You can judge a book by its cover, sometimes. A young lad and his girlfriend appear in front of the booth in the bookshop. He wants help with which is the first in a series so I follow them...outside, thinking 'There is no series out here'. He leads me to the table and points to the old Penguins which I've placed together. Along with the two Huxleys there's Sartre's The Reprieve and this:
The layout pictured above is from the day before I slightly altered it to include the book about Lane.
"Um. These aren't a series," I say. Although style-wise, the Huxleys are. Do they mean the Huxley books? I don't think so.
"My dad says I should read..." her sentence tapers off with a smile. I look into eyes under long, false lashes.
"Well - ". I'm counting Sartre out for starters, then looking at the Huxleys, neither of which I'd read. "You could try one of these." This is absurd. Huxley? For her? Really? I can't go with a hard sell so I leave them to it, saying "Have a look, see what you think."
Five minutes later they come back in and she puts the Huxleys on the counter. Meanwhile, as I log them, I'm having mixed thoughts, even conflicting emotions...I felt a bit guilty...then ashamed that I was categorising a working class girl from up North with her false eyelashes and thick make-up as someone who wouldn't 'get' Huxley in a million years...then thinking it could be the start of a wonderful literary trip during which she'll discover a whole new world!
Was I judging her? Not really, as in condemning her or passing sentence...because I'm working class and didn't read anything substantial until I was about 17, starting with Kerouac, as I recall, just because he was...fashionable? Amongst a certain crowd, anyway, of which I was only a member in my fantasies. I'd probably read about him in the NME? Who knows. Anyway, I'd never claim to be widely-read, particularly. No serious bookworm, although that is a relative term, of course. If we'd had a copy of On The Road in the shop perhaps it would have been a good recommendation...apart from the fact that the prose style isn't ideal for absolute literary beginners, although I like the thought of her, six months later, wearing no make-up, a black jumper and beret, insisting that her boyfriend listens to Charlie Parker - ha-ha!
Huxley cropped up again the following day. It started when a young Canadian man pointed to the Nineteen Eighty-Four displayed on the counter, saying how much he hated Orwell. His reason was a little vague; something to do with the book's popularity over Brave New World, as far as I could tell. I told him I thought BNW wasn't great writing by any stretch, just a great idea, like so much sci-fi. And Orwell was so much more relevant, unfortunately, what with online censorship by big tech and the drive, by some, to either rewrite or erase the past. By this time he was looking at me quizzically. "Hmm," he said. "I'm trying to work out where you're coming from, politically."
I laughed.
"I'm a socialist," he said, proudly.
I owed him £6.50 change. Instead of giving him the money, I swiped his tenner off the counter and said. "Well, I'm a capitalist and I'm keeping your change!"
My how we laughed. Well, I did. He tried to, but was struggling with an encounter with a bookseller like me, who didn't raise a clenched fist in response to his political declaration. I gave him the change. He departed, smiling as he gave me his middle finger.
Here are things I found in books this week. The call to prayer was in a dusty box on the floor containing various 'spiritual' books. The Miami bar/restaurant card is my favourite, only because of the graphic content and it sparks me to imagine being in the Miami circa 1950 sipping cocktails with Rita Hayworth to the sound of a band playing Mambo tunes...well, I can dream, can't I?
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