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This article was in today's Guardian. It is just a tad sneery but...
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At Foyles, the book-lover's bookshop, I approach the counter with a copy of James Joyce's Ulysses. "I bought this book the other day," I say, "and I want my money back. It's full of typing errors and there's no punctuation."
The assistant is pale and wears glasses. He takes the book and turns, at my bidding, to the 100-page monologue at the end. I explain that it doesn't contain a single full stop or comma. "I think it might be a proof copy," I say.
"Mmm," he says. "That doesn't sound good." He flicks ruminatively through the book and "mmms" a bit further. I point to the word "jawbo" on page 330. "That's not a word," I say. "Mmmm," he says. "It's rare that publishers make a mistake like that. If it's a proof copy, we will, of course, recall it." He looks at me kindly. "I expect it made it rather difficult to read."
It was hard, I reply, because the plot was bloody awful, too. He smiles and says: "We can hardly blame the publisher for that." Then he taps the book's serial number into the computer and, returning nothing, suggests I take it to the desk where I bought it.
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"I really loved The Naked Chef, will I like The Naked Lunch?"
Assistant asks herself if Jamie Oliver did one called The Naked Lunch. Looks on computer, asks colleague.
"We think you mean the novel..."
"Does it have good recipes in it?"
"No, it's about drugs. It's really surreal and it's got giant cockroaches in it. It's completely mental. You have to think about what sort of book you really want, then we can help you find it."
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full article |
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