Like most guys, I think, I really hate to shop. When I need something, I compile a list either in my head or on paper, and make a military-precision, surgical strike. I get in, grab what I need, and get out. There will be no meandering, no browsing, and absolutely no perusing. If I’m not going to buy it, what’s the point of looking at it?
Bookstores are the worst. On countless occasions, I found myself dragged into a bookstore to “see what there is”. This behaviour completely baffles me. What possible enjoyment can you get by looking at books on a shelf? It’s a small recangular object with a picture on it. Unless you actually sit down for several hours to read it, you’re not going to discover anything significant about it by looking at it on the shelf.
In fact, if I can impress you with my pedantry, isn’t the common wisdom that you can’t judge a book by its cover? Seriously, you can’t. If it has a pretty cover, that’s the product of a graphic artist and a marketing team. Even if it has a plot summary and reviews, that’s pretty shallow criteria on which to base a literary purchase.
It seems to me that the entire concept of browsing a book store is based on the premise that you can judge a book by its cover. There are entire shops full of people violating a very fundamental rule against prejudice, and judging willy-nilly.
So really, my dislike of bookstores isn’t just an aversion to shopping. I’m standing up for my principles. I refuse to judge a book by its cover. Except those silly books that litter the fantasy section that are adorned with unicorns, pixies, fairies, and glowing swords. I think I can go ahead and judge those. Oh and the pink-spined novels with a ridiculously muscle-bound man leans over a woman whose ample bosom is virtually bursting out of a partly unlaced corset. I’m pretty sure I don’t need to see what’s inside the cover.
Alright, fine. I judge books by their cover too. But bookstores are still silly. I’ll pick mine up online, thanks. And I’ll have a list.