This morning I was walking the shelves with a lady, making some suggestions for her book club. A couple of my suggestions, Elizabeth Strout and Elinor Lipman were swiftly rejected on the grounds of their shite covers.
So what have you read recently? I asked.
The last book was awful, she said. Really awful, I think we all hated it.
What was that? I asked.
A book by Scott Fitzgerald, she said. She mentioned the title and then told me it was dated, sexist, racist etc and etc.
I put my fist in my mouth and chewed and distracted myself by looking at the little person sitting on the wall that somebody had left as a friend for Dorothy Parker. There was absolutely nothing I could say.