The Bookshop of Second Chances
by Jackie Fraser
(New York: Simon and Schuster, 2020)
I have a headache and it’s hard to say if it’s a hangover or surfeit of emotion.
Page 1.
Crying all the time is so boring. It’s a long time since I’ve had a broken heart and I’d forgotten how tediously dull it is.
Page 2.
It’s just stuff. But all this stuff is shorthand for our relationship.
Page 4.
The house is full of things that remind me of other, better times, but I can’t take them all with me - it’s not possible.
Page 7.
I’m not busy unless you count ling in bed and crying as busy.
Page 12.
It’s always fun to go on a road trip with a girlfriend. As long as no one gets shot and you don’t have to drive off a cliff, it’s all win, right?
Page 15.
It’s strange to arrive somewhere knowing parts of it might become familiar, but you don’t know which bits.
Page 17.
I need to control this urge to just say whatever comes into my mind.
Page 20.
I’m not sure whether to sell the entire library or not, but I definitely don’t want to keep them all, or even most of them, because of the responsibility as much as anything. And because, think of the other books I could buy with the money.
Page 37.
The whole place smells of beeswax and old paper and is, I have to admit, rather lovely.
Page 38.
I like shaking hands; much prefer it to kissing people.
Pages 40-41.
I stare round at the books. A lifetime of love, of seeking out, collecting.
Page 52.
The older something is - especially if it’s ephemera - the more interesting it becomes.
Page 57.
When my mother was at school, they made you choose between dong O Levels (for the academic girls who might go on to college) or Shorthand and Typing (for those who would need a job until they got married).
Page 57.
I can never decide what I like best: tiny tings, like dolls’ house furniture, or giant things, like those comical deckchairs you get at the seaside that make you look like a doll yourself.
Page 62.
You can’t swamp someone with friendship, can you? And you can’t expect someone to share all their mates with you.
Page 67.
I quite like being middle-aged; if I was his age I wouldn’t know what to say to him, but it’s easy enough to ask him questions, and he’s willing to talk to me, probably because I’m a stranger.
Page 72.
‘It makes me s-s-s-sad,’ he says, his face flushed, ‘to think the things that seem important to me now might n-not in the future.’
Page 73.
‘Sometimes it’s better to appear to be a married person. Easier.’
Page 74.
When I’m not at work, I’m exploring.
Page 78.
It’s no good complaining you’ve got no cards if you never mention your birthday. No one up here knows, and I’m not planning on telling anyone. It’s just a daylike any other.
Page 82.
I don’t like the idea of people talking about me. I’m not interesting, after all. What do they say, these awful people with their beautiful bone structures and total lack of Scottish accent?
Page 93.
The smell of a hot shed reminds me of the summer holidays, days spent at my friend Tara’s
Page 112.
I love a beach. A beach wit shells and driftwood, sand and rockpools. I like things to look at, and things to collect. A good beach has beach glass, worn smooth, in unusual colours; and pieces of Victorian china, with patterns on; interesting shells.
Page 117.
You could almost say I was happy. I don’t like to address this thought head on, though, because if you look at happiness it usually disappears, a shy creature.
Page 117.
Being busy in a new place allows you to avoid look at things you should maybe look at.
Pages 117-118.
I’ve a theory that when you go to a place with somebody else, and that person leaves, it’s quieter than a place you’ve gone to alone.
Page 120.
It’s odd to see someone mostly naked, difficult to know where to look.
Page 121.
It must be an odd thing to be objectively attractive, rather than someone’s personal taste.
Page 139.
Truth can be too exposing sometimes, too naked.
Page 170.
It’s funny to be embarrassed when you’re alone.
Page 172.
The trouble with snooping is you can’t ask a question about anything you find that you shouldn’t have looked at.
Page 172.
I doubt she thinks she’s the bad guy; no one ever does.
Page 176.
Either you like someone, or you don’t. if you do, be nice. If you don’t, what’s the point?
Page 181.
We get two sorts of customers: people who know what they want and head straight for it or ask immediately, and browsers.
Page 190.
I’ve surprised myself by how much I like talking to customers. I suppose because no one ever knows what they want in a second-hand bookshop, and no one’s ever in a rush.
Page 199.
The fresh bloom of youth dissipates, but as a grown-up you have other things in recompense.
Page 211.
I expect everyone who works in a very small team has a private language; we’re just developing one. If we carry on working together, eventually we’ll be impenetrable to outsiders.
Page 215.
I hate being misunderstood.
Page 238.
Everyone loves a brown-paper parcel tied up with string.
Page 267.
Nothing’s ever private, is it? Nothing happens in isolation. You’re always exposed, forced to explain.
Page 272.
I wish I was twelve again. Or twenty-five, or forty. Or dead.
Page 279.
What’s worse than the sight of a forty-four-year-old woman crying in public. It’s humiliating, or it would be if I gave a toss what anyone thinks.
Page 285.
He’s one of those supremely ‘at home’ people who always fits in with his surroundings.
Page 291.
People are curious about new residents in a small town, but that doesn’t make them you friends. Probably none of them are my friends.
Page 295.
It’s easier to avoid meeting people if you live in a city.
Page 296.
I have a list of things in my head that I’m trying not to think about.
Page 298.
It’s cold and grey but so what?
Page 302.
Biscuits on a plate is a thing form my youth, and I like to follow this tradition in honour of aunts and old ladies long dead.
Page 311.
‘It’s easy, isn’t it, to say stupid, horrible things. Easier than saying anything meaningful or true.’
Page 312.
I think, not for the first time, how odd it is that we can never know the truth of another’s thoughts.
Page 318.
‘I think if you like someone, it’s much harder to tell if they like you too. Harder than if you were indifferent.’
Page 318.
For someone who talks a lot I find it hard to get the words right when it matters.
Pages 318-319.
It’s nice to hold hands, even if my arms are stretched further than is comfortable.
Page 321.
‘Once you sleep with someone, everything’s different, even if you try for it not to be.’
Page 321.
Taking your clothes off in front of someone for the first time is always difficult. The idea that shortly he’ll be naked, in my bed, is hard to imagine. Shit. It’s exciting but also scary.
Page 326.
I disapprove of his empty life.
Page 334.
It’s hard to tell the difference between excitement and anxiety.
Page 337.
It’s childish to want to look your best in front of your ex.
Page 387.
It’s always pleasant to think of the stat of something.
Page 402.
Being in the wrong is problematic.
Page 404.