Sitting on the floor at Daunt Books, looking at the less browsed titles piled up on windowsills and on the bottom shelves, I came across this. Jamie and I are both drawn to books that were published right around the time we were six or eight years old. Surely, this is a very literal recollection of the picture volumes we were looking at as children. But it was a handsome era for books like this. You can imagine the kind of subtle shifts in typeface and layout that followed in the next generation of such books: a kind of wispy quality that made the publications seem noncommittal. Anyway, this book of evocative large format photography was in perfect condition and I couldn't resist bringing it home.
Coincidentally, I recently read a Bruce Chatwin story that references Wales which cracked me up. It has that oddball delightfulness that Chatwin does so well.
At dinner with Diana Vreeland
Her glass of neat vodka sat on the white damask table-cloth. Beyond the smear of lipstick, a twist of lemon floated among the ice-cubes. We were sitting side by side, on a banquette.
'What are you writing about, Bruce?'
'Wales, Diana.'
The lower lip shot forward. Her painted cheeks swivelled through an angle of ninety degrees.
'Whales!' she said. 'Blue whales!... Sperrrm whales!... THE WHITE WHALE!'
'No... no, Diana! Wales! Welsh Wales! The country to the west of England.'
'Oh! Wales. I DO know Wales. Little grey houses... covered in roses... in the rain...'
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