Chris Applegate shows several shelves of Tragic Life Stories in W. H. Smith in Chancery Lane.
The titles vary from the enigmatic – “Alone”, “Damaged” – to the downright exploitative – “Please Daddy, No”, “Ma, He Sold Me For a Few Cigarettes”. Regardless of how suggestive they are, they are all deliberate so. Incidentally, while most are autobiographies, one person, Torey Hayden (third shelf), seems to do a remarkable trade, making a living telling a series of accounts about other people’s blighted childhoods.
I seem to have missed out on reading these – I couldn’t manage Angela’s Ashes, and that even predated Dave Pelzer. But on the other hand I am attracted to books on mountain climbing accidents and ballet dancers – the couch potato’s relaxation?
Found via a comment under Ben Hammersley’s article on what has changed in London in the past five years.
Yeah, I did a blog on this the other day too – I was appalled at the number of titles on display at my local W H Smith. Go take a look – my picture shows more than twice as many as yours does. Sad, isn’t it?
Good grief – they seem to be multiplying. And I don’t think I’ve read one yet. Never got past the first page of Angela’s Ashes.
Angela’s Ashes is one of the best books of all time.
Clearly trying to flick the ash into the missing flower trays – and producing ash rain to rival major industrial centres.
So it’s not just the whopping great glass shopping palace that tries to bring big city flair to your sedate town centre.
I was wondering if I’d like to lean over and put a window box in those holders. Could be dangerous.