In the bookshop while I am trying to find some Elizabeth Taylors which I have not read, an old man is hovering in my line of vision. He points to a book called The Lifeboat. It is by Charlotte Rogan. "Have you read that?" he asks me out of the blue. I say no. I know nothing about it. He says that it is gripping and enjoyable. "Unless you are on cruise," he adds. I say that I have no desire to go on a cruise. He says, "the trouble with cruises is that you never want to leave the ship," at which point he moves off, and I find two novels by Elizabeth Taylor which are new to me. While looking for something else I put down my prospective purchases for a moment . Cruising past he regards them, (is it my imagination?), with a flicker of contempt.
In Monson Road a man is sitting on the pavement playing an accordion. The music has a central European rhythm, a Slavic mixture of melancholy and high spirits. What appeals to me is that there no amplifier to torture the air waves. The sounds drifts towards you slowly. It has no hard edges; it merges with other sounds. It charms without intruding. I cross the road to give him some money and to thank him.
1 comment:
If you care for a book and feel (in a fearful attack of do-goodism) that others would profit from reading it you face a shocking reality. There is no room for playing John the Baptist: a direct, lapel-gripping, spittle-in-the-face approach. It might work with a crowd (who can't see the spittle) but passion has a greater tendency to disgust than to convert. True love can only be communicated over time, a tiny hint, a fragmentary example. Although having said that you - being you - out of sheer perversity, employing the techniques that allow you to ride detachedly through embarrassment, might actually glance at the book - but for reasons that would, if explained, outrage its slightly mad prophet.
Post a Comment