I made a special trip to a bookstore today to get Murakami’s newest book Kafka on the Shore. It’s been out for more than a month. I waited this long to try for it because I was positive that they would have it in stock by now.
Needless, I am sure, to say, Kafka on the Shore was not to be found and none of the three B&N employees I asked had even heard of Murakami, much less his newest publication.
Bookstore or popular pulp house? I’m leaning toward the latter, especially after I espied Catherine Coulter and Daniel Steele on the “Smart and Sexy Reads” display. *rolls eyes plaintively*
To make matters worse, whilst looking for something to justify the gas spent going long out of my way to this very disappointing purveyor of common trash, I was assaulted by yet another know-nothing employee wondering for what, it was, I was looking.
“A book with an interesting cover,” I informed him dryly, at which he picked up the closest piece of post-feminism, pseudo-modernist, hyper-sexed refuse that just happened to have a sparkly image of a purse, shoe and ring on the cover, asking, “Like this?”
I very nearly scratched his eyes out.
I ended up purchasing a couple of Thomas Pynchon and George Eliot novels. The lady at the register, after failing to be thwarted at my ugly look when she asked if I had found everything I was looking for asked, “George Eliot. Why does that name sound so familiar?”
Am I wrong to be so disappointed?
Is Daniel Steele really to be considered smart, her novels in good taste, well written, etc?
I can’t imagine that such portends a respectable future. I simply cannot.