Literature: Waiting for the Big Day
I can still remember, looking back to the Seventies in London when I worked in the book department of a large up-market store, that there was always a certain level of excitement in the atmosphere on the two weekly publication days. If a major name in literature had a new book due out, we would often see a small gathering of people around the table where their book had been laid out for viewing, nervously checking that there were enough copies for themselves and then, relieved, flicking through the pages quickly as if inspecting the goods for quality or imperfections. Literature was not just about the contents of a work, but also being seen with it, being recognised as up-to-date, one of the in-crowd.
This brings me to another memory, far earlier, of a school Principal hanging around a very well-known television personality, a copy of the newest work in his hands – all carefully marked up with note slips to show where things had interested him – trying to be included in a conversation. The book itself was in such a pristine condition that it had clearly never been read.
Another memory – and at my age memories take up much of my life – is of holding a photograph of a main display window of this self-same department store in Knightsbridge, showing a full display of books, something hardly to be expected today aside from in a specialist bookshop, dedicated to a best-selling author of the times: Enid Blyton, someone who would never be considered for a display of any size nowadays, if their books were even stocked. And then there is the cartoon, of a man in a hurry, pestering the kiosk service at a train station, clearly in a great hurry, and demanding the Daily Waugh, a joke at the expense of Evelyn Waugh and his prodigious output. But I have never personally experienced this:
How can you tell it’s Thursday in Prague? It’s quite simple. If you see a conspicuously large number of people – between 50 and 500 – mostly adults, standing patiently in long lines on the sidewalks in numerous places around the city, you can be sure that after walking along the line you’ll reach the entrance of a bookstore, and… that it’s Thursday. Because on this day the new releases hit the market in the early afternoon. The patience and confidence of those waiting generally stem from the fact that they had opened the culture section of their newspaper two days prior and now know what to expect on the shelves. On Tuesdays a column appears there with the literary announcements for Thursday. Plenty of time, then, for many to find some way to free up their afternoon.
Regine Standke, An der Moldau “kischt” es, in Die Weltbühne (1985) XL / 13.
Of course, with a little bit of research I could probably find several examples of it happening, that people still show an interest in literature and queue up for a specific title by a specific author – the thought comes of the now accepted as obnoxious person who wrote what has become a multi-million dollar franchise in mystical books, and probably managed to entice children who knew no better – but I have never personally had the pleasure, and cannot say I know of anyone who has. Although, comparing Prague in the Eighties to London or any other major city, where literature does not seem to have such a strong pull now is probably stretching things a little. I would rather have been in Prague, but also with the rest of literature available to us elsewhere, just for the coffee shop conversations on literature, philosophy, politics which, I tell myself, must also have happened.
They did, in London, but more in the decades before I came on the scene. And in Paris, and in Berlin, and on it goes. The same in the other countries and cities I have lived and worked in over the decades: always in the right place for literature, but just a few years too late for the coffee shop literati.
