is it okay: to read certain books in public?
There are things it is definitely not okay to do in public. Such as: be naked for no good reason, have overly emotive and loud conversations, stare at strangers for prolonged periods of time, and vigorously use dental floss.
I have only ever been guilty of one of these things. However a recent encounter involving a book and some awkwardness, plus the potential judgement, have made me reflect on whether or not it is okay to read certain books whilst in the company of strangers.
Often I buy books in op shops. In amongst the obligatory five copies of Prey, and myriad of 1970s fat busting guides, there are some brilliant finds. Sometimes this takes the form of a 1940s edition of a book you love. Other times, it can be discovering a Buffy Watcher’s Guide complete with painstakingly handwritten notes on the musical episode to make you feel less alone in your OCD fandom. The awesomeness is then compounded by the fact that you almost always get change for a dollar.
Sometimes I purchase books just on a whim. Maybe it has an awesome cover, the author’s name is hilarious, or, as in this case, because the title sounds vaguely familiar. Most recently, I chose The Carpetbaggers by Harold Robbins, unaware that it was a book that comes with controversial history, and was deemed obscene when it was released in 1961 “at the onset of the sexual revolution”. The little old lady manning the counter gave me a sideways glance, ducked behind the desk, and slid the book back to me in a sealed brown paper bag. I didn’t understand why until I got home and got stuck into some hardcore Wikipediaing. Embarassment ensued.
The brown paper bag was an interesting touch though. Was this book so very bad, that to be seen in public with it would be the social equivalent of having a scarlet ‘A’ sewn to my clothing?
Feeling awkward about what I’m reading is not a new thing for me. About two years back, I was sitting on the tram reading American Psycho. In the midst of swinging between horror at the graphic murder scenes and mind numbing boredom over the unnecessarily long music monologues, yet another little old lady sat down next to me. In my memory, she had a bag full of knitting, though I suspect that this is my mind trying to juxtapose her exaggerated wholesomeness with my self-perceived book-produced depravity (in a few years my memory will probably have her bottle-feeding an orphaned kitten). Nonetheless, my ears went red, I snapped the book shut and tried to think about flowers.
It was weird. I doubt that she would have peered over my arm at the page, and yet I felt as though I had been caught out doing something not okay. It’s strange, and I’m not sure if this is just something unique to me. I have (barely) any qualms about paying to sit in a room full of strangers to watch a film which may contain anything from violence to sex scenes, but maybe this is because all the people around me are watching the same thing, and are in no place to judge.
For the most part, I know people aren’t really thinking about what you are doing. They’re focusing on their own stuff, whether this be what deckchair covers to buy, or whether or not to inconsiderately sneeze on you. Despite this however, the thought of reading a socially dubious book whilst sitting under the non-watchful gaze of a stranger on the tram makes me feel anticipatory embarrassment in the same league as when people sing Happy Birthday to me against my wishes.
I don’t really have an answer as to whether this is okay or not. Clearly some part of my brain thinks not. However, the part that drowns it out seems to think that any amount of awkwardness is worth it, if only just to skip the tedium of thirty minutes worth of staring at the “No Feet on Seats” sign.
(Image credit: 1.)
