

A long period of unwrapping was followed by noisy mastication, accompanied by the aroma of caramel, mint, chocolate, and once, banana. I wanted him to stop. But I am British, so I didn't say anything. Instead I gave him pained looks to indicate my irritation, but he was enjoying himself too much to take any notice. I began fantasising about his coming across a particularly sticky piece of toffee that would clamp his teeth firmly together until the end. While I squirmed in my seat so my husband sat, no more relaxed, in his: the blind man was now snoring, and dribbling onto my husband's shoulder. By the time the interval came we decided we'd had enough and left.

You could say we were not engaged. Although this is an extreme example it illustrates why live performances like these are inferior to the experience of reading a book. You are forced to sit next to irritating strangers. But this is not the whole problem. The medium of the stage and the film cannot convince like a book. It has to tell too much. It has scenery, props, a set. A film tries to be as realistic as possible. It depicts rather than evokes, and can leave little to the imagination.

Reading, in contrast, requires effort, and this is the reason that reading is thought to stave off dementia. The brain is kept lithe through exercise; a diet of film-watching, in contrast, cause brain-flabbiness. By the time I am through a few pages of a book I have invested so much effort that I now have a vested interest in making the rest of the book work. I have suspended disbelief and been drawn in, as the saying goes. I have entered a private world and I feel privileged. Later, when I have finished, I can compare the experience to others that have read it and feel part of a club. So when I read I am not troubled by distractions. I can sit in the nosiest carriage of a train and still be engrossed. I can be taken to other planets, other times, other dimensions. I can enter the main character's head in a way I cannot in a film or the theatre. Because I am so involved I am happy to be fed information and learn a lot about other countries, other ideas and other lifestyles. A book can be just as much a window to another real world as it is to a fantastic one.

A film or play has to tell its story more quickly. An audiobook lasts around fifteen hours at least; a film or play just three. There is more opportunity for detail, explanation and expansion in a book, which is impossible in film or in a play. A play or film has to be faster paced than a novel, but a novel can be more leisured; it can afford to take its time and play around with ideas, language and character, voice, metaphor and simile - all of which increase the depth of the experience. For all these reasons people are often disappointed with the film of the book; they have developed their own response to the characters. It is a unique thing - different in each reader.

Last week I was on a train reading a book. I was, of course, not disturbing anyone. However, I soon became aware of an irritating tinny sound of canned laughter and discovered the person next to me was watching a film on a small piece of plastic. She had not bothered with earphones since that would no doubt detract from her experience, and interfere with inalienable right to be entertained exactly as she wished. The rest of us would just have to put up with it or complain. But again,  we were all British we of course contented ourselves with contemptuous looks and tutting, and waited for the guard to say something, but he disappointed us all and didn't. Disconsolately I turned back to my book and cheered myself with thoughts about its superiority. Maybe soon her battery would give out; but my book would still be going strong. That is another benefit of a book: unlike a website or a film it requires no power or special equipment or anything else. With brail it can have universal appeal. It is self-contained and easily stored. It can be read in private, even in secret, and is small enough, quite often to be secreted anywhere. Unlike watching a play or a film, even with earphones, it disturbs no one.

A book is also flexible. When I put it aside on the train for a cup of coffee it was easy to pick up again and follow the thread. This can be repeated as often as the reader desires. I have found that I can put a book away for quite a few days or months and still pick up the thread by flicking through a few pages that I've read to remind myself of the gist. This is more difficult with the website and the film - and impossible for a play. Furthermore I have discovered that even when I put a book aside it can keep living with me. I find myself thinking about the characters and the setting and wondering what will happen next. By reading slowly and pausing frequently to put the book aside, I can make this pleasure last for days. I can also expand this process by looking things up and seeking further explanation. A hyperlink serves the same purpose of course but this can interrupt the flow and is in any case imposed. There are other things I can do too, which cannot so easily done with a film or a play. I can appreciate the language by reading and rereading. I can commit it to memory. I can refer to it later and tell others. I can underline for them to see exactly what I mean. I can even give them the book to keep as a gift. With a film or a play this is more difficult.

Furthermore a book is cheap, but can easily be made more valuable and exclusive. A second-hand book can range from something disposable to be read once and given away, to a collector's item. In either case it has value. Films, plays and websites are more expensive - and, generally, less sought-after and desirable. Some of my books are my most treasured items. At least a couple are heirlooms, passed through at least five generations with the names inscribed on the flyleaf. A book is a physical thing that can be shared at leisure. A name plate can be added and it can make an attractive and traditional gift. It has many forms : hardback, paperback, ribboned, end pages decorated, ends of the book marbled, leather bound, limited edition, acid-free paper, a rare and sought after cover - the possibilities are numerous. Not so the play or film. A novelty book, like a pop-up book, can be one of the most cherished items of childhood, the infant's dentition preserved in the cover. It can be put on display in a way that a play or a film cannot. This brings me to another point. Books can tell the world a little about you, an aspect of your personality, just as much as your choice of clothing, and in a much more finely-tuned way than a film or a play. Maybe you like romance, but not Mills and Boon romances, but sweeping epics; or maybe you like adventure books set in the Arctic and in the nineteenth century, written by Americans. Your book becomes like a badge of a very select sect. And once you have established your taste you can join others who have a similar taste and compare recommendations. You can find yourself part of a world-wide group of science-fiction lovers, and from that find companionship and conversation. There is conversation to be gleaned from watching films and plays too - but it is not as wide-ranging or intense. It also has less scope.

So a book can be a badge, an heirloom, a gift, and a way of passing the time; but most of all, for me, it is a way of entering another world: a world of greater depth and scope than any offered on the stage or film. It is complete immersion, and one from which even the nosiest sweet-wrapper cannot disturb me.'

I'd never done this sort of thing before, or even been to a debate, and although I won, Diana Morgan, who was opposing me, was so convincing and passionate that if I had been able to vote I think I would have voted for her. The people on the floor made some excellent points too.

2/11/2010

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Last night I went to Capel Gad in Cilcain near Mold. It's a long time since I've been in a chapel. I'd forgotten the attractive simplicity: the plain cream walls, the undecorated rectangular windows and the functional pulpit. Four lanterns hung down from the high ceiling and yet seemed to light the entire room. There were no balconies, few wall hangings, just the dark pews with hard wood seats.

I remembered the chapel services I'd endured as a child, and how they'd seemed to go on forever. I shifted in my seat and looked at the programme with my husband. It seemed quite long, and it was all in Welsh.

"Sorry," I said. He smiled and pointed to where the words of a couple of hymns were written, in their entirety, in Welsh. "Looks like we're going to have to do a Redwood." I said, remembering the notorious incident when John Redwood, as Welsh minister was forced to stand and show he didn't know the words of the Welsh National Anthem in front of a television audience of millions. 

Gradually the place started to fill. The old pews took exactly four people each and creaked with the unaccustomed weight. Soon the ushers were having to pick out spaces and directing people to the front. The organiser, Edward Williams, warned me they were running out of tickets and so I'd asked him to keep a couple aside. We counted the number of heads: Hodmandod Senior estimated at least 240. The concerts in Capel Gad are often quite popular, but this one was proving to be one of the most popular so far. The attraction was the Ladies's Choir from Gaiman in Patagonia.

I'd already introduced them in Llangollen, and seen then how they fascinated. I'd been warned not to expect much from my audience, that people tended not to listen as well to outdoor speakers, so I had kept careful watch as I'd spoken, ready to curtail things if anyone showed signs of being bored. But they didn't so I kept going. Clearly the story of how there came to be this settlement of Welsh people in the middle of a desert in Spanish-speaking Argentina intrigues others just as it intrigued me.

Most Welsh people have heard of their Patagonian cousins at school, but know little more about the early years of the colony, or even why they went there. It is an heroic tale and a triumphant one and as I listened to the choir last night I wondered how much the members of this choir knew about their ancestors that landed on a bleak beach almost 150 years ago - perhaps not any more than I know about the details of the lives of my own ancestors (that is very little).

Little is generally known about the lives of ordinary people, unless they leave diaries or tell their children tales of their lifetime adventures. Fortunately, some of the Patagonian settlers did both of these things, and I was able to interview some of the older descendants, who had heard the tales, when I went over to Patagonia in 2004. I've incorporated some of those stories in my novel, and used the facts I'd gleaned from accounts of their lives to reconstruct what happened.

Some of the themes of the story: 'Promised land', 'wilderness', 'suffering' seem biblical, and it seemed apt last night to be thinking of all this again in Capel Gad. The Patagonian Ladies choir, which at one stage was joined by the local choir from Cilcain, and also several talented Patagonian male soloists, sang the Welsh hymns I imagine the settlers could have sung. With the 160 settlers there were three ministers, so there must have been no shortage of services.

The choir also sang in Spanish - stirring folk songs and exciting modern songs composed for them by their accompanist Hector MacDonald, son of their director, Edith MacDonald. The time went quickly, and after a few minutes I didn't notice the hardness of the seat at all. All were spectacularly successful and strangely moving and the performers were given a standing ovation.

Billy Hughes from Patagonia sang the patriotic Cymru Fach and then joined a very good local soloist, Malcolm Williams, in a series of stirring duets and we all rose to sing the final three songs together including Calon Lân and Hen Wlad fy Nhadau. A woman in front of us waved a flag, and I don't think I've ever been prouder to be Welsh.

'Wonderful, isn't it?' I said to my husband, and he nodded - even though he is English.