If someone was to ever ask me, “Raghu, what is your favourite place in the world?” I would, without hesitation, reply “A bookstore”. The type of bookstore matters, but not to a very large extent; I would enjoy second-hand and antique bookstores slightly more than I would a Borders. Today, I went out into the city to pick up a book (I ended up buying four and would have bought at least fifteen more had I the capital to do so), and visited two very different bookstores to look for it. One of them can be best described as an Indian analogue of Borders, while the other is a far more cramped second-hand store. In addition to browsing and inhaling that lovely aroma of old books, I decided to watch the various people who were also engaged in similar activities.
Now, I’ve always held to the notion that a lot about a person can be gleaned from the books they read. My grandmother, for example, is a big fan of crime fiction, and is also one of the craftiest women I know. It never occurred to me, until today, that there could be a much stronger correlation between the books people buy and their personalities than the books they read. I noticed today that people can be very self conscious about the books they appear to be interested in and the books they ultimately buy. I saw a few people pick up a book, look around to see if anyone was watching them, read a few lines and quickly put it back in its place before anyone noticed. The most obvious example was this stud who walked in wearing a leather jacket and leather pants, tattoos on his arms and a beard with equal parts oil and attitude. He shuffled around the magazine section, probably looking for a sneak peak at some skin and then sauntered, very casually – too casually, in fact – to the fiction section, at which point he looked around to make sure no one was watching, and then picked up a copy of “New Moon”. He turned his back to the rest of the bookstore in the hope that he would be able to hide his fantasy, and it didn’t help that the entire shelf (and the two flanking it) were filled with Stephanie Meyer’s exclusive brand of bullshit. The poor guy was probably just looking for something vaguely sexual. In the three minutes that followed, he either found what he was looking for or felt exposed because he dropped the book and literally ran to automobile section where he looked to be far more at peace.
Seeing as I am making an observation and need data to back it up, I should include my own experience today at the store. I was looking for a few books – “Dust of Dreams” by Steven Erikson, “The City and the City” by China Miéville and Dante’s “Inferno” – when I stumbled upon a book called “How to Charm the Pants Off a Hot Woman”, author unknown, which means I didn’t care enough to look. I was holding a bag in my hand that had some books purchased on the non-fiction floor and I came upon a brilliant plan to read a few lines without being noticed. I moved closer to the book in question and in one movement dropped my bag, went down on my knees in order to retrieve it and pulled the book down with me. Of course, I made very little relative noise as the walls of this bookstore are inhabited by a massive number of very industrious and boisterous pigeons. Armed with the knowledge that I had very little time, I quickly turned to the introduction and began reading. “Why are there so many single guys?”, it began. “There really shouldn’t be. Did you know that you will, on average, meet at least one woman a day who would like to get naked with you?”, it professed. I did not know this. But furthermore, I did not believe it either. A soft cough from behind quickly reminded me that I was seated on the ground of a bookstore attempting to secretly read a book titled “How to Charm the Pants Off a Hot Woman”. I turned around with a sheepish grin, redolent in embarrassment, and saw an elderly white woman standing there, a look of surprise on her face. I mumbled something, got up in what was supposed to be a single fluid movement but ended up being something entirely worse, and ran. Half way across the store, I realised two salient things. One, I had forgotten my bag of books. Two, I still had the book, THE book, in my hand. “Ooh er”, I thought to myself. Dropping the book on a random shelf, I ran back, found my bag still there, along with the woman who was still staring at me. I smiled again, for some stupid reason, picked up the bag, mumbled again and ran off.
So, as I was saying, much can be said about the books people buy. I did not buy that book, so clearly nothing can be said about me. Do not attempt to theorise without adequate data. Sherlock Holmes said that. Or something to that effect.
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