I was in Barnes & Noble this Sunday. I have plenty of books to read at home, but none of them are catching my interest right now, ya know?
I still haven’t finished Eating Animals. I keep going back to it in between other books. While reading nonfiction and classics makes me feel like a true reader, there’s something about popular fiction that just draws me in and makes me want to taste it. That’s the point of it, I think. To make people want to read it.
Except for that I have this terrible habit of judging people based on their book selection. It’s cruel, and I should just be happy that people are reading at all considering there are so many other, often more entertaining options (did someone say Mad Men?). But I just cannot get past the stuff they’re slapping into hardbacks and calling books these days.
There is this historical fiction author that I really love, Sarah Dunant. I’ve already eaten up her Renaissance series, and I was browsing her selection at B&N (like I do every time I go, and, magically, no new titles ever appear… sigh). There was this woman blocking the Do-Du section, holding a small paperback with a naked woman wrapped in red sheets, looking quite pleased and a muscle-y Fabio-like man, shirtless of course, standing above her, looking quite pleased with himself as well.
The woman holding the trashy romance novel (with intent to BUY!) who was blocking my view of some pretty excellent historical fiction, picked up Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov and looked at the back of the book like she was going to get it, too. What?!
I’ve got to admit, if I were a cashier at a book store, I would totally judge people by the books they buy. If I saw someone so much as pick up that excuse of a novel that is Snookie’s Shore Thing, I would promptly remove them from the store and accidentally light Snooki’s section on fire and hope that Salinger, Shakespeare, and Steinbeck were far enough away to avoid the conflagration.