Originally published in the Irish Examiner.
Nothing can ever be quite as sad as the books to be found in thrift shops, testifying, as they do, to the death of a generation of readers. A handful of recent thrillers may appear, but for the most part, what crowd the shelves are bunches of old — sometimes very old — books.
Guessing the age of the previous owners doesn’t even require a potential purchaser to open the title page to view dedications wishing someone a happy birthday, with a 20th century year underneath.
Eye-scanning the spines is enough.
They capture the writer names from a specific time: Nevil Shute, Paul Gallico, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Compton Mackenzie, Somerset Maugham, John Steinbeck. They are enough to demonstrate that these are the remains of an abandoned library, stuffed into a black plastic bag by a bereaved son or daughter and handed over to be sold piecemeal at a euro a go.
Sometimes, the books are non-fiction. Old blue Pelicans about the sociology of the 1960s. Vance Packard on the manufacturing/marketing culture of that time. Or a collection from various authors about the investigation into the assassination of US president John F Kennedy. The official report of the Warren Commission, its pages yellowed and crisped with age, alongside paperback alternative theories around the event. And then, the definitive hardback conspiracy-theory-squelcher, Gerald Posner’s Case Closed.
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