It’s quite glorious how these days I have more time to read. For a time, a few months ago, I was hardly reading anything, and was getting quite worried; I’ve always loved reading, and have been known to spend entire afternoons reading solidly. After finishing next years theoretical reading, I picked up fiesta, by Hemingway: I have had this odd liking for the old sonofabitch for a while, and – as it’s been ages since I read any of him – I thought I’d give his first proper novel a whirl.

This does, of course, stem from my current preoccupation with filmic linguistics and narrative structure. Currently I am of the opinion that writing stands alone among narrative arts because it relies least on visuals: all one can ‘see’ (in the literal sense) while reading is the text on the page, whereas all other narrative art, from film to opera, relies to a greater or lesser extent. Moreover, the text is arbitrary to the image: read the same book in two different languages, and one reads the same story with roughly the same allusions etc.

Anyway, I’m sure all this is only interesting to me. Amid all this reflection on film books ect, is a concerned thought about many of my peers, fermenting away in the back of my mind. I read recently about a predominance of illiteracy among folk with cp. I am increasingly aware how much the ability to read can effect one’s life, for it is the key to real cultural capital. I was taught to read at a young age, and my first love will always be literature; yet without that ability, I would have no access to the things I most enjoy. Indeed, my enjoyment of film is enhanced by my reading, and it also allows me to approach film from a linguistic perspective. Thus illiteracy among those with special needs, stemming largely from the failures of special schools, is a growing concern of mine, and needs drawing attention to.