Unsuitable attachments

I've always had a bit of a problem with books. The best sort of problem, I'd argue. The sort that makes one incapable of walking past a secondhand bookshop without going in, that allows one to justify buying new books with the 'I'm supporting the author' argument, and that makes one borderline obsessive compulsive in the alphabetical organisation of the resulting library. I used to spend many happy hours taking all my books off the shelves, building a fortress piles of pages high, and making sure the order ran Joan Aiken to Sylvia Waugh with no hitches.

Sorting through childhood belongings recently, I discovered some notebooks in which I used to keep lists of all the books I read. I thought I might resurrect this as an occasional thread on this blog. The book, plus a best line and worst line. That sort of thing. I'll give it a whirl and see how it goes.

First up: Barbara Pym's An Unsuitable Attachment.

Set in a North London suburb, this glimpse into the suitable and not-so-suitable attachments formed by the parishioners of St Basil's is gently amusing. Will librarian Ianthe Broom marry John Challow, five years her junior? Or will the eligible anthropologist Rupert Stonebird catch her eye? Or perhaps the catty Mervyn Cantrell is most suitable suitor? It's not vintage Pym though, the characters being a little lacklustre, but well worth a read.

There's lots of lovely observation, but to continue the theme, here's part of a library scene:

Ianthe never knew how to talk to Mervyn when he was in this sort of [sour] mood. She felt she could have done better than she did with her next remark.

'Balham,' she said, thoughtful, yet desperate,' that's on the Northern Line, isn't it.'

'Yes, my dear. It's black on the Underground map, so very suitable, I always think. Picture us arriving there on Boxing Day in time for tea by public transport, of course.'