strangereality159

For a couple of weeks I have been teaching myself (X)HTML and CSS, for reasons suitably strange, and I spent most of Saturday trying to position a blue quote-box exactly where I want it – slightly offset from some text but cheekily jutting in just enough to possibly qualify as being stylish – and then tweaking things so that the effect was replicated across all three major browsers, which took up 90% of the total time I spent on it. That time was approximately ten hours. Why can't the browser-makers just simply get their joint act together? The remaining 10% of the time was occupied largely by swapping between various shades of blue until I found the one that not only looked right but felt right. In the end I settled for powdered blue, the sky blue seeming too wishy-washy, and the various types of navy blue too stern. When it was all over it was 4 a.m., and I realised that I had done nothing else all day.

This made me feel guilty, although of what I have no idea. Wasting time? Time spent learning something is never wasted. Perhaps I was concerned that my other goals – my main goals – had been carelessly neglected. In any case, the principles of my philosophy absolve the individual of any responsibility for his actions and excuse him from having any kind of duty to himself or to the world. It's one of the reasons why I like my philosophy so much. But I couldn't shrug off an awful, crawling feeling of unease about having spent all day fussing over colons and brackets and child elements and RGB values and the like.

I picked up a book from my shelf, almost at random. A book would sort me out. A few pages, possibly even a few chapters, and I would be able to look myself in the figurative eye again. The book I picked up was The Diaries of Franz Kafka, a paperback that I acquired a decade ago and have never fully read. I have read chunks of it at various times, enjoying such entries as:

June 19, slept, woke, slept, woke, miserable life.

But it has never detained me for very long; I have never felt compelled to read it cover-to-cover, like a novel. I have certain problems with Kafka's writing that I won't fully go into here. Only Metamorphosis and some of his short stories leave me feeling fully satisfied. His big 3 novels - The Trial, The Castle, America – strike me as being overrated.

The Diaries sit between the two poles of my personal taste. I can enjoy their strangeness, the relish with which Kafka can take an incidental occurrence such as noticing the peculiar fold of a fellow commuter's coat-sleeve as they both stand at the exit of a Prague tram, waiting to alight - he can write ten pages about the fold of a sleeve, packing in all the horror and glory of existence, and then transcending the state. But as great as all of that stuff is, I find myself curiously bored of reading about it after a short while - which does not bode well, really, seeing as how I write much the same kind thing a lot of the time.

The story of how I acquired the book, The Diaries Of Franz Kafka, is an interesting one all by itself. Although I would not describe this story as Kafkaesque (what an overused, and misused, word that is), it is a story that might not be out of place in the Diaries.

It was the mid-1990s. I was in town, looking for books. I was a fevered book-hunter in those days, always in and out of the High St chains, always popping into the Bargain Bookshop chains that were just appearing, and on familiar nodding terms with all of the second-hand bookdealers in their little shops that never had any other customers inside them.

One day I went into Waterstones, which had a section upstairs in the corner where they frequently sold off damaged or remaindered stock. I approached the shelves and saw The Diaries Of Franz Kafka sitting on the top shelf, facing out – Kafka's wan visage gazing into space – and I actually stopped dead. I was still a few yards away from the shelves. There were the usual three-or-so bystanders gathered at the shelves, looking for bargains. I stopped walking and just stood there, looking. I had been after that book for months. I had not been able to find it anywhere. And now here it was, offered up to me by a friendly cosmos, with a bargain sticker on the front as well. £5.00! I was about to acquire one of the greatest books in the world for £5.00.

I stepped forward – and one of the bystanders picked up the book. It was a young bloke in a denim jacket; he looked as if he was a student. He was suddenly just there, in front of me. He picked up Kafka's Diaries and started riffling the pages, reading the blurb on the back, staring at the cover (and those eyes) for several long seconds, and worst of all, getting out his wallet to count his money.

I stood beside the young bloke in the denim jacket and picked up another book at random. I opened it as I watched him in my peripheral vision. He was going to take Kafka's Diaries away from literally right under my nose.

A tense minute or two passed. I did a good job of playing the role of casual browser, standing there next to the denim-jacketed student. After flicking through the random book to my fill, I replaced it on the shelf and picked up another, all the while not failing to be microscopically aware of the young bloke's every movement. There was hope for me – there was hope that he would not walk away with the book. He was alternately staring at the pricing sticker on the front cover – just £5, it really was – and contemplating his wallet. He even delved into his jeans pocket and brought out a load of coins, which he further examined there in his palm. This raised my spirits considerably. If he was going to these lengths to make up his mind about whether he could afford this rare copy of Kafka's Diaries, then I judged the chances to be good that he would put the book back on the shelf and simply walk away. Leaving me to take the prize.

Another thirty seconds. It seemed that he had decided to buy the book, and forgo whatever else it was he had planned for the cash. £5 is not an inconsiderable sum to a student – as the young bloke presumably was – at any time. In the mid-1990s, it was even more so.

He replaced the coins and wallet back in his pocket. My hopes soared. Then he did something unusual. With the Diaries still in his left hand, with his right hand he reached forward and pulled several other books from one of the shelves. He put the Diaries into the space he had created, then he put the other books back in front of it, concealing the Diaries from view. He adjusted the covering books' positions, ensuring that they were fully hiding the volume. When he was satisfied that the book was hidden well enough for him to come back and get it at a later time – maybe later today, maybe tomorrow – he turned, and walked away.

I was still holding a book about cartography or something, feigning deep interest in it and disinterest in my surroundings. When he had gone away, around a corner, I moved fast. There was no telling when he would return. I moved the screening books out of the way and picked up my copy of The Diaries of Franz Kafka. I replaced the other books more or less as they had been, so it would buy me some time, precious seconds, should the other fellow return quicker than would be convenient. (Even if he did come back and catch me, what could he do? Nothing. But I wanted to cover my behind anyway.) I took the book to the counter and handed over a £5 note. The assistant placed the book along with my receipt in a nice black Waterstones bag with gold lettering, and I turned, heading for the stairs.

The young bloke in the denim jacket was coming back up the stairs, with a purposeful expression on his face. I knew instantly that he had got as far as the street and then decided to come back for the book. I looked into his eyes as I passed him at the top of the staircase. He looked briefly into mine, then was past. I went down the stairs and out of the bookstore, imagining the scene now playing out behind me, imagining him pulling out the books and finding nothing behind them, and slowly understanding what had happened; or possibly not understanding, and pulling out every book on all of the shelves, and mistakenly interpreting the whole thing as being Kafkaesque.