At the Lifeline Bookfair these days I am something of a window shopper as I am in the book disposal time of life. I dribble more books in 'donations' than I take out. Yet it is still fun to enter the vast barn like room and immerse oneself into the sea of books. It is a little like the old cartoons with Scrooge McDuck plunging into his vat of coins. And there is also a sense of community, the bibliophile set, even though you might not talk with anyone. Another benediction is the feeling of escaping from 'the world' outside with all its vulgarity, twardriness and insincerity. On my last visit I had a little encounter with a young woman. I overhead her asking the volunteer if he had seen any books of Silvia Plath's poetry. He could not help but a few moments later I found The Colossus and brought it to her grateful attention. I revealed that I had just finished reading Jonathan Bate's biography of Ted Hughes, 'her husband' as I put it. She explained that she was just getting interested in Plath. She did not have much of an opinion about Plath or Hughes. In reply to a prompting she said she was not a feminist. Well, I could have dallied and got into a discussion about this unhappy pair but I thought it was not an appropriate setting. One must keep moving; I drifted off to another table thinking about Hughes.
Before reading Bate's book I knew little about him apart from his being the husband to the tragic genius Plath, that he was excoriated by feminists and he tended to write animal themed poems. My luscious read of Bate shows he was a mighty poet, truly talented, deserving of fame. But this did not take me too much into his work. I did not really take to him as a person. He is a bit of the 'huntin, fishin, shootin' type of man. I am not. And I found his lifelong philandering repugnant. And if I were to sit in judgement about his treatment of Plath I would reckon it pretty shabby - and unbecoming of a true poet. Leaving the fair with my token catch of books I gave a little wave to my friend but she did not see me.
