I hath returned! You can all throw off your mourning clothes and dance once again. I have tales to tell of foreign climes, of desert skies and city nights and trying to take a photo of the Golden Gate Bridge in fog. And of Green Apples Bookshop, on Clement and 6th Street in the Richmond neighbourhood of San Francisco, where I thought I was going to have to buy another suitcase to accommodate my purchases. Going to bookshops when on holiday is often disappointing. Go one way and they’re all in foreign languages; go the other and the self-help section is the whole shop. My guidebook told me that Green Apples was going to be different though, and a brief web search confirmed that it had not been closed down my bibliophobe zealots in the years since my guide’s publication. I got the number 2 bus from Downtown over to Richmond on one my my last days in the States (thus protecting myself from book-assisted starvation) and it was super-easy to find on the intersection, what with bright green canopies and outdoor shelving. The fiction and music departments are even separated into an entirely different building, three doors away, so that us story-fans are spared the self-help basketcases. Since most of my favourite writers are Americans working in the 20th century, I spent about two hours there in total, browsing every shelf in the place and bringing a continuous stream of novels back to the counter. My budget restrictions meant that my choices were whittled down again before paying (So long Pulp by Bukowski! Farewell Kafka’s Amerika! Adios Life After God by Douglas Coupland!) but it was still worth bringing that extra canvas bag… John Updike - Bech Is Back (1982)John Updike - Bech At Bay (1999) I suspect it’s going to be some time before I come across any literature as well written as Updike’s Rabbit books, but until I do, I’ll stick with him. Truman Capote - Music For Cameleons (1980)Truman Capote - Other Voices, Other Rooms (original publication date was 1948 but no date on this edition) This is where I get a bit shallow, because although I adored In Cold Blood and read the whole thing in one day, I thought Breakfast At Tiffany’s wasn’t so hot, and I’ve honestly chosen these books simply because the edges of their pages are dyed yellow and orange. I do kinda want to come to some kind of firm opinion about Capote too of course. Hopefully these will be more like In Cold Blood than Breakfast At Tiffany’s. Mikhail Bulgakov - Heart Of A Dog (1982) This book has one of the most amazing synopses I’ve ever read. A stray dog has his testicles replaced with those of a petty criminal who died in a bar fight, and then he gets a job in a city department, employed to rid the place of cats. This is what reading is all about. Richard Farina - Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me (1969) It looks like someone’s tried to set fire to this book, and the final pages have only just escaped unscathed. It’s about “an amoral collegiate hipster” so I felt a connection between us instantly. James Dickey - Deliverance (1971) This has got a gorgeous cover with a big blue eye staring out from the undergrowth. I’ve never seen the film, but I do quite like banjo so I’m sure it’ll be a serene little exploration of the South… Cormac McCarthy - The Orchard Keeper (1993) McCarthy is fast becoming my favourite ever writer, so I couldn’t leave this on the shelf. Vladimir Nabokov - Invitation To A Beheading (1989) I’ve often thought this guy sounded pretty cool, and my ears prick up at anything likened to Kafka. This appears to be a absurdist in much the same way that The Third Policeman by Flann O’Brien was, if a little darker. But maybe I’m just thinking that because the cover isn’t bright pink like The Third Policeman. Douglas Coupland - Miss Wyoming (2001) I think I might be approaching Coupland Saturation Point, whereby one more book about cynical and disaffected young ‘slackers’ would just tip me over the edge, but then every time I read his stuff it flows so easily and I can appreciate it on several levels. This is most likely due to the fact that I’m a cynical and disaffected young slacker. William S Burroughs - Naked Lunch (1992) I’m dubious about this to be honest, because I don’t generally enjoy books that are just the publication of drug experiences, but this has been recommended too many times to ignore. Charles Bukowski - Hollywood (1993) I’m excited about this one because whenever I open a random page I find myself sucked in to men shouting “HUNGER STRIKE!” or “I AM COMING TO KILL YOU TONIGHT!” or “I had to piss, asked directions to the crapper”, more of which I would like to see in literature, if any novelists are listening.
I hath returned! You can all throw off your mourning clothes and dance once again.

I have tales to tell of foreign climes, of desert skies and city nights and trying to take a photo of the Golden Gate Bridge in fog. And of Green Apples Bookshop, on Clement and 6th Street in the Richmond neighbourhood of San Francisco, where I thought I was going to have to buy another suitcase to accommodate my purchases.

Going to bookshops when on holiday is often disappointing. Go one way and they’re all in foreign languages; go the other and the self-help section is the whole shop. My guidebook told me that Green Apples was going to be different though, and a brief web search confirmed that it had not been closed down my bibliophobe zealots in the years since my guide’s publication. I got the number 2 bus from Downtown over to Richmond on one my my last days in the States (thus protecting myself from book-assisted starvation) and it was super-easy to find on the intersection, what with bright green canopies and outdoor shelving. The fiction and music departments are even separated into an entirely different building, three doors away, so that us story-fans are spared the self-help basketcases.

Since most of my favourite writers are Americans working in the 20th century, I spent about two hours there in total, browsing every shelf in the place and bringing a continuous stream of novels back to the counter. My budget restrictions meant that my choices were whittled down again before paying (So long Pulp by Bukowski! Farewell Kafka’s Amerika! Adios Life After God by Douglas Coupland!) but it was still worth bringing that extra canvas bag…



John Updike - Bech Is Back (1982)
John Updike - Bech At Bay (1999)

I suspect it’s going to be some time before I come across any literature as well written as Updike’s Rabbit books, but until I do, I’ll stick with him.

Truman Capote - Music For Cameleons (1980)
Truman Capote - Other Voices, Other Rooms (original publication date was 1948 but no date on this edition)

This is where I get a bit shallow, because although I adored In Cold Blood and read the whole thing in one day, I thought Breakfast At Tiffany’s wasn’t so hot, and I’ve honestly chosen these books simply because the edges of their pages are dyed yellow and orange. I do kinda want to come to some kind of firm opinion about Capote too of course. Hopefully these will be more like In Cold Blood than Breakfast At Tiffany’s.

Mikhail Bulgakov - Heart Of A Dog (1982)

This book has one of the most amazing synopses I’ve ever read. A stray dog has his testicles replaced with those of a petty criminal who died in a bar fight, and then he gets a job in a city department, employed to rid the place of cats. This is what reading is all about.

Richard Farina - Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me (1969)

It looks like someone’s tried to set fire to this book, and the final pages have only just escaped unscathed. It’s about “an amoral collegiate hipster” so I felt a connection between us instantly.

James Dickey - Deliverance (1971)

This has got a gorgeous cover with a big blue eye staring out from the undergrowth. I’ve never seen the film, but I do quite like banjo so I’m sure it’ll be a serene little exploration of the South…

Cormac McCarthy - The Orchard Keeper (1993)

McCarthy is fast becoming my favourite ever writer, so I couldn’t leave this on the shelf.

Vladimir Nabokov - Invitation To A Beheading (1989)

I’ve often thought this guy sounded pretty cool, and my ears prick up at anything likened to Kafka. This appears to be a absurdist in much the same way that The Third Policeman by Flann O’Brien was, if a little darker. But maybe I’m just thinking that because the cover isn’t bright pink like The Third Policeman.

Douglas Coupland - Miss Wyoming (2001)

I think I might be approaching Coupland Saturation Point, whereby one more book about cynical and disaffected young ‘slackers’ would just tip me over the edge, but then every time I read his stuff it flows so easily and I can appreciate it on several levels. This is most likely due to the fact that I’m a cynical and disaffected young slacker.

William S Burroughs - Naked Lunch (1992)

I’m dubious about this to be honest, because I don’t generally enjoy books that are just the publication of drug experiences, but this has been recommended too many times to ignore.

Charles Bukowski - Hollywood (1993)
I’m excited about this one because whenever I open a random page I find myself sucked in to men shouting “HUNGER STRIKE!” or “I AM COMING TO KILL YOU TONIGHT!” or “I had to piss, asked directions to the crapper”, more of which I would like to see in literature, if any novelists are listening.