The votes are in. Judging from the e-mails and comments I’ve received on the street, readers of this column are happier when I rant and rave than when I wax thoughtful. Given that the former comes much more easily to me than the latter, herewith another:
I made an astonishing discovery the other day at our library. You know, the one that doesn’t know where it wants to live when it grows up (I vote for staying put).
I was browsing the LARGE PRINT section. No, I haven’t reached the stage of seniority (that’s a couple of years off) or infirmity (open to debate) to need large print books. It’s just that the aerobic machine I use at the Vashon Athletic Club, where I strive to fend off infirmity, has a reading rack that is too far away for my reading glasses and too close for my distance glasses, and the thought of tri-focals is just too depressing to consider.
That’s when I made my discovery, right there in the hushed confines of our library, and here it is: There is something terrifying going on in the LARGE PRINT section.
Allow me to explain. First, while there is a smattering of nonfiction, al-most all the books in this section of the library are fiction. Fine. I like fiction. But each of these books falls into one of only two literary genres: murder mysteries or steamy romance novels. What could explain this? Where are the classics? Where is contemporary fiction? Where are my novels, not to put too fine a point on it? But I digress.
Maybe I’ve been reading too many detective stories myself, but here’s what seems to me to be the deep and possibly sinister question: What does this say about the people who read LARGE PRINT books?
Let’s assume the vast majority of LARGE PRINT book readers (I exempt younger folks with sight limitations) have reached a certain venerable, wise and decisive age where they are no longer willing to put up with the tiny little letters cheapskate book publishers use to save money on paper. I’m with them. Let’s also assume our esteemed library understands the reading preferences of those who choose LARGE PRINT books and stocks the shelves accordingly.
Does this mean older folks with failing eyesight have only two things in mind: sex and violence? I mean, think about this. Have they just been watching too much TV, or is this where we will all soon end up? Or is this really where we all are anyway and older people have earned the right not to have to pretend otherwise?
But wait: there’s more! If you look carefully at the spines of these books you discover something really chilling: the murder mysteries AND the romance novels are almost universally written by…Women!.
Clearly, at least in the publishing world, they are adept at creating plots at either extreme. But what if this is who they truly are? I don’t know about you, but this makes me look at my own partner with slightly different (and very focused) eyes.
How are we men, blinded as we are by love and not that bright to begin with, to know whether the woman with whom we share our lives is a hopeless romantic or a potential murderess? What are the signs? Or—even more frightening—do they have the potential to be both? Do they alternate from one extreme (I hesitate to use the word “mood”) to the other? Are there clues, such that one might be forewarned against putting one’s large male foot into one’s mouth on a given day, lest that be followed by a stiletto—and not of the heel variety?
I tell you what: no matter where our library ends up, it’s still a very scary place.
— Will North is an author living on Vashon.
