As nothing has occurred this week that I want to write about, I thought that I would, instead, pose some questions. If you can enlighten me, dear reader, please do so. Your ideas or information would be greatly appreciated.

Why do we commemorate anniversaries?

Just before I started writing this, my computer took it upon itself to follow the lead of various friends and relations, and remind me that during the next day or two, it will be my birthday. Last Friday, the media marked a year since the King succeeded his late mother. Earlier this month, military historians reminded people that it was the eightieth anniversary of the first Allied landings in Italy.

What is the point? Why do we give ourselves these constant reminders of the passing of time? Does it have any benefit, either to an individual, or to society at large?

I’m as guilty as anyone when it comes to these things. Like everyone else, I have, and shall doubtless continue, to celebrate and commemorate as the calendar continues its perpetual cycle. My head is full of birthdays, wedding anniversaries, death anniversaries, and dates of other events. But what is the point?

Does it all stem from the various religions? Festivals and other observances have to take place at set times of year. So presumably the anniversary of a birth, marriage, death or other event would originally have been remembered due to its proximity to some religious festival or other?

Or is it simply that we like to have excuses to eat and drink nice things? They enhance a celebration, and cheer us up if we are commemorating something more somber.

What constitutes good literature?

The author, ex politician, and former convict, Jeffrey Archer, contends that there are two kinds of novelist – the story teller, in which category he puts himself, and the writer. The former, as you will no doubt have gathered, can keep his or her readers gripped by there story, but not necessarily amaze them with beautiful language. The latter has a far more intellectualised approach. Language and form are more important than plot. Thus Wilbur Smiths gripping adventures are dismissively described as “popular fiction”, and James Joyce’s often impenetrable prose will always be considered “literature”.

But why should this be? Is it merely intellectual snobbery? After all, Smith can easily be understood by the masses, whereas Joyce requires some effort.

And why is Shakespeare still considered the greatest playwright the anglophone world has ever produced? Most of his jokes were topical, so are not understood by the majority of people four centuries on. His characters speak to one another in a preposterously poetic manner. Yet we all believe him to be the English literary gold standard. Is this true? Or do we simply lack the will, or perhaps the iconoclasm, to challenge the perceived wisdom of generations of school teachers?

And if Shakespeare is, indeed, the greatest, why in God’s name did the Nobel committee ward the literature prise to the ridiculously overrated Bob Dylan? How could his drug-fuelled absurdities be considered literature of any sort, never mind good quality literature?

Ah well. I suppose that I might as well end by quoting Johnny Nash, who wrote and sang that “there are more questions than answers”.