Conversation in a bookstore

I stopped by the bookstore the other day to look at the new editions, when I heard - an elderly lady is asking the saleswoman for advice. She would buy a present for a boy, eighth grade.

"Oh, well, we don't have one for that age," she answered.

This is where I had to intervene:

"You can take him Bukowski, he'll like it for sure, it's ideal for that age".

"Oh, well, he would like that, but I'm not sure about the parents," said the saleswoman.

"My dad bought me Bukowski in elementary school, there were no problems," I answered.

Her colleague suggested Alchemist.

"Don't have it, it has long since outgrown it."

“A The Catcher in the Rye?”, the first one suggested.

"If his mother is very strict, you can also Joyce's." Portrait of the artist in his youth. Or, let's say, a bottle of Vinjak 5 for the parents and the little one Idiot Dostoyevsky. It's a really nice combination. Or to little Vinjak 5, and to the parents Idiot"And peaceful Bačka!"

The lady smiled into her mustache.

"You can also get him a thriller by James Patterson," said the first.

"Well, that can be done, but only as decorative paper, and pack Dovlatov under it," I said.

"And what's wrong with James Patterson? Let's not fool the woman, but focus on the problem," the first one snapped.

"Ju Nesbe can too," I retorted.

"How about you get him a contemporary young writer?", the other intervened.

"Ma'am, please don't do that!", I was categorical.

"And a contemporary poet?" continued the other.

That's when I started to black out with a hint of a panic attack. I almost threw up on the shelf of South American literature. Roberto Bolaño laughed, and Marquez was disgusted. Borges didn't care.

The main problem of modern verse craftsmen is an abnormal amount of vanity and manic ego. They ramble around with random words and pull each other's lines in a circle, who has the bigger song, thinking that even the most ordinary discomfort is raw art. The nature of such a sport is self-destructive. Everyone thinks they're misunderstood geniuses, but mostly they're just boring. It is mostly the same with music. Please believe me, I'm not a misunderstood genius, I'm just a regular character.

Who would have thought that thoughts were capable of unwinding so far. I also wanted to write a song, but it's good, so I didn't. The covers of Ciorano, Sartre, Camus were looking at me, I turned my head, and Nietzsche was standing there. Henri Barbis and Celine criticized me a lot. "Don't mess with us, you imbecile! Did we raise you like that?!" Chekhov and Carver kept Hemingway from impaling me!

"Let me go! Let me go!"

"Come on, Ernie, don't, come on, let him go!"

"Well, I'm going to give him a &#*!"

I broke into a cold sweat when I saw Knut Hamsun and Živojin Pavlović, but somehow I caught my breath. Crnjanski, the greatest among poets, gave me his hand. I've had enough of poetry in my life, I'd rather get my hands dirty. I gave myself two quick slaps and snapped out of that self-righteous wolfishness.

"Sir, sir! Are you all right? For God's sake, why are you hitting your head?!"

"Oh, I've been thinking about something, but I've got a great idea! Lady, hit the books! Buy the kid a Motorhead record, any album they have, even the cheapest one. Although, the best Iron Fist. "

"I don't understand, what's Motorhead like now?"

"You have to hurry, if you care about that child, it might not be too late."

"You have been staring fixedly at one point for some time. Do you need help?", the worker asked me.

"No, no! It's just work, I can do that when I'm enchanted by some book."

"And what book are you looking at if it's not a secret?"

"In Stendhal's novel Red and black. "

"Are you sure? I don't think we have that book."

"I was joking, I'm looking at Old masters Thomas Berhnard. That's my favorite writer."

"Well, if you don't have anything for that age, maybe it's better if I buy him this cup?", said the lady.

"Yes, those cups are very nice."

"And why don't you look... Actually, nothing", I interjected again.

"Say it freely", the lady encouraged me.

"This second cup may be nicer to you."

"You're right. I'll take this other cup."

We all agreed that the cup is still the best choice, and that's how this senseless literary-pedagogical debate ended.