I went to what just might be the poshest Oxfam shop in the country on Saturday, in Harrogate. The books and records section upstairs was being run by a lady who looked like the Queen, but I suspect someone else was responsible for the displays of Mo'Wax 12"s and Las albums that would have put most record shops to shame. The books section was just as good. The second place I've ever come across to have a second hand copy of 'Coming Through Slaughter.' That familiar sense of almost wishing I hadn't bought and read it already. I picked up 'Ghost of a Flea' by James Sallis, Kurt Cobain's Journals, and 'Invitation to a Beheading' by Nabokov.
The Sallis book is excellent so far. Apparently it's the last in a series of 'crime' novels centred around ageing novelist and private eye Lew Griffin. I haven't read any of the others, but it doesn't feel as if I need to have, or won't be able to later. The book is full of uncontrived, casual philosophy and quotes from people as diverse as Pascal and Pynchon. It's all set in a grim, tough, faded New Orleans, and the tone is elegiac towards Lew and his 'past tense' friends, and the city itself. I'm riveted and can't wait to finish. Incidentally, Sallis' 'Driver' is also brilliant. He obviously hold genre snobs in disdain, and any such haters of the crime novel should certainly read him.
Kurt Cobain's journals? I just couldn't quite resist them. I'm still fascinated and enthralled by him. His band were the single biggest musical influence in my life, both in terms of sound and in attitude towards music in general. The journals are really interesting. So far they've mainly consisted of letters to The Melvins, other friends and sacked drummers. They detail Cobain's obsession and dedication to the band, how much time and money they spent, and that depressingly familiar suspicion of record labels. The wonderful Sub-Pop cops a lot of shit, that's for sure.
There's some bad, consciously stream-of-conscious writing about dream states, and some excellent comic strips. My favourite is the one about the red neck whose unborn son puts his foot through dad's head.
As for Nabokov, that might be the one after Sallis I guess.
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