The Lure of British Books

The Lure of British Books

Barring one rather over-enthusiastic pat down at Boston’s Logan airport last year, I have never had an incident going through the security line before flying.  I take off my shoes.  I open my laptop. I make certain not to wear any jewelry that will anger the bells and whistles and, usually, everything is fine.  But leaving Heathrow a couple of weeks ago proved a mark on my previously unblemished record.  The problem?  Books.  My suitcase, which I always carry on to avoid those irritating lines at baggage claim, was incredibly heavier than it looked.  The security fellow lifted it up and his expression changed from helpful to suspicious in a twinkling.

“It’s books”, I admitted, feeling unpleasantly conspicuous.
“Really?  A walking book mobile, are you?”, he replied, narrowing his eyes.

  In an instant I was being moved to one side where I watched in abject horror as he opened my case and began the hideous process of going through every item inside. Incredibly relieved that I’d patronized bookshops instead of Agent Provoctateur, I stared as he lifted the contents of my case up in the air, one by one, till he reached the double layer of hardbacks, neatly arranged beneath the pajamas and pashminas.  He looked up in amazement and I swallowed a strong urge to say I told you so.  He opened each book, rifling the pages.  People were staring.  The Songwriter was shaking his head.  An elderly lady standing next to me exploded in outrage on my behalf shouting, “Look at her!  Do you honestly think this is necessary?  Fascism!  That’s what this is!  Fascism!”  I smiled weakly and quickly sidled away from her so as not to make matters worse for myself by association.

But really, what is one to do?  Is there any city in the whole of the world with more enticing bookshops than London?  John Sandoe’s.  Hatchard’s.  Daunt.  Persephone.  Not to mention the literary treasures to be found in every single National Trust Gift Shop and art gallery in the land.  For anyone to expect a reader to leave Heathrow airport after ten days in the UK without books in their suitcase is ludicrous.  Of course, I did have fifteen in there.  But, well... you know.

Here are some of my recent finds.
 Resist them if you can.
(Just click on the photos to see more.)

Plus, from the wonderland known as Persephone Books,
I picked up this one and couldn't say no to this one.
Or this one.
Or this one.  Or this.
Sigh.

Caught in the act in Kent.