Lolita on the road

Another thirteen books to catalogue after a couple of weeks away in South Australia. Even in the tiniest towns there was usually a second-hand bookshop. One was an extension of the elderly lady’s lounge room, where she sold off some of the books that now crowded out her remaining years (I know the feeling!). There was an ancient copy of a history of Australian countrywomen, but I could not bear her to part with it, so left it there. Another bookseller had a few 1950s editions of French classics, in the original. They had been in the shop for six years. I relieved him of the Madame Bovary, but left him the rest. Another woman was keener to sell, assiduous in checking my wish list against her stock. That was how I ended up with Lolita. I was looking for Nabokov’s memoir Speak, Memory, but this was all she had of his. She urged me to read it.
That was how I spent the rest of my holiday absorbed in the rollercoaster ride that is Lolita, following her and Humbert Humbert in their wanton drive across the vastness of the United States, while I and my partner pursued our own modest road trip through South Australia. What remarkable writing! Such lyrical outpourings from a character so flawed. Such a gripping story, full as it is of repetition and meanderings. Such an inspiration for a writer. So, back home and on with the work!

On the road

It's been a long time between posts and now I'm snatching a few moments of Wifi access in an English B&B to pin down a fragment of life on the road, coming across writers and books in France, Scotland and England. In Paris I bought two books at the Village Voice bookshop by Mavis Gallant, who has lived in France most of her long life. I discovered her short stories recently in Australia and find her a great inspiration.
In Scotland, I caught the edge of the Edinburgh bookfest and saw Margaret Drabble talk at St Andrews, Scotland, about her new book A Writer's Britain and was caught up in her involvement with the relationship of writers to their landscape. She described coming up to St Andrews by train and the writers' locales that she travelled through. I am driving the other way, south, passing through writers' haunts and picking up books as I go. The Minster Gate bookshop in York yielded four bargains - and I never got further than the bookshelf on the stairs up to the literary section! There is still Hay-on-Wye with its thirty-plus bookshops to visit.
Now I'm in Nottinghamshire, home of DH Lawrence, where the young men speak like Paul Morel. Another shrine to worship at, as well as the great cathedral at Lincoln.