Not too long ago I wrote about publishing being a weird business and that, ‘In none other will one meet so many weirdos and nut-jobs.’ Many of my customers were quite amused by that thinking, perhaps, I was referring to them. None of my them seemed offended (not to with me, anyway). I suspect that people who read books do entertain (and even celebrate) the notion that they are somewhat different from the herd. Truth is, they are. Readers are a minority in any country. The book industry of the past two (or three) decades was just that: an industry. It lived in an alternate reality. Books are not dead, they said. More titles were published every year (though one wonders why). But, nevertheless, books were dying, smothered by the very hands responsible for keeping them alive.‘Readers’ became mindless consumers herded by cynical, relentless mass marketing pressure. It became all about books that ‘must be read’, complete with midnight queues. ‘Book discovery’ and real reading moved to the fringes. The fanboy (and girl) took over. One customer said she felt manipulated. Indeed, she was, we all were; manipulated to the point where we admitted we liked something when we didn’t -- like believing ‘Coke’ is good for health, or ‘... he can't be a man 'cause he doesn't smoke the same cigarettes as me’. It felt dirty. It was dirty.
Does all this sound elitist? Some use that word, without fully understanding its implications of power, influence and (worst of all) class. ‘Intellectual’ is close but not its implications of superior mental capacities. It’s about knowledge. Since the 80s intellectualism (in this country, for sure) has been taking a beating and has been cowering in ‘shame’ against the onslaught of the ‘common man’, and mediocrity; a swing to the right, of unbridled capitalism that gave nothing back (all, ironically, in the name of democracy). Greed was good, a virtue. ‘It’s not my fault if people are stupid and want to give me all their money.’
(Some years ago, when I first set up shop) I was having a long conversation about the media with a newspaper person ... about newspapers insulting the intelligence of readers ... yada, yada ... when I asked him at what level newspapers were pitched. He hesitated for a moment, and then said that in England the newspapers were typically pitched at 16-year-olds. (I was taken aback and I hoped he was speaking of tabloids, otherwise it would be too depressing.) “How about Malaysia?” I asked. He hesitated again before saying softly, “Lower.” It was scary, but sort of explained the level of intellectual debate (or the lack of it).
Question: “Would you rather have a discussion with someone coming from a position of knowledge, or someone coming from a position of ignorance?” Would you consider the two positions be exactly equal and valid?
Anyway, coming back to weirdoes and nut-jobs, I think I have mentioned (in earlier columns) about the father who wanted his school-leaving daughter to take up writing because JK Rowling made so much money. (The girl was not particularly interested.) Then there was this father who grabbed his daughter and bolted out of the shop and down the stairs when Phek Chin asked if he was going to buy the book the child just tore. (He had the audacity to come back, but still refuse to buy that book.) And we have had so many customers who looked like taxi drivers or Bandaraya workers, who’d quietly browse through every shelf for hours and, just as we think they are not going to buy anything, bring a stack of books to the counter worth RM300.
We once had this customer when we were in Desa Seri Hartamas who, on his first day, spent about two (or three) hours going through our shelves. He came back the next day and spent another two hours. He didn’t buy anything. On the third day I got a little nervous and I decided to talk to him. He said he was a labourer with Tenaga and that he liked books but he couldn’t afford them. I told he could browse as long as he wanted and that he could even sit at our tables and read them. I suppose I must have made him very happy from the way he smiled. He said, “Thank you sir, thank you sir,” repeatedly, until I started feeling a little embarrassed. The next day was Sunday. We were open and he spent eight hours in the shop. (He declined tea) We saw him a few more weeks after that, then he stopped coming.
At the other end of the spectrum is that loud know-it-all customer who will talk your ears off, drop names, try to impress you with his knowledge (God know why) and then leave without buying anything, only to repeat the performance on another day. Some will go through all your shelves and ask you for an author or title they know is not there. (Sometimes I will have it in another place, but when I get it for them he (almost always a he) will say that he prefers the ‘other’ cover -- whatever.)
I am sure I have mentioned the oily ones who'd throw their manuscripts on the table and tell you it is a sure bestseller, and the indignant ones who will shout at you and call you names when you decline to publish theirs (for whatever reason).
Still, when you come across a manuscript that works, you become so delirious it makes everything worthwhile.
