Days of future post

My second incarnation as a bookseller is drawing to a close during the somewhat eerie post-Christmas period, when the Yuletide shopping frenzy is replaced by a much more gentle pace of book-buying, and books about cats pad softly to the store-room.  This is a useful period for tidying, cleaning and, for the most avidly-rummaged sections, large-scale physical reconstruction.  During this process, joyous cries of 'There it is!' rend the air as long-lost copies of particular titles are found inserted head-first behind the bottom shelves in the children's section; (we think this is the result of work carried out by tiny industrial saboteurs, employed by a consortium of e-reader manufacturers).  Being an appreciator of, and seeker after, accidental poetry, I was delighted to hear one of my colleagues announce, during this process of shop refreshment: 

'I've polished the tops of the gondolas'

and would have worked it up into a sonnet if I could have found a rhyme for 'gondolas'.

During this somewhat more tranquil trading period, thoughts inevitably turned to what literary trends, events and publications will define the coming year, so I borrowed a few divination titles from the (now very tidy) Mind, Body, Spirit section and, after an examination of my soya turkey bones that was forensic in its thoroughness and detail, I scried or scyred the following.

Jamie Oliver, inspired by the success of his thirty and fifteen-minute meals books, produces a collection of tasty and healthy supper recipes that actually reach readiness before you start to make them.  There is the usual petty caviling from those who complain that not everybody's kitchen is large enough to contain the CERN particle accelerator and Professor Brian Cox, both of which are required for this process.

*****

The shameless bandwagon-jumping onto the success of E.L. James' books continues, as the following are published in the hope that hard-of-hearing book buyers will rush towards them: a history of certain nimble-footed young women from Powys, Nifty Maids of Hay; a novel set in a garden centre where the staff are fiercely mandated to sell as many digging implements as possible during spring, Shift the Spades of May and a lyrical, poetic celebration of water-skiing, Drift, ye Blades of Spray.

*****

Film director Peter Jackson carries further his approach to The Hobbit and develops a five-film sequence from a semi-colon in The Silmarillion.

*****

The government Deed Poll website crashes as each leading literary author in the world attempts to change their name to Hilary Mantel before the Booker judges convene.

*****

Publishing house Random Penguins denies that its newly-announced merger with God will stifle competition or give it an unfair influence over the market.

*****

The year's runaway best-seller is an update on the Mayan prophecy called Whoops, we Forgot to Carry One.

*****

I'd like to extend sincere thanks to everyone who's taken the time to walk across cyberspace and view this blog, and leave the year in the hope that 2013 brings a more peaceful world.


David

Polley-syllabic: a review of The Havocs

The definition and purpose of poetry are not subjects unknown to this blog.  See here, for example.  Many would claim that one of poetry’s chief duties is to arrest the reader with powerful, startling images and statements that invest what was previously seen or known with new meaning, magic or wonder.  

This is certainly a service provided by The Havocs, Jacob Polley’s new collection from Picador Poetry; Polley bestows on us, for example, costumed bee-keepers viewed as

‘post-industrial seraphim’

and observes that to inhale winter air is to

‘breathe blue knives’.

Those who, as I do, grow joyful at the display of formal ability and dexterity need look no further than this collection, whether it be in the skilfully flexible rhymed iambics of the opening poem The Doll’s House, various novel forms of sonnet or the Anglo-Saxon alliterative style.  

Polley is also blessed with the Fenton/Auden-like ability (not to diminish any party by comparison) to produce lines and poems that, employing simple vocabulary, are able to evoke a kind of timeless, enigmatic declaratory wisdom.  From A Book of Water, for example:

‘I bought a book of water
its covers bound in weed,
its spine of muscled silver,
its words too quick to read.'


and, as Doll’s House zooms out from the sub-human to the cosmic scale:

‘What happens if you turn away?
Every god has asked the same,’.

Polley frequently unleashes a keen eye and ear on natural phenomena, producing exquisite lyric descriptions of flora and fauna.  He can also, however, experiment with language in a discommoding way, especially in the title poem and Virus, both of which blend (deliberate) clichés with a vision of a language that has run riot with peculiar usages; a metaphor for and embodiment of the growing gap between the state of the world and our ability to describe it. The more emotionally engaged poems often look back to the troubling puzzles of childhood and are imbued with a wistful and contemplative tone that is never sentimental.

Little streams of reference and theme trickle pleasantly through the book; the mysterious, riddle-like Hide and Seek prefigures a section of literal riddles about occupations; there is a sequence of poems which looks at the ephemeral nature of human activity from various perspectives,  and another which fires off a volley of observations and reflections about the Moon.  Despite the conventional and well-worn subject mater of these poems, the precisely unusual vocabulary and imagery redeem Polley's versions from predictability and cliché. There is also a number of poems which echo and reshape the work of other writers: Doll’s House shares themes with Keats’ Grecian Urn, The News can be read as a response to Auden’s Stop All the Clocks and It Will Snow Before Long is an honourable relative of Louis MacNeice’s Snow.

I must quote in full one of the shorter poems which made me purr with appreciation:

Tarn

A star-cold dark and silence over
which you hold your face
to look as many lovely others
looked and left no trace.

In summary, The Havocs is a wonderfully inventive, beautiful, and intelligent collection, superbly crafted and justifiably endorsed by the Poetry Book Society.

Chariots of fire and brimstone

Dedalus is one of our most innovative and worthy publishers.  Both qualities are borne witness to in first translations of excellent foreign literature (New Finnish Grammar being a conspicuous recent example); a continuous string of novels mapping the more bizarre territories of human experience and thought (Memoirs of a Gnostic Dwarf springs to mind, a rare case of a work being as superbly-written as it is eccentrically-titled) and a range of anthologies that are imaginatively and carefully curated.

In this last category, The Decadent Sportsman, kindly provided by the publisher for review, recently insinuated its way through our letterbox, to lie in a louche and seductive manner in the hall; no mean feat to accomplish through a layer of cardboard packaging.

Each book in the Decadent series, of which this is the fourth, is presented by the fictional duo of Durian Gray and Medlar Lucan.  Our hosts are disciples of modern decadence, a religion the central purpose of which is 'transforming one's life - however sordid....into a work of art'.  The relevant presiding deity is the Marquis de Sade; the prophets include D.H. Lawrence and Oscar Wilde, and the required rituals count among their number bizarre and painful sexual activity, the elaborate abuse of intoxicants in all forms and being impeccably dressed at all times.  Around each theme, the editors weave a triple-stranded tapestry of sumptuous and outrageous material, these strands being: their own beautifully-jaded observations on life in general and on their own eventful existences; a series of relevant and often bizarre lists, facts and other information from the real world and choice, often lengthy extracts from various genres of literature which can delight and surprise even the most experienced reader's palate.


Allow me to give respective examples from the current publication.  One of the earliest and best editorial contributions is a Position Paper to the IOC on 'the Inclusion of Sexual Athletics (Fornicastics) as Recognised Sports in Future Olympic Games'.  Typically, this idea is developed at length and in wonderful detail, including a systematic definition of nomenclature ('Individual fornicastics (formerly termed masturbatics')) and calibration of scoring.  Among the strange factual nests that are plundered are two lists which attempt to categorise different types and levels of pain, and the life and exploits of Algernon Charles Swinburne, while the quotations include William Hazlitt's extraordinary description of a prizefight.  This is only to scratch (or lightly flay, as Gray and Lucan would prefer) the surface of the book, among whose other highlights there are a fascinating discourse on gladiatorial combat, some caustic observations on the failings of modern sport and the observation that 'sleeping with a jockey is like a night on a pebble beach'

As are its counterparts, Sportsman is framed by the device of Gray and Lucan having washed up in a particular locale, (this is usually because they are fleeing the attentions of debt-collectors and the law agencies).  On this occasion, we find them in a crumbling Cuban town house which also hosts a boxing gym, and it is from their growing fascination with particular aspects of pugilism - 'there is no more beautiful sight than that of a polychromatic bruise or a bead of blood against dark skin' - that they launch upon their own extraordinary exploration of sport and sportspeople.

This is certainly a book for broad-minded sports enthusiasts, lovers of the curious and the bizarre in life, art and history, and anyone who thinks that best-selling novels about modest sadomasochism define the edge of literary risk-taking.

Tune in again on Friday for the next post in the new, exciting thrice-weekly format.

And so that was Christmas

Having been away from the retail world for many years, I had grown accustomed to Christmas leave periods that were positively decadent in length.  It was with particular intensity, therefore, that I greeted the dawn (in our house, due to certain localised quantum temporal effects, this phenomenon occurs at around 10.30 a.m. on a non-working day) of the first precious day off in a consecutive series of three, and decided it was time to reflect on the current behaviour of Christmas in bookshops.


As someone who has recently and often promulgated the theory that cultural and technological pundits have underestimated the appeal and endurance of physical books, it was cheering to hear many bookshop customers echoing this. As stated in previous posts, I am not motivated towards this stance by any kind of Luddite wish to deny or turn back the tide of technology (that's more Canutite, I know), and if you attempted to locate me around the nether regions of Milton Keynes during the hours of darkness, crawling through the undergrowth in camouflage clothing lobbing clogs at the Amazon warehouse, your search would be in vain.  (You may, however, witness some even more intriguing sights).  I would also question some of the claims that are being made for the superior utility of e-readers, especially the notion that, for hundreds of years now, people have been sacrificing essential holiday items in order to fit a sufficient number of physical books into their suitcase.  I have uttered and heard many a cavil and complaint about holiday experiences in my time, but I can't recall anyone saying that it had been inconvenient to wear the same shirt and pants every day for a fortnight, but at least they'd read War and Peace in the original, thanks to having packed that seven-volume set of Russian dictionaries alongside the novel. There is also the point to be made that most people's working lives are now dominated by computers, and that they may not wish to extend this relationship into their reading hours.

It was refreshing to see that, if our own bookshop was typical, literary fiction can be pursued with fervent popular demand.  Those In Control Of Writing Things must, however, intervene in the problem of Hilary Mantel and Yann Martel having such similar surnames, if we are to avoid more frantic customers asking if they can have a copy of Bringing up Tigers or Wolf Pie, both of  which, in any case, strike me as novels that deserve to be written.

The Law of the Absurdly Popular Christmas Feline Book was proudly upheld by A Street cat Named Bob, although I am sad to report we could not account for one copy yesterday, which situation led to one of my colleagues calling 'Here, Bob, Bob, Bob' around the shop (in a relatively customer-free moment) to no avail.  This outcome was not surprising, as he should of course have put down a book about milk to entice it back.

Finally, it was good to have it reaffirmed that being around books has a benign and soothing influence on the human soul.  During all the hours of frantic trading, the occasional long queue and not always being able to supply people's first requests, there was no flaring of temper or outburst of hysteria.  The customers behaved pretty decently too.

This blog will now become decorously inebriated on Southern Comfort and slur its wishes to you all for the most peaceful Christmas and inspiring new year.  Look out on Wednesday for a review of Dedalus' Decadent Sportsman.

David

Puns in Royal David's City

Although book recommendations cascade down like snowflakes in a very snowy country at this time of year, I was unable to resist adding to their number a few appropriate festive suggestions, which you may not find in your average list nor, for that matter, bookshop.*

Look Back in Manger

Hollyver Twist

The Mince Pie who Loved Me

Westward Ho! Ho!

Hergé's Adventures of Tinsel

Frankincense and Sensbility

Tom Brown's Yuledays

Sprout of Africa

  
*Not even, for example, The Bookshop, Welwyn Garden City (it doesn't sell coat hangers).


                 

On me book, Alan

For me, the day of our Alex Fynn / Alan Smith signing of Arsenal - the Making of a Superclub began ominously.  I arrived at Hitchin train station to be greeted by the sight of half the town standing in the forecourt. Dismissing the notion that these people had been gripped by a spontaneous mass outburst of festive bonhomie and were comparing basting methods, my razor-sharp faculty of deductive reasoning reached the conclusion that yesterday evening's problems with unsteady Flange Capacitors in the King's Cross area had been granted an extension.  Sure enough, the station was full of no trains in both directions, which necessitated my walking back home and driving to Welwyn Garden City.

Once I arrived at The Bookshop, however, a more positive mood was discovered.  Inspired by the imminent appearance of their former stalwart Alan Smith, Arsenal had walloped in an unfeasibly large number of goals against the hapless Reading the previous evening; the books had arrived in timely fashion, (we believe in the old-fashioned virtue of having books at book signings) and the advance orders with special dedications were neatly arranged for the pre-signing signing session. Even the potential and dangerous distraction from our event which manifested itself in the form of a children's choir on the ground floor proved futile, especially when our science-fiction obsessed colleague walked past them several times in the highly realistic zombie costume he had acquired at his last convention.

Soon, a spirited crowd had formed itself into a more or less orderly queue outside the shop, (although things did get a little edgy when someone suggested that Arsenal should be playing with a roving midfield sweeper behind a sagging diamond formation) and I had to suppress the urge to walk past them chanting Tottenham Hotspur slogans, which, I can assure you, required considerable effort.  Messrs Fynn and Smith were friendliness and charm themselves, as they signed for and were photographed with a steady stream of delighted pilgrims from The Emirates.

Smith (left) and Fynn

The business of converting the shop into a signing-friendly zone and then reversing the process, while the Christmas buying frenzy raged around us was a stimulating challenge. We've gone beyond multi-tasking, and have developed numerous astral projections of ourselves which can: simultaneously attempt to look up books described as being 'Blue' or 'About something'; diplomatically urge parents to intervene in the process of their child eating the stock; replace books on tables and displays as they are (increasingly rapidly) snatched up and reassure persistent customers that we're not keeping 'the best books' behind the counter for specially favoured patrons.  Late entrants into festive popularity, by the way, include Alys, Always and (perhaps boosted by Marina Warner's broadcasts) Philip Pulman's Grimm retellings.

In the end, all went well, star guests and customers alike were satisfied, and it was with good cheer that my colleagues boarded the special yaks, thoughtfully chartered by the rail companies, to travel home.

Yoga for booksellers (with apologies to yoga)

I firmly and proudly belong to that section of the population which celebrates (in all senses) Christmas, and am irritated by those who seem to derive a perverse pleasure from sniping at this merry institution.

I recognise, however, that the season carries, like sinister baubles, its peculiar stresses and strains, not least for those of us in the business of handing Christmas over the counter to eager shoppers. I thought, therefore, that I would make the gift of sharing with you the unique, holistic system we have devised at The Bookshop in Welwyn Garden City, to ameliorate these pressures.  We have adapted certain classic yoga postures and blended them with key variants in order to combine and unite the manifold duties involved in modern book relocation with the physical and spiritual benefits of the ancient discipline.  A few examples are:  

Yogic name : Ardha Candrāsana (Half-Moon Pose)

The Bookshop name: Reaching For The Shutter Switch At Closing And Opening Times, Avoiding The Rather Large Number Of Books Thrust Manically Into The Window Space To Entice Customers Across The Threshold.  GREAT CARE must be taken when withdrawing from this posture to ensure: (a) the correct breathing and alignment are employed and (b) that you avoid treading on the nice Peter Rabbit gift set.

Yogic name: Balasana (Child's Pose)  

The Bookshop name: Dignified Apology To Customer For Failing To Have Latest Jamie Oliver On Shelf, While Humbly Reassuring Them It Can Be Ordered Rapidly.  Note the alternative name: Explanation To Manager For Omitting To Toggle F9 On Epos System Then Pressing Enter Three Times And Facing West While Selling Book Tokens (see previous blog posts).

Yogic Name: Spinal Twist 

The Bookshop name: Rapid Swivelling Of Head While Tidying Children's Section For The Fourth Time This Day To Maintain Vigilance Over Customers Waiting At Till, Looking Bewildered Or Muttering About Latest Jamie Oliver Not Being On Shelf.




Namaste.