On an Afternoon in Summer...

I walked around the bookstore today wondering where all the chairs had gone. There were none. Instead, there was one round sectional ottoman. Just the one. Although I'm pleased that the shelves have all been heightened and that there are more free-standing shelves than there used to be as well, I couldn't help but think that the disappearance of chairs has more to do with increasing profits and less to do with making more room for books. When you're test-driving a book, it's easier when you can do it sitting down. It's comfortable. And standing isn't necessarily uncomfortable, but I'm not going to do it for as long as I might sit while I test out the fit of my stack of books. This bookstore is now much too impatient for me to make a purchase; I felt so rushed. Amongst the trash, I picked up and leafed through these:

Whiteman by Tony D'Souza.
I spent most of my time here, even laughed out loud...but there was something a bit too arrogant about this writer...his face looked too sure we would think he would say something meaningful about Africa. Although there was also that other posture that I wouldn't put past him..."Look, I know how most Westerners usually behave when they go to Africa. I'm not that way. I'm different from the rest of them." And even there, he still managed to seem patronizing. Or maybe it was what the people on the back cover said about him that ruined everything..."Africa hasn't been loved like this since...[someone I can't remember]". Really?

The Good Works of Ayela Linde by Charlotte Forbes.

I really liked the organizing idea of this book, the story of one woman told through the eyes of the different people who knew her in different stages in her life. I was put off a bit because the various narrators all spoke as if they were having a conversation with Ayela Linde, i.e., "Ayela, do you remember when you...and then I said...and then you said...and then when I...". If they had each just told the story to me, instead of reminding Ayela of her own experiences, I would have liked it better. However, Ayela seems to have been a creature just heartbroken enough to suit my thirst for this type of resigned wisdom.

Theft by Peter Carey.

I didn't like this at all.

Sweetness in the Belly by Camilla Gibb.
I didn't read much of this at all because I was ready to go; I didn't have the patience for it by the time I got to it. It seemed interesting at first, then I remembered that I already had one book set in Africa seen through white eyes. That was enough for one day. But I am in love with the title. It alone could send me back to it.