01.23

It seems running a bookshop isn't all that easy, dear Mother.

I'm saying as much, given that one of the certain things in my distant future that I can see myself doing is putting up a bookshop in a foggy town on a faraway island where the townspeople don't know my name.

Of course, there is the very real fact that the bookshop isn't just a bookshop. But I digress.

For the past few days I've been the designated Runner for administrative tasks. I could count with two hands just how many times sir Walden has grumbled about Sep (you know, the shopkeep?) and his inability to focus on something to completion. Hence, the daunting responsibilities of everything else falling onto my lap, like an unwanted gift on a birthday, or Christmas.

Ah, but what else am I supposed to do? Now that I think about it, it comes with the supposed job description, being the assistant manager and all.

Although, at times I often wonder how sir Walden and Sep had survived handling this stuff on their own for a number of years. I had to go out and do some extra errands just because some necessary documents were either missing or outdated.

In those times, when I'd be walking back and forth from one office to another, the afternoon sun bearing down on my nape, I'd find myself feeling grateful that you raised me to be thorough, sometimes obsessively so.

Today was one of the days that I found myself blissfully back in the shop, whiling down the hours. Sir Walden had given me permission to peruse his personal collection of books on days when business was slow and there was nothing else to do.

Today I started on a Murakami (Ryu, not Haruki) I found sandwiched in between a Dazai and an Akutagawa. I've heard of his woks before, their subsequent reputations. Yet somehow, to me, the prose feels..

...impersonal. Lacking. Like it didn't have life in it. Perhaps it's just my personal taste in books, but I flipped through pages and there was little else that was written apart from actions and dialogue.

To quote my favorite movie of all time: "Where's the verve? The brio?"

At some point, a man had come up to me as he dawdles inside the shop. Tall, with a bit of a gut, and a droopy smile that vaguely resembled one of Ryu Murakami's covers of "In the Miso Soup".

He had looked at me, amused, and gestured to the book with his walking cane. "Not your type?"

I had to shake my head no. "Maybe it's because of the wording," I say shyly. "Or the period. There were some stylistic choices and decisions made. I guess it would have made sense to readers of the time."

"Perhaps so," the other man mused, turning his attention to the bookshelf on his immediate right. His hand immediately darts to take a small blue book, with a cover I've been eyeing lately and have chosen my next to-be-read. "Or perhaps you just don't like the narrative style."

"That could be it, yes."

"In any case, you're allowed to like or dislike a book." He shrugs before settling down on one of the handful, mismatched chairs around the shop. "But be sure to know why."

"Are my reasons valid?"

That had made him laugh. "Yes, quite so."

Later on I would be introduced to him by Sep -- a certain sir Gustav, who was apparently a friend of his and sir Walden's. A literary and film critic, an anthropologist, an essayist, and a writer of his own right. The book that he had gotten from the shelves was his, and he had been flitting back and forth through a few choice pages. 

"I'm writing a sequel, you see," he tells me. "In a few days I'll sequester myself in a hotel room and just focus on writing until my manuscript's done. But I need to refresh my memory on this one chapter I'll be working on."

"Couldn't you have reviewed it back at home? Or did you not have a copy of your own book anymore?" I ask. It was pointed, now that I think about it -- but not unheard of. There had been at least three local authors whose titles we carry that had gone in on the shop looking to buy multiple copies of their own hard-earned work, but these were mostly for gifts or submissions for awards, and not personal effects.

Sir Gustav just shook his head. "I'd rather read it here," he replies. "As if I'm a reader and not the writer of this book. Gives me a fresh perspective. Have you read this yet?"

Bashfully, I said I haven't, although it was in my to-be-read list. The man just laughed. "That's alright. Hopefully you'll like it more than the Murakami one in your hands. But if you don't, you can tell me --"

" -- and I'll have to know why I don't like it?"

"Exactly. What's the use of anything if there are no people to criticize you? To show you a different point of view from the one you're accustomed to?"

He stops mid-sentence as a car passes by. In the relative silence of the shop and the street, the blaring campaign music of a notable public figure and a catchy jingle breaks us out of our quiet reverie. The sound swells and reverberates around the shop before receding into nothingness. 

Sir Gustav had shaken his head at that point and stood up. "Twelve years," he grumbles to himself as he heads for the door, leaving the copy of his book by the counter. 

I had only vaguely understood what that was about before he bids me goodbye and walks out the door, promising to be back by next week.

...Come to think of it, dear Mother, how is Father, anyway?

Things must be awfully busy now since the campaign period is now in full swing. I hope to high heavens you haven't used my bedroom as a stockroom for tarpaulins and posters and all kinds of knick-knacks with Father's face plastered on it, although it's highly likely. I can just imagine our housekeeper's dismay every time she has to tend to the foyer of the house; I know you'll be having no less than 20 guests, half of them esteemed, every single day in and out of the house.

In hindsight, I guess the hubbub of the incoming elections was the final straw for me. I needed the silence, the release, the freedom of just being me without having to smile for the cameras or being conscious with the way I acted. 

But I knew if I told you this, you'd have shunned my concerns aside and tell me to smile for another family picture, or sing Father's commissioned campaign jingle.

(Which actually kinda sucks, by the way. You should probably ask for a refund.)

...Anyway. I know this is a diary and that this won't reach you until I have developed the courage to give you this myself, but it's only a few pages in and I have a hundred or more so to fill before I am compelled. 

Regardless -- send my regards to Father. 

I'll talk to you soon.

- Faye