When I was 18, just after moving to Glasgow to go to university, I bought a copy of Lanark by Alasdair Gray and was completely bewitched by it. I had dreams afterwards about growing scales on my skin. I related the dystopian landscape of the book with what I saw in Glasgow at the end of the twentieth century, just beginning its economic recovery and rehabilitation with events like the Glasgow Garden Festival (a visit here was the last time I saw my granny before she died; the cheerful newness of the showhouses and a cheap showcase of "modern" design are what I remember) and the accolade of European City of Culture (1990).
I had my precious, battered and well-read copy of Lanark until 1993. It was borrowed by my then-flatmate G to take across the Atlantic, on a boat-delivery mission from Cyprus to the British Virgin Islands. He got sick and had to get off the boat in Minorca, leaving my book behind; on its continued journey, it was seized upon by the captain's girlfriend, who decided it would be a fine wheeze to tear out each page upon reading it and cast it into the sea. On arrival in the BVI, she threw the carcass away.
Favourite books are a special possession in a way that few other things are. I can happily leave a thriller on a plane or in a hotel room for someone else to read, but I sometimes lie awake at night worrying about the safety of books left in the attic of a house in North London. This callous behaviour with someone else's book, by someone who later went to clown school, has always struck me as being an unforgiveable act of vandalism.
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Brings back bad memories. I left a box of books at a(n ex-)friend's house and he threw them out. About 150~200 books. None of intrinsic value, but some very difficult to find pre-Internet.
Appalling! Who would do that without asking? Is that why he's an ex-friend?
He used to, and probably still does, smoke a lot of dope (the chemically-rearranged skunk stuff) which I am convinced, partly because of this episode, has a deleterious effect on people's personalities. Probably a permanent one at that. I think that the skunk unhinged his mind and turned him nasty. And yes, he is an ex-friend because of this incident.
Sad really, after all the books were just arrangements of letters and words on cheap paper. But never let it be said that I'm not one to bear a grudge, especially with regard to the destruction of books.
Alasdair Gray. You made the same mistake a stone carver made - rather more permanently - in the wall of the Parliament.
Grudges are a fine thing to bear, and I should know, murmur. (That is you?)
I didn't realise they'd spelled Alasdair's name wrong, Claire. I do know that it quotes him: "Work as if you live in the early days of a better nation". A Hong Kong-based friend from Aberdeen got married in Phuket; her husband (an Australian) said in his speech that this was how his wife made him feel. It's a peculiarly Scottish sentiment.
(I've corrected it now...)
yes, sorry it was me who had all my books thrown out. murmur.
When I moved to New Zealand, I had to leave behind a box of books because we had no more room in the container. I agonised for days about what to take and what to leave. I was heart broken (and as you can see) still go on about it as if it was the ultimate sacrifice. I did find a very good home for my books with some English language students at Freiburg university but would much rather have brought them with me.
Thanks, murmur. I knew it was you.
Agreed, MSS. My books in the attic in London went everywhere with me: the most precious ones, my 'A" Level English texts, more special to me because of long-gone Mr Campbell; complete with scribbled notes in pencil from wonderful lessons in the library, including his ad hoc translations from Greek: The Waste Land, The Importance of Being Earnest, Pride & Prejudice, and Paradise Lost. Irreplacable.
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