Read Online Dover Beach by Richard Bowker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Bowker
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for you, Walter?"
"Books on England."
"Ah, England. What about Riddley Walker?"
"Real books," I said. "About the real England."
Art laughed at the distinction. "But those books aren't any more useful than Riddley Walker. What about something on how to make glass?"
"I may be going to England," I said. I told him my story.
He was suitably impressed. "Imagine that," he murmured. "Imagine that." He wandered over to a few stacks of books in the corner and started wading through them. "Not much call, you know, anymore. People want fantasy about the past, not reality." He came out with a picture book and an old travel guide. "Best I can do, I'm afraid."
"They'll be fine. The place has probably changed a lot anyway."
Art shrugged. "Not as much as this place has." He sat down on the edge of his cot. There was a wood stove in the room, but it wasn't giving off much heat. Art didn't seem to mind. "England," he said dreamily. "Do you ever think, Walter, about how much we owe certain people who will undoubtedly remain anonymous forever? People say history is determined by great economic and social forces, that individuals don't make a difference. But I can't believe that. Someone gives an order, or refuses to carry out an order, or carries it out badly, and England is spared. Someone holds back at the last second, and the bombs aren't dropped that should've been dropped, and we're here, alive, swapping books and chatting by the light of an oil lamp. And maybe those people are still alive, like those old writers. I wonder what they're thinking about. Do they think they did the right thing? Are they proud of themselves? Or do they think that, at the most important moment of their lives, they fouled up, and they'll never have a chance to atone for their mistake?"
"I think," I said, "that maybe people don't think as much as you think they do."
Art cackled. "But what else do they have to do nowadays? There's no TV."
"They read dirty books."
"Ah, you're a cynic, my friend."
"Gee, I wonder how that happened."
Art shook his head. "I hope I had nothing to do with it." He paused. "You know," he said, "if you don't get to go, Walter, you might consider going into business with me."
"Selling dirty books? There's barely enough—"
"Not selling them, Walter. Writing them." Art's eyes glittered. "I don't have the imagination, but I'm sure you could do it. Imagine if I had new novels to sell my clientele—new dreams to dream. I've got a friend at the Globe who says they might be willing to rent out their printing press, and—"
"Um, I don't think so, Art. Maybe, if this England thing falls through, you know—"
Art smiled and raised a hand to stop me. "Just a thought. Anyway, enjoy your books. And enjoy England, if you get to go. Shakespeare, Dickens, Browning: 'Oh, to be in England...' And Matthew Arnold. Remember 'Dover Beach'? 'The cliffs of England stand,/ Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.' So much to see. I envy you."
I remembered the poem. "This all feels like a dream," I said.
"There's nothing wrong with dreaming," Art replied.
I wasn't so sure. I always felt a little woolly-minded after visiting Art. His bookstore was like a drug that made me want to live the way he did, accomplishing nothing, just pondering unanswerable questions as time drifted by. In its own way, that was as sinful as reading the filthy books that Art sold—at least, I'm sure that's what Stretch would say. And Stretch, in his own way, spoke the truth.
Still, a little dreaming was okay, it seemed to me. I felt no compunctions, therefore, about returning to my chilly library and reading the books Art had given me I studied the pictures and memorized the text and imagined myself in England: warm, well fed, happy. It was a good dream, as dreams went, because it was, at least conceivably, attainable. It kept me happy until sleep, and another dawn, arrived.
* * *
Bobby Gallagher's headquarters were across the Fort Point Channel in South Boston,
"Books on England."
"Ah, England. What about Riddley Walker?"
"Real books," I said. "About the real England."
Art laughed at the distinction. "But those books aren't any more useful than Riddley Walker. What about something on how to make glass?"
"I may be going to England," I said. I told him my story.
He was suitably impressed. "Imagine that," he murmured. "Imagine that." He wandered over to a few stacks of books in the corner and started wading through them. "Not much call, you know, anymore. People want fantasy about the past, not reality." He came out with a picture book and an old travel guide. "Best I can do, I'm afraid."
"They'll be fine. The place has probably changed a lot anyway."
Art shrugged. "Not as much as this place has." He sat down on the edge of his cot. There was a wood stove in the room, but it wasn't giving off much heat. Art didn't seem to mind. "England," he said dreamily. "Do you ever think, Walter, about how much we owe certain people who will undoubtedly remain anonymous forever? People say history is determined by great economic and social forces, that individuals don't make a difference. But I can't believe that. Someone gives an order, or refuses to carry out an order, or carries it out badly, and England is spared. Someone holds back at the last second, and the bombs aren't dropped that should've been dropped, and we're here, alive, swapping books and chatting by the light of an oil lamp. And maybe those people are still alive, like those old writers. I wonder what they're thinking about. Do they think they did the right thing? Are they proud of themselves? Or do they think that, at the most important moment of their lives, they fouled up, and they'll never have a chance to atone for their mistake?"
"I think," I said, "that maybe people don't think as much as you think they do."
Art cackled. "But what else do they have to do nowadays? There's no TV."
"They read dirty books."
"Ah, you're a cynic, my friend."
"Gee, I wonder how that happened."
Art shook his head. "I hope I had nothing to do with it." He paused. "You know," he said, "if you don't get to go, Walter, you might consider going into business with me."
"Selling dirty books? There's barely enough—"
"Not selling them, Walter. Writing them." Art's eyes glittered. "I don't have the imagination, but I'm sure you could do it. Imagine if I had new novels to sell my clientele—new dreams to dream. I've got a friend at the Globe who says they might be willing to rent out their printing press, and—"
"Um, I don't think so, Art. Maybe, if this England thing falls through, you know—"
Art smiled and raised a hand to stop me. "Just a thought. Anyway, enjoy your books. And enjoy England, if you get to go. Shakespeare, Dickens, Browning: 'Oh, to be in England...' And Matthew Arnold. Remember 'Dover Beach'? 'The cliffs of England stand,/ Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.' So much to see. I envy you."
I remembered the poem. "This all feels like a dream," I said.
"There's nothing wrong with dreaming," Art replied.
I wasn't so sure. I always felt a little woolly-minded after visiting Art. His bookstore was like a drug that made me want to live the way he did, accomplishing nothing, just pondering unanswerable questions as time drifted by. In its own way, that was as sinful as reading the filthy books that Art sold—at least, I'm sure that's what Stretch would say. And Stretch, in his own way, spoke the truth.
Still, a little dreaming was okay, it seemed to me. I felt no compunctions, therefore, about returning to my chilly library and reading the books Art had given me I studied the pictures and memorized the text and imagined myself in England: warm, well fed, happy. It was a good dream, as dreams went, because it was, at least conceivably, attainable. It kept me happy until sleep, and another dawn, arrived.
* * *
Bobby Gallagher's headquarters were across the Fort Point Channel in South Boston,
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