Yesterday Salman Rushdie's novel Midnight's Children (Booker prize winner 1981) won the Best of the Booker prize. It was a special one-time prize to commemorate the 40th anniversary of the Booker. Interestingly, the only other time there was a "best of the Booker" was on its 25th anniversary back in 1993 and Midnight's Children also won then.
You may remember me urging readers of this blog to cast their vote for the Best of the Booker awhile back after hearing through the grapevine (or webvine as it was in this case) not many people were voting. Apparently only around 7,800 readers worldwide cast a vote. I find that such a tiny sad number, compared to, say, movie-goers, TV viewers, or people who attend rock concerts. I know, I shouldn't dwell on it, it is just a recipe for depression. But really, why do so few people read? And of those few lovely souls, why do so few care about literature? I don't get it. I really don't. (She wanders off sadly, shaking her head.)
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