These days the library usually has a trolley full of books for sale. Often these are out of date directories, manuals or yearbooks, novels or textbooks in subjects which hold no great interest for me. Anyway, I am on a self-denying ordinance as far as book-buying goes, there are far too many in the house already
This week I could see some old books there, so I celebrated the return of my mobility by crouching down for a look
And found what for me is a treasure: Mémoires Intérieures by François Mauriac. In a bottle green rexine-type library cover, with a coat of arms stamped on the front & the title & shelf mark stamped in gold on the spine. All for 30p
I used to love Mauriac as a teenager, especially Thérèse Desqueyroux & Le Nœaud De Vipères & his work on Pascal. But until this week even his name had almost dropped out of my memory bank
There may be some genuine French paperbacks up in the loft, or maybe they got lost somewhere, along with my Sacha Distel records
(To the tune of Bye Bye Blackbird)
Dis adieu à mes copains
Aux amis que j’aime bien
Bye bye, baby
Demain je serai si loin
Loin de toi
Loin des miens
Bye bye, baby
Oh dear! Where did that come from?
