So on Saturday I took my housemate to Boswell's. I rave about the place so she was keen to come. Some people describe Boswell's as "the place with the mural". I always describe it as "Like Black Books - only clean". However you describe it, it's a booklover's paradise - rows upon rows of second-hand books, stretching all the way to the ceiling and all the way from the front window to the back door of a long, thin shop. There's always terrible music playing from a dodgy old cassette player, a digital screensaver showing natural disasters on the computer, and the books aren't always (read: almost never) arranged alphabetically. But it's all worth it.
I don't know what my housemate thought of it - I was too busy novel-hunting to ask. Because trying to find a particular book in Boswell's is like trying to find a particular jewel in Aladdin's cave; you can't help but be dazzled by all the sparkles. The fantasy section is almost too big to comprehend and far too daunting to tackle unless you have an idea of what you're looking for and how to spell the author's surname. The literary aisle is so crammed with obscure titles that you wonder if you should just gamble and chose one at random. And the children's section has been pulled apart by eager little hands and then shoved back in willy-nilly at an angry mother's command.
Of course, it didn't help that I was looking for books by Alexander Lloyd. I even asked the shop owner if she could help me. It was only when I went to write down the name so she could have a look for me in the boxes in her garage that I realised my mistake. I had the name the wrong way around! It's Lloyd Alexander, not Alexander Lloyd. So I dashed away from the counter again, followed by mild groans of impatience from my housemate. She followed me into my messy little corner, where I'd already collected a small pile of treasures, and queried politely, "Are you looking for children's books?" in the same way most people would query, "Are you looking for earwax?"
Because you see it had dawned on me - I have very, very slow dawns on my planet - that I like young adult or children's fantasy. Like so many things, this became blindingly obvious once I'd spotted it. I read so much of it when I was a child. There was a phase in primary school where I sped through books at a speed I've never equalled since. And if I ever reread books, they're almost always children's fantasy novels.
So, yes, I was looking for earwax - I mean, children's books. And I found some. I came away with Charmed Life, from Diana Wynn Jones' The Worlds of Chrestomanci series. I didn't know she'd written a series so I was delighted and I'll have to go back buy the others now. I also bought The Black Cauldron and The Castle of Llyr from Lloyd Alexander's The Prydain Chronicles. I actually ordered the whole series online in January but they still haven't appeared, although the rest of the books I ordered did. Unfortunately Boswell's didn't have The Book of Three, which is the first in the series, but I'll go back later and try again. And I got The Owl Service by Alan Garner, who also wrote The Weirdstone of Brisingamen, which I loved and still do.
In an attempt to disguise my appetite for children's literature, I also nabbed a copy of The Amber Spyglass, which is the third in Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy. I haven't read the seond one, though, so I might buy a new copy so I can read them in order. And lastly, I bought The Shadow of the Sun by A.S. Byatt. She wrote it in her early twenties, so it intrigues me in more than one way. In total I brought home six books, having paid only $36. Bargain!
I've finished Charmed Life. I loved it. And I love Chrestomanci, which worries me a little, given that he's married and has two children... and that he's a fictional character. I can see a resemblance to Howl - both are always so elegant and calm, so when they finally show emotion and vulnerability your heart just melts. I kept giving my housemate updates on exciting twists in the story. "Guess what just happened? A little boy set himself on fire and died. But don't worry, he has nine lives. ... And guess what; I'm nearly at the end and this boy's sister came back and she was prepared to let people cut his throat!" My poor housemate must have thought it was a horrible book.
And after all that, what did she think of Boswell's? Well, I still don't know, but when I told her I planned to go to bed and read, she cried, "No, this is why you shouldn't be allowed to buy books! I never get to see you!" Oh, but Chrestomanci wins my time and affection. He's an enchanter, after all, and who can resist him?
