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I collect paperbacks. SometimesI sell them but mostly I can’tlet them go. I am happiestwhen I light on a Gold Medalspine, or glimpse a title likeThe Thrill Seekers. (RickiFrancis, Scripts Publications,1973: ‘Nymphomania, drugs,homosexuality, adultery explodedin one huge hospital orgy …) Iheart my little treasures: sevenby our, op-shop sourced, otenwith yellowed pages, ‘oxing’.‘spotting’, corners cut. Oten‘bumped’ rom being stuedunder doors as a temporarybarricade, or shoved up theback o cupboards where noone else can nd them. I’m orweird, spidery, previous-owner-handwriting. And bookplates,stamps or stickers. Then there’sthe ound art component: theholy cards, dockets, dollars,polaroids and love poemsthat once marked a page orsomeone else.The humble paperback industrystarted in the 1930s. Paper wascheap, packaging democratic.The new sot style took booksout o the library and put them inthe milk bar. You didn’t have tobe an intellectual to read greatliterature – traveling salesmenand truck drivers alike couldaccess James Joyce and EmileZola (albeit abridged and withthe prerequisite pulp cover). Theglittering pulps o the 1940’sand 1950s – the James M.Cains and Mickey Spillanes- marked the golden age. Theirlurid covers were all legs andlipstick, gum-cracking, gun-totingmolls and dolls, books with titleslike The Hoods Come Home andPure Sweet Hell. In the 1960sand 1970s, publishers cashed inon the counterculture then slidinto ‘conessions’-land and lmnovelisations and smut … whichis where I come in.I can’t remember where I gotmy penchant or pulp. Therewere always books when I wasgrowing up. I had three siblingsand when anyone had a birthday,we would all receive a book, i.e.or Simmone on the event oNicola’s sixth birthday. I havestrong memories o churchetes and book exchanges. Thecobblers at the New RingwoodMarket had shelves o amazingsmut and they didn’t seem tomind selling it to kids. On aholiday to Merimbula, when Iwas 8 or 9, I swam in a kidneyshaped pool and threw up atereating too much avocado, andmy sister and I stole a book romthe kiosk ‘library’. It was abouta plantation girl named Aurorade Beausoleil (translates to:the rise o the beautiul sun)who was deled by sundryleches rom page one to thebitter end. My search or pulpwas a search or an educationthat I wasn’t going to get romschool, or my parents, or eventelevision. I’m not sure what myexcuse is now. But we humanshave a hunter-gatherer instinct.We collect in order to preservesomething o ourselves, our past.By structuring the past, we arestructuring our identity. Here aresome o the pieces that makeup mine:
Confessions of a Hitch-hiker
Adrian Reid (Pan, 1972)“The boys there were super.Beatniks oten are, you know.Many o them are very intelligent.They just don’t dig society …”George and Hardy are twoteenage drop-outs who spendtheir summer hustling their wayaround the Riviera. They smokepot with beatniks, feece hornyold toads and ‘bricker’ (steal)bikinis and the rest o lie’sessentials. A picaresque or thebudding adventuress.
The Notebooksof Susan Berry
Michael Mott(Mayfower-Dell 6478, 1964)“Everyone talks about going butnobody goes …” Susan is a ree-spirited art student who goeso travelling and pretty muchbounces rom bloke to bloke andcity to country until somethingbad happens. Michael Mottis a poet. You know all thoseadventure stories or boys? Thisis one or girls. It’s just a shameabout the sailors.
The Passion Flower Hotel
Rosalind Erskine – (Pan G678,1962)“We’re in a highly articalsituation, said Mary-Rose.Prostitutes don’t go to boardingschool.” Wherein a group oenterprising boarding school girlsstart a strip-club-cum-bordello intheir gymnasium to service theneighbouring boys’ school. Thereis also a lm starring NastassiaKinski, but ‘Nasty’ doesn’t dounny and this book is hilarious,thanks to the quick-re dialogueand the beautiul delusions o‘Madam’ Sarah Callander. Shegoes on or a sequel - PassionFlowers in Italy.
Bonjour Tristesse
Francoise Sagan(Orange Penguin #1192, 1954)“I owed most o my pleasure othat time to money; the pleasureo driving ast, o having a newdress, buying records, books,fowers …” Francoise Saganamously wrote this book atthe age o 18 and then spenther advance on ast cars andancy wine. It’s about a girl, asummer-house in the South oFrance, her playboy ather andthe woman who threatens tobring order to their hedonisticexistence.
Sex and the Single Girl
Helen Gurley Brown(NEL, our-square 925, 1964)HGB looked kind o horsey butthat didn’t stop her rom nabbingthe man o her dreams. She’s78 now and still exercises twicea day, lives on sot—boiled eggsand soda water. She wrote thebible or the single woman in ahungry town. This is wisdom:- Have diculty with packages.He’ll help carry.- Never interrupt a man whenhe’s telling you a story.- Borrowing money is not sexy.- Political clubs are prettyswinging usually.- Have an ashtray with two reshcigarettes and matches handyin the john.
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