When I worked in a second-hand bookshop—so easily pictured， if you don’t work in one， as a kind of paradise where charming old gentlemen browse eternally among calf-bound2) folios3)—the thing that chiefly struck me was the rarity of really bookish people. Our shop had an exceptionally interesting stock， yet I doubt whether ten per cent of our customers knew a good book from a bad one. First edition4) snobs5) were much commoner than lovers of literature， but oriental students haggling6) over cheap textbooks were commoner still， and vague-minded women looking for birthday presents for their nephews were commonest of all.

Many of the people who came to us were of the kind who would be a nuisance anywhere but have special opportunities in a bookshop. For example， the dear old lady who “wants a book for an invalid，” and the other dear old lady who read such a nice book in 1897 and wonders whether you can find her a copy. Unfortunately she doesn’t remember the title or the author’s name or what the book was about， but she does remember that it had a red cover. But apart from these there are two well-known types of pest7) by whom every second-hand bookshop is haunted. One is the decayed8) person smelling of old breadcrusts who comes every day， sometimes several times a day， and tries to sell you worthless books. The other is the person who orders large quantities of books for which he has not the smallest intention of paying. In our shop we sold nothing on credit9)， but we would put books aside10)， or order them if necessary， for people who arranged to fetch them away later. Scarcely half the people who ordered books from us ever came back. It used to puzzle me at first. What made them do it? They would come in and demand some rare and expensive book， would make us promise over and over again to keep it for them， and then would vanish never to return. But many of them， of course， were unmistakable paranoiacs11). They used to talk in a grandiose12) manner about themselves and tell the most ingenious stories to explain how they had happened to come out of doors without any money—stories which， in many cases， I am sure they themselves believed. Very often， when we were dealing with an obvious paranoiac， we would put aside the books he asked for and then put them back on the shelves the moment he had gone. None of them， I noticed， ever attempted to take books away without paying for them; merely to order them was enough—it gave them， I suppose， the illusion that they were spending real money.

Like most second-hand bookshops we had various sidelines13). We sold second-hand typewriters， for instance， and also stamps—used stamps， I mean. But our principal sideline was a lending library—the usual “two penny no-deposit14)” library of five or six hundred volumes， all fiction. How the book thieves must love those libraries! It is the easiest crime in the world to borrow a book at one shop for two pence， remove the label and sell it at another shop for a shilling15). Nevertheless booksellers generally find that it pays them better to have a certain number of books stolen than to frighten customers away by demanding a deposit.

Our shop stood exactly on the frontier between Hampstead16) and Camden Town17)， and we were frequented by all types from baronets18) to bus-conductors. Probably our library subscribers were a fair cross-section19) of London’s reading public. It is therefore worth noting that of all the authors in our library the one who “went out” the best was—Priestley20)? Hemingway? Walpole21)? Wodehouse22)? No， Ethel M. Dell23)， with Warwick Deeping24) a good second and Jeffrey Farnol25)， I should say， third. Dell’s novels， of course， are read solely by women. It is not true that men don’t read novels， but it is true that there are whole branches of fiction that they avoid. Roughly speaking， what one might call the average novel—the ordinary， good-bad， Galsworthy26) stuff which is the norm of the English novel—seems to exist only for women. Men read either the novels it is possible to respect， or detective stories. But their consumption of detective stories is terrific. One of our subscribers to my knowledge read four or five detective stories every week for over a year， besides others which he got from another library. What chiefly surprised me was that he never read the same book twice. Apparently the whole of that frightful torrent of trash was stored for ever in his memory. He took no notice of titles or author’s names， but he could tell by merely glancing into a book whether he had “had it already.”

In a lending library you see people’s real tastes， not their pretended ones， and one thing that strikes you is how completely the “classical” English novelists have dropped out of favour27). It is simply useless to put Dickens， Thackeray28)， Jane Austen， Trollope29)， etc. into the ordinary lending library; nobody takes them out. At the mere sight of a nineteenth-century novel people say， “Oh， but that’s old!” and shy away immediately. Yet it is always fairly easy to sell Dickens， just as it is always easy to sell Shakespeare. Dickens is one of those authors whom people are “always meaning to” read， and he is widely known at second hand. Another thing that is very noticeable is the growing unpopularity of American books. And another is the unpopularity of short stories. The kind of person who asks the librarian to choose a book for him nearly always starts by saying “I don’t want short stories，” or “I do not desire little stories.” If you ask them why， they sometimes explain that it is too much fag30) to get used to a new set of characters with every story; they like to “get into” a novel which demands no further thought after the first chapter. I believe， though， that the writers are more to blame here than the readers. Most modern short stories， English and American， are utterly lifeless and worthless， far more so than most novels. The short stories which are stories are popular enough， vide31) D. H. Lawrence32)， whose short stories are as popular as his novels.

Would I like to be a bookseller de33) métier34)? On the whole—in spite of my employer’s kindness to me， and some happy days I spent in the shop—no.

Given a good pitch35) and the right amount of capital， any educated person ought to be able to make a small secure living out of a bookshop. Unless one goes in for “rare” books it is not a difficult trade to learn， and you start at a great advantage if you know anything about the insides of books. Also it is a humane36) trade which is not capable of being vulgarized37) beyond a certain point. The combines38) can never squeeze39) the small independent bookseller out of existence as they have squeezed the grocer and the milkman. But the hours of work are very long—I was only a part-time employee， but my employer put in40) a seventy-hour week， apart from constant expeditions out of hours to buy books—and it is an unhealthy life. As a rule a bookshop is horribly cold in winter， because if it is too warm the windows get misted over， and a bookseller lives on his windows. And books give off more and nastier dust than any other class of objects yet invented， and the top of a book is the place where every bluebottle prefers to die.

But the real reason why I should not like to be in the book trade for life is that while I was in it I lost my love of books. A bookseller has to tell lies about books， and that gives him a distaste for them; still worse is the fact that he is constantly dusting them and hauling them to and fro41). There was a time when I really did love books—loved the sight and smell and feel of them， I mean， at least if they were fifty or more years old. Nothing pleased me quite so much as to buy a job lot42) of them for a shilling at a country auction43). There is a peculiar flavour about the battered unexpected books you pick up in that kind of collection: minor eighteenth-century poets， out-of-date gazetteers44)， odd volumes of forgotten novels， bound numbers of ladies’ magazines of the sixties. But as soon as I went to work in the bookshop I stopped buying books. Seen in the mass， five or ten thousand at a time， books were boring and even slightly sickening. Nowadays I do buy one occasionally， but only if it is a book that I want to read and can’t borrow， and I never buy junk. The sweet smell of decaying paper appeals to me no longer. It is too closely associated in my mind with paranoiac customers and dead bluebottles.

一個沒有在舊書店工作過的人，會很容易將其想象成一個天堂般的地方，以為那里總有雍容儒雅的老先生翻閱著小牛皮封面的對開本典藏。然而，我曾在一家舊書店做過事，其間印象最深的卻是，真正愛書的人可謂寥寥無幾。這家書店藏有大量有趣的書，然而能夠辨別書之好壞的顧客我懷疑不足十分之一。只喜歡買頭版書的附庸風雅之徒要遠遠多于真正的文學愛好者，而為了廉價的教科書無休止地討價還價的東方留學生則更為常見，但最常見的還要數(shù)那些為侄子們選購生日禮物卻又不知該買什么的太太們。

許多光顧我們店的客人在其他地方也可能招人討厭，但在書店里卻可能尤其招人嫌。比如，一位可敬的老太太“要買一本給病人看的書”，還有一位可敬的老太太曾在1897年讀過一本好看的書，想要你幫她找到這本書。糟糕的是她既記不起書名或者作者名，也不記得書的內(nèi)容，只記得書的封面是紅色的。這樣的顧客還不算什么，還有兩種出了名的討厭鬼，陰魂不散地糾纏著每一家舊書店。一種是那種窮困潦倒之徒，身上散發(fā)著一股陳面包片才有的酸味，每天都會光顧書店，有時一天來好幾次，纏著你推銷他那些一錢不值的舊書。還有一種人，每每訂購一大堆書，卻又絲毫沒有掏錢付賬的意思。我們書店是不賒賬的，但如有客人需要，我們會為客人把書留下，或者幫他訂購，以便他以后有機會來取?？墒?，那些在我們書店訂了書的客人，日后回來取書的幾乎不到一半。起初我真搞不懂這些人，他們到底在瞎折騰什么呢？他們走進書店，說是要買某本罕見而又昂貴的書，還要我們一遍又一遍地保證一定要把書給他們留著，然后他們就消失得無影無蹤，再也沒有回到書店。但后來我明白了，這些人大部分都是如假包換的妄想狂。他們說起自己總是夸夸其談、大話連篇，編出一套套別出心裁的故事，說自己如何碰巧出門沒有帶錢——這些故事，我敢肯定，很多時候他們自己都信以為真了。對付這種一眼就能看出的妄想狂，我們通常的做法是，把他要的書拿出來放好，等他一離開，馬上再把這些書放回到書架上。我發(fā)現(xiàn)，這些人從來沒有不付錢就把書帶走的打算，他們僅僅是訂購一下而已。據(jù)我猜想，這樣做能給他們一種幻覺，好像真的在花錢買書一樣。

和大多數(shù)舊書店一樣，我們也附帶出售許多其他商品。比如，我們賣舊的打字機，還賣郵票——當然是舊郵票。不過，我們主要的副業(yè)是圖書出租——那種“兩便士租一本、無需押金”的出租業(yè)務，大約有五六百本圖書，全是小說。這種出租業(yè)務該是多么受到偷書賊的青睞啊！花上兩便士在一家書店里借來一本書，然后把標簽撕掉，再以一先令的價格把這本書賣給另一家書店，這可謂是世上最輕而易舉的不法勾當了。不過，書商們通常都認為，丟失幾本書，總比因為要押金而嚇跑顧客劃算得多。

我所在的書店就位于漢普斯泰德和坎登鎮(zhèn)的交界處，經(jīng)常光顧我們這里的顧客，從準男爵到公交車售票員，各色人等都有?；蛟S可以這么說，租借我們圖書的人代表了整個倫敦的閱讀群體。那么，在我們的租借業(yè)務中，誰才是“租借率”最高的作家就非常耐人尋味了。普里斯特利？海明威？沃爾波爾？沃德豪斯？不，都不是。排在第一位的是埃塞爾·M·戴爾，緊跟其后的是沃里克·狄平，而排在第三的，我想是杰弗里·法諾。戴爾的小說當然只有女性讀。要說男性不讀小說，也不盡其然，但的確有許多種小說男性是不愿意碰的。大抵說來，人們口中的“一般”小說，那種普通的、可以用好壞來評價的、已成為英國小說規(guī)范的高爾斯華綏風味的東西，似乎只是為女性而存在。男性喜歡讀的，要么是那些可以受人尊敬的小說，要么是偵探小說。不過話說回來，男性對偵探小說的消化能力可真是無與倫比。據(jù)我所知，我們的一位顧客一年多來每周都要讀上四五本偵探小說，這還不算他從另一家書店租借的小說。最讓我覺得意外的是同一本小說他從不讀第二遍。顯然，他所讀過的那數(shù)量驚人的一連串垃圾作品都已永久地儲存在他記憶中了。他從不留意書名或者作者的名字，但只要掃一眼書的內(nèi)容，他就知道自己是否“已經(jīng)讀過”了。

在圖書租借處，你會見識到人們真正的閱讀品味，而不是附庸風雅的虛偽。在這里，令人印象最為深刻的是英國“經(jīng)典”小說家已經(jīng)失去了人們的青睞。把狄更斯、薩克雷、簡·奧斯汀、特羅洛普等的作品擺進普通的租借店毫無用處，根本就無人理會。只要一看到19世紀的小說，人們就會說：“哇，這書太老了！”然后立刻走開。然而，狄更斯的書如果是賣的話總是要容易得多，正如莎士比亞的書賣起來總是很容易一樣。像狄更斯這樣的作家是人們“一直打算”去讀的，但人們對他的廣泛了解都是源于間接途徑。另一個值得注意的現(xiàn)象是美國圖書越來越不受歡迎。還有短篇小說也不受歡迎。前來租書的顧客在請圖書管理員幫他挑書時，幾乎總是首先聲明“我不想看短篇小說”，或者“我不喜歡短小的故事”。如果問他們?yōu)槭裁?，他們有時會說，每一篇短篇小說都有一套新的人物形象，每次都要適應新的形象太麻煩；他們喜歡“融入”長篇小說是因為看完第一章以后就不需要再動腦筋了。不過，在我看來，這與其歸咎于讀者，倒不如說是作者的過錯?，F(xiàn)代短篇小說——不管是英國的還是美國的——大多數(shù)都毫無生命力和文學價值，與多數(shù)長篇小說相比相差甚遠。但真正稱得上小說的短篇小說還是很受歡迎的，D. H. 勞倫斯就是如此，他的短篇小說和長篇一樣受人歡迎。

那么我本人是否希望成為一名職業(yè)書商呢？總的來說，不！雖然我的老板對我很好，雖然我在書店里也有過一些快樂的日子。

如果有一個好的店面，加上適當?shù)馁Y金，任何一個受過教育的人都可以開家書店，過上雖不富足但卻衣食無憂的日子。這個行當不難入門，除非你專門經(jīng)營“珍本”書籍。而且，如果你了解書的內(nèi)容，你一開始就會占有很大優(yōu)勢。再者說，開書店是一個斯文的行當，無論怎樣都不會庸俗到有失斯文的地步。那些大集團永遠不會像排擠雜貨商和牛奶商那樣將獨立的小書商排擠得無法生存。但書店里的工作時間特別長，我只是個兼職雇員，但我的老板每周要工作70個小時，此外還要經(jīng)常抽時間外出采購書籍。書店的工作也不利于身體健康。通常來說，在冬天，書店里會冷得讓人無法忍受，因為如果店里太暖和，櫥窗就會被霧氣籠罩，而書店是靠櫥窗招攬顧客的。還有，書籍更容易揚灰蕩塵，揚起的灰塵比人類迄今發(fā)明的任何物品都更多，更惹人厭。此外，書的頂部是每一只綠頭蒼蠅都喜愛的葬身之地。

不過，我不愿終生從事書店行業(yè)的真正原因在于，在書店工作的這段時間里，我失去了對書的鐘愛之情。賣書的人對書的內(nèi)容往往要違心地撒謊，這樣就會使他對書產(chǎn)生厭惡之情。更糟的是，他要經(jīng)常打掃書上的灰塵，把書搬來搬去。曾經(jīng)有一段時間，我的確很愛書——喜歡看到書的樣子，聞到隱隱的書香，還有拿在手里的那種感覺，我指的是那些至少五十年或者更為古老的書籍。最讓我感到喜悅的，莫過于在鄉(xiāng)村拍賣會上花一先令就能買來一大堆處理書。在那一大堆書里，總會有些破舊但出人意料的書別有風味：18世紀一些不太出名的詩人的作品、過期的地名辭典、散卷的被人遺忘的小說，還有19世紀60年代的女性雜志合訂本等等。但我一到書店工作后，就不再買書了。每天見到那么多的書，一次所見沒有一萬也有五千，書也就變得乏味甚至有點討厭了?，F(xiàn)在，我偶爾也會買上一本，但那只是因為那本書是我想讀但又借不到的。而且，我再也不買破舊的老書。那些發(fā)黃的書頁散發(fā)出的迷人書香對我再也沒有吸引力了。在我腦海中，這書香已和那些妄想狂以及死掉的綠頭蒼蠅密不可分了。

1.George Orwell：喬治·奧威爾(1903～1950)，原名埃里克·阿瑟·布萊爾(Eric Arthur Blair)，英國記者、小說家、散文家和評論家。喬治·奧威爾一生短暫，但其以敏銳的洞察力和犀利的文筆審視和記錄著他所生活的那個時代，做出了許多超越時代的預言，被稱為 “一代人的冷峻良知”，代表作有《動物莊園》(Animal Farm)、《1984》(Nineteen Eighty-Four)等。

2.calf-bound：由小牛皮封面裝訂的

3.folio [?f??li??] n. 對折紙，對開紙

4.first edition：頭版，第一版

5.snob [sn?b] n. 自以為懂行者，自命不凡者

6.haggle [?h?g?l] vi. 討價還價，爭論不休

7.pest [pest] n. 討厭的人

8.decayed [d??ke?d] adj. 窮困潦倒的

9.on credit：賒賬

10.put aside：為顧客暫時保留(貨物)

11.paranoiac [?p?r??n???k] n. 妄想狂患者

12.grandiose [?ɡr?ndi??s] adj. 浮夸的，夸大的

13.sideline [?sa?d?la?n] n. 副業(yè)，(主業(yè)以外的)兼售商品

14.deposit [d??p?z?t] n. 押金，保證金

15.shilling [???l??] n. 先令(1971年以前的英國貨幣單位，等于五便士)

16.Hampstead：漢普斯泰德，英國倫敦西北部的舊自治市，現(xiàn)為坎登鎮(zhèn)的一部分。該市無論歷史上還是今天，都是名人云集之地。約翰·濟慈、西格蒙德·弗洛伊德、T. S. 艾略特、喬治·拜倫、伊麗莎白·泰勒等都曾是這里的居民。

17.Camden Town：坎登鎮(zhèn)，英國大倫敦內(nèi)倫敦的自治市

18.baronet [?b?r?n?t] n. (英國)準男爵(級別在男爵之下，號稱世襲，通常授予平民)

19.cross-section：(人口、社區(qū)等的)典型的(或具有代表性的)實例

20.Priestley：約翰·博因頓·普里斯特利(John Boynton Priestley， 1894～1984)，英國劇作家，小說家，批評家，1929年出版代表作《好伙伴》(The Good Companions)。

21.Walpole：休·沃爾波爾爵士(Sir Hugh Walpole， 1884～1941)，英國小說家。他早期的小說通常是他自己經(jīng)歷的真實反映，后期寫的是傳奇故事。四部歷史系列小說《流氓哈里斯》(Rogue Herries)是他最具代表性的暢銷小說。

22.Wodehouse：佩勒姆·沃德豪斯爵士(Sir Pelham Wodehouse， 1881～1975)，英國幽默小說家。他一生著作頗豐，在長達73年的寫作生涯中，共寫了96本書，包括小說、短篇故事集和歌舞喜劇等。

23.Ethel M. Dell：埃塞爾·M·戴爾(Ethel May Dell， 1881～1939)，英國通俗小說作家，代表作品為暢銷小說《鷹舞蒼穹》(The Way of an Eagle)。

24.Warwick Deeping：沃里克·狄平(1877～1950)，英國短篇小說作家，代表作品為小說《索萊爾和兒子》(Sorrell and Son)。

25.Jeffery Farnol：杰弗里·法諾(1878～1952)，英國著名浪漫故事作家，代表作品為暢銷書《明確的目標：紐約愛情故事》(The Definite Object: A Romance of New York)。

26.Galsworthy：即約翰·高爾斯華綏(John Galsworthy， 1867～1933)，英國小說家，劇作家，英國批判現(xiàn)實主義作家，曾獲1932年諾貝爾文學獎。他的代表作品為長篇小說《福爾賽世家》三部曲(The Forsyte Saga)和劇本《銀匣》(The Silver Box)等。

27.drop out of favour：不再受歡迎

28.Thackeray：威廉·薩克雷(William Thackeray， 1811～1863)，英國小說家，代表作品為《名利場》(The Vanity Fair)。

29.Trollope：安東尼·特羅洛普(Anthony Trollope， 1815～1882)，英國作家，其最主要的作品是六部系列小說組成的《巴塞特郡見聞錄》(Chronicles of Barsetshire)，這些小說提供了一個英國教會小鎮(zhèn)生活的現(xiàn)實主義畫卷。

30.fag [f?ɡ] n. 累人的活，苦差事

31.vide [?vi?de?] vt. 參閱，參看

32.D. H. Lawrence：大衛(wèi)·赫伯特·勞倫斯(David Herbert Lawrence， 1885～1930)，常被稱作D. H. 勞倫斯，20世紀英國作家，20世紀英語文學中最重要的人物之一，也是最具爭議性的作家之一。他的主要成就包括小說、詩歌、戲劇、散文、游記和書信。

33.de [di?] prep. ……的

34.métier [?metie?] n. 行業(yè)，職業(yè)

35.pitch [p?t?] n.〈主英〉(商販等的)設攤處，攤位

36.humane [hju??me?n] adj. 高雅的，文雅的

37.vulgarize [v?l?ɡ?ra?z] vt. 使通俗化，使庸俗化

38.combine [k?m?ba?n] n. 聯(lián)合企業(yè)

39.squeeze [skwi?z] vt. 壓榨，擠

40.put in：花費(時間、精力)做

41.to and fro：來回地，往復地

42.job lot：(以較低價格售給零售商的)一批雜貨

43.auction [???k?(?)n] n. 拍賣

44.gazetteer [?ɡ?z??t??(r)] n. 地名辭典

Scientists’ Experiments

Some scientists decided to do the following experiments on a dog.

For the first experiment， they cut one of the dog’s legs off; then they told the dog to walk. The dog got up and walked， so they learned that a dog could walk with just three legs.

For the second experiment， they cut off a second leg from the dog; then they told the dog once more to walk. The dog was still able to walk with only two legs.

For the third experiment， they cut off yet another leg from the dog and once more they told the dog to walk. However， the dog wasn’t able to walk with only one leg.

As a result of these three experiments， the scientists wrote in their final report that the dog had lost its hearing (聽覺) after having three legs cut off.

New CEO

A company， feeling it is time for a shakeup (重組)， hires a new CEO. This new boss is determined to rid the company of all slackers (懶鬼).

On a tour of the facilities， the CEO notices a guy leaning on a wall. The room is full of workers and he wants to let them know he means business (當真的， 不是隨便說說的)! The CEO walks up to the guy and asks， “And how much money do you make a week?”

Undaunted (無畏的)， the young fellow looks at him and replies， “I make $200 a week. Why?”

The CEO hands the guy $200 in cash and screams， “Here’s a week’s pay. Now GET OUT and don’t come back!” Surprisingly， the guy takes the cash with a smile， says， “Yes sir! Thank you， sir!” And then he leaves.

Feeling pretty good about his first firing， the CEO looks around the room and asks， “Does anyone want to tell me what that slacker did here?”

With a sheepish grin， one of the other workers mutters， “Pizza delivery guy from Domino’s.”