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| RTomens, 2021 |
Post-production scanological trickery applied to the original. Chance is such an interesting tool. Chance, that is, with the appliance of some experience. In Toothless, paper plays a part, adding tonal variations and the effects of being folded.
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The day after a copy of The Penguin Guide To Jazz On CD (Third Edition) arrived in the post, I dipped into The Anatomy of Bibliomania by Holbrook Jackson, which is essential reading for every bookworm. On page 121 Adam Smith is quoted as saying that 'of all the amusements of old age, the most grateful and soothing is a renewed acquaintance with the favourite studies of youth'. How appropriate, then, that I should have been reading the Penguin Guide that very morning!
I was not only reacquainting myself with a book, the first edition of which I wore out in the 90s (it was first published in 1992) but it's subject matter too. Not that I have ever left Jazz behind since embarking on 'the voyage' in the 80s, but reading, as I was, the Count Basie section, my interest in that band was also renewed. That's what great guides do, isn't it? Cook and Morton were harsh (or honest) in their judgements, which meant that four-star evaluations were taken more seriously. I don't agree with all of their recommendations, naturally, but in the age of Spotify, where band members are not listed, it's great to have them to hand and more to the point be able to find the music at the click of a mouse.
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Monday 27th in the bookshop: a woman asks if we sell tarot cards. We don't.
Tuesday 28th: another woman comes in and asks if we have any tarot cards! What's going on? An hour later, a woman asks if we have any books on astrology.
My psychic powers are probably...weak-to-non-existent (how are yours?), so when, also on Tuesday, a girl wanted me to recommend a novel that would make her cry, I was unable to comply. Stupid bloody request! How do I know what will set her blubbering?! A book has never made me cry. I'm a man! (ha-ha).
I glanced up to the top shelf behind her, thinking that if that three-volume Helena Blavatsky box was to fall on her head, she'd certainly cry. She would be moved to tears by the weight of some serious theosophical thinking! Having read a bit about Blavatsky I'm curious as to what she wrote and will get on the footstool, dust off the set and have a look next week. Better handle it carefully, though, because it's worth a lot of money. For a laugh, I may even put it on prominent display somewhere and if that gets it sold I'll want a cut! What are the chances? You never know.
Meanwhile, wanna-cry girl is smiling at me, expecting a result (because, hey, I work in a bookshop, don't I?). Idiotically (when I should have just shrugged and claimed ignorance) I wander over to the Fiction, thinking all the time that it really was a lost cause. Then I recalled crying during the film version of The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje and, lo and behold, we had a copy. I scanned the back. Hmm...sounds too...intelligent(?) for her, but what the hell. I told her the film had me in tears. She takes it. I take my leave. Half an hour later she buys a contemporary novel by a woman I'd never heard of and can't remember. It looked far more like the kind of story that would have her inn tears than anything I could recommend.
JP Donleavy's A Fairy Tale of New York had me in tears of laughter, as did Tragically I was an Only Twin: The Complete Peter Cook, but those weren't the kind of salty droplets this girl craved, obviously.
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