But I also cannot abide books that forgo storytelling in favor of esoteric incomprehension. Of course I love depth and extraordinary writing in my books. I’m really not all that intrepid.įor those unfamiliar with Persephone Books and what they do: they are a London-based small press that “reprints neglected fiction and non-fiction by mid-twentieth century (mostly) women writers.” What I love most about Persephone, other than my personal predilection for lady writers, is that their titles “are neither too literary nor too commercial,” or in the derogatory words of a literary figure I can’t remember (Google isn’t helping either): “the lower end of quality writing.” I happen to love the description “lower end of quality writing.” It promises a bit of juicy trashiness to go with all the highbrow stuff. So why the sudden madness at picking one up, you ask? Well, I had ( whispers) five unloved Persephones looming reproachfully at me.
I kept saving them because I ask you: what will I do when I run out of Persephones? London is two expensive flights away and I like to have at least one unread Persephone as back-up for when I want to read something really special. They were too pretty and too precious to read.
All the wonderful Persephone books I hauled last December were gathering dust on my bookshelf.
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