The Republic of Letters on St Leonards Seafront
Explored by NICHOLAS VESTER
It’s no secret Hastings is a friendly place. Eccentric too… maybe a bit literary as well. On balmy days when the gales we usually endure have moderated to zephyrs, the readers of Hastings and St Leonards come out in ones and twos to indulge their inclination in the sun.
Between the Royal Victoria and Goat Ledge, half a mile of wooden benches in alcoves under the promenade provide agreeable shelter: south-facing, sunny and looking over the channel. In the right weather, they are genial places, and often book lovers can be found there, intent and immersed despite breeze-ruffled pages.
They are not always escaping into fiction: three that I’ve talked to were reading philosophy, and one was studying German grammar. Most, however, choose fiction. I am obsessively curious about people reading books in public. There is a feeling of kinship – I am a reader too. Also, whether people like it or not, reading a book in a public place is a statement of identity: that the reader is a citizen of the Republic of Letters. On the London tube I long to ask readers what they read, but underground etiquette seems not to permit it. Hastings seafront is quite different.
So, one fine day, throwing English reserve to the winds, I prepared a speech of unthreatening politeness and approached a gentleman on the seafront (I’m an old man and can get away easier with eccentricities more problematic for the young): “Excuse me, sir, please forgive me for disturbing you, but I am always very curious about people reading in public; would you mind my asking what you are reading?” I was relieved and pleased that he seemed delighted to share.
For the fourth time
He was the first of many. Since then I’ve asked maybe forty people, maybe more, and all but one have been surprisingly forthcoming. Nearly all are enthusiastic about their reading matter, and actually the best thing about the whole experience has been the warmth of the response to my intrusion. The single exception was a young woman who looked a bit bored by my enquiry – but it turned out she was equally bored by her book: “It passes the time,” she said wearily. No one has been even mildly resentful, let alone hostile, and many have been up for a long conversation.
Although these can be fascinating, I stand ready to leave at any hint that I may have overstayed my welcome, or before; and sometimes too soon, when a promising conversation is already taking shape.
Though of course, not everyone is equally interesting. There are very few, just one or two, with whom I just can’t anticipate a fruitful conversation at all; I thank them and flee after the first sentence or two. There are others whose conversation I enjoy but I suspect that our common ground may run out if it’s prolonged, so I leave them while the going is still good.
I guess I’m a bit of a literary snob, so it gives me pleasure that few seafront readers are reading anything that I wouldn’t enjoy myself. Even from my perhaps over-critical perspective, the standard of literature on the seafront seems pretty creditable. I never kept a list, but the mean is popular literary fiction, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, for instance. From memory, there has also been, The Worst Journey in the World, Apsley Cherry-Garrard’s account of Captain Scott’s Polar Expedition; short stories by Dorothy Parker and a book by Alan Bennett. One lady reads and re-reads Jack Reacher books, and another escapes reality with Philip Pullman. A couple reading detective fiction seemed slightly embarrassed by it (though they had nothing to be embarrassed about in my opinion); but, curiously, they were not as embarrassed as the single person I have found reading a nineteenth century classic (it was one of Anthony Trollope’s novels, but I can’t remember which). One reader disclosed that he was an avant garde novelist, but he wasn’t reading an avant garde novel himself, and I can’t blame him.
The most surprising thing has been the casual, matter-of-fact intimacy of some of the conversations that have ensued. Inevitably, the primary subject has been books, but one’s response to some can be very personal, and even close to the heart, touching on experience, hopes and disappointments. On one occasion, I dissected the character of my maternal grandfather for the benefit of a heavily tattooed gay Irishman. There is a very pleasant young woman who regularly reads during her lunch break, with whom I look forward to further discussion of the supernatural and visiting Auschwitz. A homeless man who sits cross-legged on the pavement near Sturdee Place reads novels about Nelson’s navy and is passionate about history; and there is another homeless gentleman who is driven to read thrillers almost fanatically, as an anaesthetic against, or distraction from, the demons in his head. If he doesn’t read, he says, he does drugs, and that can lead to worse. Never, normally, would I ask a perfect stranger if she was queer (it’s just not my style) but I did that just last week. And the lady in question was happy to discuss her sexuality with me.
A very curious thing is that about one in four or five readers thanks me at the end of our conversation. What for? For intruding into their space and disturbing their peaceful study? It seems courtesy overkill. Good manners are a wonderful thing, and I feel a little humbled by it. But I am still puzzled.
I try to walk a few miles every day to postpone the grimmer aspects of ageing. The readers of the Hastings seafront make my walks interesting and enjoyable. I should thank them. If any read this, I do.
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What a lovely little read this was. And they thank you for your conversation and interest. There’s not too much of either on offer, most of the time.
Nick, I still have a book of yours if I have the right Nick Vester. How many can there be?The scum of the Earth’. I would love to get hit back to you one day. All the best Sam of forge days.
Hello Sam, I thought you had gone to live in the Noerh Pole. Where are you? And how come you read this? Would be good to see you
Nick
I read Koestler 32 years ago when you lent it to me and just before I moved to the North Pole! Sorry I never got it back to you.I’m still blacksmithing and have a forge in Sheffield. It would be good to catch up, may be in London one day.
All the best Sam
It would be good to see you Sam, but what are you doing reading HIP in Sheffield?