The children’s section of the shop is as popular with adults as it is with children. Often it’s people approaching middle age who – aware that they’re not getting any younger – find themselves nostalgic for their youth. Arthur Ransome, Enid Blyton, Elinor Brent-Dyer: the books of their childhoods can transport them back to that time. I’m quite sure that the success of the spoof Ladybird books is predicated on the fact that the demographic which buys them would have read the original Lady-birds as children. (Ladybird published 645 titles in the forty years prior to 1980: quite a challenge for collectors.)
The artist Miriam Elia and her brother Ezra – while not the first to spoof the old Ladybird format – did so with such success that Penguin Random House, which owns the Ladybird imprint, decided to sue her. Then, in a remarkably cynical move, they began producing the spoof titles themselves, mining their extensive archive for material and producing titles such as The Shed, The Wife, The Meeting, The Hipster and The Ladybird Book of Mindfulness, prompting Elia to produce (as Claire Armitstead noted in her piece in the Guardian from 2017) ‘a poster, mocking up a book cover of an angry little girl on a toy telephone; “We sue the artist (and then rip off her idea)”. Her fictional publisher was “Dung Beetle Guide to Corporate Intimidation, for ages 5+”.’
And so Elia was introduced to the world of big publishers.
3
Genus: Homo qui maleficas amat (Occultist)
Nobody likes to be told what kind of person they are based on a deck of playing cards, or that a total stranger has access to some sort of intellectual underworld that is denied to you. These oddly élitist traits are common to all species of occultist. The occultist tends to have a bearing of smug superiority, which is a little strange to say the least, considering their firm conviction in the utterly unbelievable. They are solitary creatures, and always visit the shop unaccompanied, although I suspect this is not through choice. They lack even the most basic social skills, and in most cases seem to have failed to grasp the rudiments of personal hygiene too. Perhaps once you have convinced yourself that you are a master of the dark arts, or that you can speak to the dead, you are entitled to adopt a fairly cavalier approach to washing and communicating with the living. The dead, it would appear, have no sense of smell. Or style.
Type one
SPECIES: ARTIFEX MALEFICUS (DARK ARTIST)
Always dressed completely in black, usually a bit overweight and invariably on a quest for books by Aleister Crowley, or something antiquarian with which they believe they can summon Mephistopheles. (They’ve all seen The Ninth Gate, a much-maligned film directed by Roman Polanski in which Johnny Depp plays the role of Dean Corso, an antiquarian bookseller with dubious morals who is searching for the lost pages of an ancient satanic book for a client whose Faustian ambitions have no limits.) Dark artists – like most obsessives – are predominantly male and possessed of a look which suggests that they would be more than happy to sacrifice and/or have intercourse with a goat if they thought it would please The Great Beast. They consider those of us who sell books on the occult as unbelievers – imbeciles who don’t appreciate the true existence of the fallen Lucifer as the one true god, and who consequently have failed to appreciate the inherent truth of Crowley’s opportunistic goat-shagging orgiastic antics as the path to true enlightenment. We are lost to them. Even buying books from us is demeaning to them, because by selling these treasured texts we are commercialising the profound mysteries contained within them. And apparently it’s not ‘magic’, it’s ‘magick’. Or ‘magik’.
Another type which falls into this category is the Wiccan. These people also apparently have a path to enlightenment that is unavailable to the rest of us. Stone circles appear to have considerable significance within the watered-down Wiccan blend of ‘magick’. There’s one near to Wigtown which is aligned to the Winter Solstice, and to which I go regularly with new visitors to the town. In my childhood it stood as nothing more than a pile of stones, imbued with the local sense that it had once been a place of historical significance, perhaps the burial place of Galdus, the first king of Galloway. In the last few years it appears to have become a good deal more than that – a place of pilgrimage, where people have taken to leaving tokens on the sacrificial stones. These offerings have included everything from coins to prawns, and even a half-eaten chocolate biscuit. On that occasion a visiting friend decided that it was a bit of a waste to leave the remains of the biscuit, and ate it.
It’s important here to distinguish those in search of ‘magick’ from those interested in sleight of hand, or ‘prestidigitation’ as it is apparently known by those who believe that big words bestow their own kind of magic on something that everyone else considers to be nothing more than trickery. These are usually teenage boys, and are invariably quite charming. They are under no illusion that their form of magic is anything more than a clever trick and are usually learning the discipline to try to impress other teenagers, usually girls. Casting spells is not something they’re interested in. In fact, if anything, their awareness that magic is little more than illusion probably precludes them from falling into the category of person who might entertain the possibility that magic spells might be a real thing.
We used to have a regular customer – a specialist dealer – who would appear (like magik) in the last week of April every year and ask for books about life after death. He’d park his black hearse in front of the shop then stagger, sweating, but confidently sweeping his few remaining strands of dyed black hair from his eyes back over his head, towards the arcane section. Every time he came to the shop he’d spend an hour pawing his way through our stock, looking for books that suited his customers, then find his way to the counter and complain about our lack of material on his subject. On one occasion – having had enough – I told him that there weren’t many books written on the subject because it was, frankly, bollocks. He took a step backwards, clearly aghast, shook his head – the haunted remains of his dyed comb-over slackly slipping once again in front of his piggy eyes; tiny islands in a panda sea of cheap mascara – and mumbled something through his black lipstick which I can only assume was a curse before walking towards the door and holding his right hand up in what appeared to be some sort of ritualistic gesture. I wonder to this day if that curse worked, and that’s why I’m still working in the shop. I haven’t seen him since.
Type two
SPECIES: HOMO QUI CONIURATIONES FERVET (CONSPIRACY THEORIST)
Although not strictly speaking an occultist, the conspiracy theorist shares with the dark artist the characteristic of credulously believing in something for which there is an overwhelming body of evidence to the contrary. There is an almost infinite number of conspiracy theories, but the most frequently asked for in my shop are books about JFK’s assassination and Jack the Ripper. Often the customer will ask for both. Holocaust denial and 9/11 conspiracies have been fairly popular requests recently too, often hand-in-hand. The conspiracy theorist is less easy to spot than the dark artist. At first glance – and even under scrutiny – they can appear quite normal, and are capable of sounding fairly reasonable. Alfred, for example, could almost pass for a perfectly reasonable person in appearance and conversation, provided the words ‘moon landing’ and ‘contactless payment’ are never mentioned.
If this type ever comes into the shop to sell you books, you will never be fortunate enough to find anything in which most people might have an interest – natural history, biography, topography or even aviation. Their boxes (or more likely black bin bags) of books will contain nothing other than books about UFOs, the Bermuda Triangle, Haitian Voodoo culture and poltergeists. For them, the highly questionable theories surrounding spontaneous human combustion are more plausible than the patently evident physics of the internal combustion engine. It is never a good idea to mock their interest, unless, of course, they’ve admitted that they’re divesting themselves of these books because the pursuit of this arcane knowledge has proved to be a complete waste of time, and that they’ve finally
realised that their teenage obsession with The X-Files was nothing more than a pubescent infatuation with Gillian Anderson which they got a bit carried away with.
Type three
SPECIES: HOMO QUI CARTAS PROVIDAS LEGIT (TAROT READER)
Gazing into crystal balls and predicting the futures of complete strangers on the basis of precisely nothing has traditionally been the exclusive preserve of bearded – or at least heavily moustachioed – middle-aged types of either gender. The tarot reader fits uncomfortably neatly into this stereotype: although they encompass a broader range than the name suggests, predicting the future appears to be the leading theme in this species. Others include dream interpretation, Celtic mythology, astrology, homeopathy, Feng Shui and spiritual healing. Oh, and anything to do with crystals, provided it has absolutely no basis in science. The tarot reader is usually dressed in baggy clothes, at least one item of which must be tie-dyed. All surfaces of the tarot reader’s clothes are invariably covered in dog and / or cat hair, and a trail of stale incense follows them everywhere. The tarot reader has a whiff of vagueness (as well as incense) about them but sticks rigidly to the belief that people will happily pay good money to listen to their predictions, or to be prescribed a glass of water with some sort of tincture as a cure for cancer. They often buy books about starting your own business, but really ought to be investing in books about dealing with insolvency.
My friend Callum pretended – as a joke at university – that he could read people’s futures using tarot cards. He knew absolutely nothing about it and made it up entirely, but in no time at all people were beating a path to his door for readings. Even after he admitted that he was making it all up, they still came, rather like the science fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard openly stating that he started the Church of Scientology as a means of making money and – despite this – people still believing in all the bizarre dogma and protocols he invented. As a way of attempting to convince people that he was actually making it all up, Callum’s predictions became increasingly outlandish, but this seemed to serve only to feed their fervour for more until – in despair – he was forced to pretend that the power the spirits had vested in him was proving too much for him to bear, and that he could no longer continue for the sake of his health.
Type four
SPECIES: VENATOR UMBRORUM (GHOST HUNTER)
A YouGov survey in 2014 revealed that more people in the UK believe in ghosts than describe themselves as religious (34 per cent and 26 per cent respectively). More alarmingly, 9 per cent of people claim to have communicated with the dead (although technically this could include shouting at a gravestone, as it’s unclear from the question whether or not the dead were required to respond). It will come as no great surprise to most people to discover that the numbers in America are considerably higher, with 45 per cent believing in ghosts and 18 per cent claiming to have had contact with one. Considering these figures, it is surprising how rarely we’re asked for books about ghosts, but the customers who do ask tend to be deeply irritating. I have many bêtes noires – legions of them – but these must feature fairly close to the top of the list. Our otherwise excellent glossy local magazine Dumfries and Galloway Life gives ill-earned column inches to a group of ‘paranormal investigators’ who go by the name of Mostly Ghostly. They dress – as you would expect – like extras from an extremely low-budget Dracula film, with top hats, elbow-length lace gloves, vintage dresses and chunky boots, and the results of their investigations are both wonderfully ambiguous and tiresomely inconsequential. Usually, they involve visiting a supposedly haunted house at night, turning off the lights, taking photos of old furniture and of each other and claiming to have ‘felt a chill at 2.30 a.m.’ or ‘seen an unexplained shadow just as the sun set’, neither of which, let’s face it, is particularly unusual. They don’t do any harm and, if anything, provide entertainment for the gullible visitor and so, in their own way, promote the region.
If I have ever had any doubt that ghosts are nothing more than the product of troubled imaginations (and – if I’m honest, I haven’t), it would come down to the fact that on four occasions customers (and staff) have independently all sensed, or claimed to have seen, something from beyond the grave in the shop. Ordinarily I would dismiss this out of hand, but the people concerned have never met one another, nor had any reason to have communicated in any way, and all four of the ‘sightings’ have been in the same place: on the stairs, or on one of the landings on the stairs. While I put this down to the fact that there is probably a draught in this part of the shop, and that the light casts unusual shadows here, it has planted a seed of doubt, but the glyphosate of science has pretty much stunted its germination.
Type five
SPECIES: HOMO ARTIFICII STUDIOSUS (CRAFT ENTHUSIAST)
Although not technically an occultist, the craft enthusiast shares many of the characteristics of some of the subsets, most notably the tarot reader’s dress sense. The craft enthusiast is never quite sure what she’s looking for (they are – for the most part – women) and evades scrutiny like a well-trained spy. Even the most hardened of Stasi officers would fail to elicit exactly what sort of craft it is that the craft enthusiast thinks she’s interested in. The craft section in my shop is packed with books about utterly useless time-wasting activities ranging from painting stones to knitting with dog hair. There are some practical books in there too – sewing, pottery and that sort of thing – but the craft enthusiast never, ever, buys anything useful. The craft enthusiast is usually an empty-nester, or retired – another trait shared with the tarot reader – and is looking to fill the void with something – anything. This is precisely the problem, for the craft enthusiast doesn’t quite know what it is that they want to do: stick-making, sugar-craft and embroidery all feature heavily when they ask for books on subjects, but there’s never quite the right book for them, regardless of how many we have in stock. In a sense, not knowing fulfils its own purpose in as much as they can while away the long, lonely hours pestering unfortunate booksellers in search of fulfilment.
Not long ago, possibly three or four years, I bought the collection of a craft enthusiast, although, unusually for this predominantly dilettante type, it was someone who had made a living from her craft. She’d been a teacher and had undertaken serious academic research in her field, and her book collection was excellent. After I’d bought the books, I noticed a tatty chair near the door as I was leaving. It was an unusual piece of Arts and Crafts furniture, and she’d clearly planned to re-upholster it. I commented on it, and a couple of years later she came into the shop and gave it to me. She hadn’t got round to re-upholstering it and had decided that it was time to give it a new home. I was touched by her generosity and gladly accepted it, fully aware that it had now become my problem. But that was a problem which was rapidly solved when a film crew appeared shortly afterwards looking for antiques to sell at auction for a television series called Antiques Road Trip. The presenter offered me £20 for it. Since I’d paid nothing for it, I accepted his offer. He emailed me a few months later to tell me that it was on the next episode of the programme. It made £200 at an auction. Shortly afterwards I bumped into the woman who had given it to me. She told me that she’d watched the programme. I was expecting a stream of invective, but she was remarkably kind and philosophical about it, and told me that this is the way of old furniture: it finds its way from one person to the next, and with luck it will be cared for and appreciated.
4
Genus: Homo qui desidet (Loiterer)
If a complete stranger is hovering in your immediate surroundings this is usually legitimate cause for concern, but if they’re showing no desire to interact with you, this is unquestionably a good thing. But if they appear to be there without any discernible reason, then it is natural to assume that their presence indicates that they are there for some nefarious purpose. If you find yourself thinking this, then you’re almost certainly correct. There seem to be some people for whom unrelenting activity is a natural co
ndition, and others for whom appearing to be doing literally nothing whatsoever is their default disposition. The loiterer falls into the latter category, and is remarkably unsettling. They seamlessly manage to combine a certain listless quality with the illusion that they are conducting some sort of very important business when it is patently obvious that they are not. What is possibly most infuriating about them is that they exude a permanent sense of being on the point of asking you a question, which means that you have to remain in their proximity in the expectation that this will happen, which it rarely does. The moment you leave, though, to put a book on a shelf, they will – but the question will be nothing to do with books – rather, they’ll ask what the time is, or what’s the nearest place to find a decent lunch, or – in the case of one of my most persistent and irritating loiterers – what time the next bus leaves for Newton Stewart. Sometimes, though, other than being there to waste their time and yours, they pretend that they have nothing to do, when in reality, they have a clear purpose which they are trying to conceal. The first in this list is exactly that type.
Type one
SPECIES: HOMO QUI OPERA EROTICA LEGIT (EROTICA BROWSER)
This is usually – but not exclusively – a man, and usually a relatively elderly one. Although I don’t suspect them of salacious behaviour in the shop, they certainly dress as you imagine a flasher, or sex pest, might. Long coats, collars turned up, hats and occasionally dark glasses. And beards – they all have beards. Groups of giggling adolescents also fall into this category, although they tend to make little effort to conceal their delight at finding books full of photographs of people performing acts of unnaturally flexible sexual activity or – better still – Japanese Shunga illustrations involving disproportionately exaggerated genitalia. The elderly men take an altogether more furtive approach to their business, often wandering into the nearby railway section, which is more tucked away and hidden. We spend a considerable amount of time moving books back from the railway section into the erotica section. In their quest for discretion, erotica browsers have even been known to swap dust jackets of books of a similar size to convince fellow customers that they were reading The Rolling Stock of Britain’s Mainline Railway Operators and Light Rail Systems rather than The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (very important to get the words of that book’s title in the correct order, unless you happen to have a prurient interest in mammoth lesbians, or lesbian mammoths). Customers who indulge in this practice normally have the decency to swap the dust jackets back once they’ve completed their examination of their subject, but not everyone does.
Seven Kinds of People You Find in Bookshops Page 3