What's the easiest way to tell if a book's going to be good or bad? It may well be to take a peek at the cover. Contrary to the popular adage “don’t judge a book by its cover”, a lot of us do exactly this every time we pick up a new book. Therefore, this month, we wanted to challenge this supposed ancient wisdom by ignoring everything else we knew about a book and picking it purely on the merit of its cover.
Editor's Word :
I must admit that I am somewhat of a “book-cover snob”. Personally, I enjoy a book that looks travelled and well-thumbed. A frequenter of my local charity shops, there's nothing like finding a classic second-hand gem amongst the rough that is modern literature. Now, there's nothing intrinsically negative about modern literature; in fact, most of it is brilliant. This being said, the covers leave something to be desired. There’s no way to truly describe what I mean when I say a typical romance novel cover - but I'm sure you can conjure your own mental image without trouble. Any book that looks too jaunty, set with reflective gold panels and embossed text, is an easy and instant reject for me.
This being said, most readers would likely avoid a book with the appearance of a twice-used tea bag with frayed binding and illegible pencilled-in notes. Yet, this is an apt description of the book I had chosen for November's theme: For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway. The cover is adorned with a militant man armed with a carbine, wearing a leather jacket, crouching knees down in the sand. I had never read a war novel before, and therefore, I thought this must be a good introduction to the genre. I was right, the cover did not betray me, and I was pleased while reading the next 413 pages of standard-issue military literature.
What follows are the submissions from our Book Society members, a collection every bit as varied as the covers on our shelves. Some pieces align with this month’s theme, others wander off in unexpected directions, but each one reflects the enthusiasm of our society. Each Contribution has its own inspiration, its own voice, and its own story to tell.
Home
She wandered through the bookstore. The fiction section, calling out to her as always. The emotions came rushing back as she glanced at Khaled Hosseini’s ‘Thousand Splendid Suns’, wishing she could read it a thousand times over. Marjan Kamali’s ‘The Stationery Shop of Tehran’ screaming to be held in her hands. She did not hesitate. There they were, Colleen Hoover’s collection of love stories, sowing seeds of unrealistic romantic expectations in her heart. Better luck next time, Colleen! Oh, there she was, Agatha Christie with her witty Hercule Poirot. Enid Blyton’s ‘Famous Five’ and ‘Malory Towers’, a slice of her childhood right before her eyes. A little National Geographic won’t hurt surely! Next in line was Rumi. She read a page, then another, then another. What beauty exists in the world, the pages in her hands bearing evidence. Gulzar’s lyrics were waiting to belong to a dear one. The heavenly scent of archaic hardcovers wafted through the air as she meandered through the endless shelves. She could stay there all day. She wandered through the magical place she called home.
By Charvi Trivedi
The Lamb book review
Untouched by society, Margot and her mother share a cabin in a small corner of Cumbria. Warned to go unnoticed, she learns not to draw attention and keeps herself small. For society wouldn’t understand their way of living and the choices they make. When a stray appears at their door, they are lured in with a false sense of security and comfort. Unaware that they are going to be faced with Mama’s thirst for blood and flesh. A new stray knocks one day. They yearn for the same carnal desires which Mama is enslaved to. A romance blossoms, and Margot is forced to question everything.
‘A lamb’ delves into the complexity of mother-daughter relationships. Mama is in a constant struggle between unwavering love and resentment for her daughter. Margot is forced to reap the consequences of forced motherhood. The isolation from the world does nothing but strengthen her likeness to Mama. You see her in her thoughts, her actions, and her growing taste to consume others. Margot is a clear example of children becoming a product of their environment. This life is all she has ever known. A remote cabin hides her away, but she just wants to feel seen.
Only does Eden’s appearance let her see her situation clearly. Mama is full of uncontrolled desire; she takes what she wants from whoever she wants. She will stop at nothing to fill this endless hole of need. Her newfound relationship consumes her entirely and leads the plot in an unsavoury direction.
This book showcases love. All forms of it. Queerness. Acceptance. Raging desire. Hunger. And, albeit, lack of it.
3.5/5 Stars
By Lydia Eyre
Judge a Book by Its Cover: Quan Mills, 'This Hoe Got Roaches in Her Crib'
To judge a book by its cover in the literal sense would probably deter someone from ever reading this book; the pictures are stock images, and the man isn't that fit. It honestly just looks lazy and tacky. Additionally, you'd feel like the main crux of the book is a woman with roaches in her crib. Is that even worth reading about? I'm sure many uni students can probably relate to that title; they would probably feel like it hits too close to home to read it. However, when you look beyond the surface, the book is really a story about abuse and how poverty and substance abuse can destroy families in Chicago.
Now what's my point, you ask? Well, my point is I think it's quite smart to make a book look really silly and dumb so that people like me who want to read funny books will pick it up, but then we get a whole lesson on how people in the Chicago projects are forced to resort to drug dealing, stealing and prostitution to feed their families and their addictions. How children are neglected and abused at the hands of their "caregivers" and child services being so over-stretched and underfunded often leaves children in these horrible 'roach-infested' places, when really the roaches are the least of everyone's concerns.
I therefore urge you to read “This Hoe Got Roaches in Her Crib”. Be warned, it has many grammatical and spelling errors, but this just makes it more amusing.
By Angel BG
Fruitless Love
Spring rapidly blossoms and
Flirts with a new beginning.
An excited fuchsia hugs the new light
Blooming with life and optimism.
Summer matures the flower bed.
The wild fluorescent reds grew rampant.
The heat of partnership and purest passion
Flow intensely throughout the shortest of nights.
Autumn dawns and brings with it
Winter’s harsh, hurtful whispering winds.
Too soon has the season turned
Severing connections meant to ‘last forever’
Now in the winter the seed’s heart lies cold
Love is in nature’s hands, it's not ours to hold.
By Eilir McShane
Hummingbird
Crossed-legged. Quite still, with ears standing to attention
She could take me to her fields by forcing my mind to invention,
I could sit with her on saddle, surveying from horseback,
Hearing a rooster call echo onwards over Narbeth’s tracks
A vivid strike of green would accompany the sounds of ewes and rams
A great beauty she found in nature, unshaped by human hands
Yet one would be foolish to forget her competitive nature!
As she uttered politely, ‘My mince pies are the only ones with flavour’
With a knack for animals, a keen hand always in sport
She’d reminisce her past glory in the horses she had taught.
The smell of budding fuchsias always brings me to her side
As she leans down to take a clipping, a fascinated glitter in her eyes.
An eye for potential was most true, undying hope for the underdog, too!
She would nurture all which was growing, and root for me and you.
Always an air of kindness in her words, followed by consolation in pudding’s curds
A charm singing a tune to admire, shining ever bright as a hummingbird.
By Dean Tollinger
A House on Fire
Our love is like a house on fire my friend.
We get on like the blazing dusty books
I used to read and afterwards pretend
I was illumined, lord I was mistook.
Their words are burning brighter in my home
Once kindled by the flame that tears apart
And yet unites what rested there alone-
Illusions of a home without a heart.
Let it collapse while dazzling the night-
Since it was empty anyway before-
Into its true potential, warmth and light,
That fills the cold and dark with so much more.
I weigh not where I travel next or stay;
I’m only homeless if you go away.
By Phoenix Doubtfire
A Mirror
A mirror is not justice to the face,
Divining yet one’s eye as sober judge,
For in those eyes reside a tempered grace
That lovers find who do not hold a grudge.
This grudge we all must harbour to our own
To know that face in all its many warts
While in devotion’s gaze it’s newly shown
And guiltless in the young beholder’s courts.
Who’s closer to the facts I come to doubt
When claims my love to find me painted bold
Upon the glass, and see what I’m about
As I despise myself for growing old.
The bitter truth I treasure in my breast,
My soul on best behaviour for its guest.
By Phoenix Doubtfire
Final word
Thank you for joining us in reading and enjoying the submissions for our very first Book Society newsletter. We hope that the creative and thoughtful submissions have inspired, challenged, or brought you enjoyment.
We’ll return after the exam period in February with our next newsletter, ready to explore new themes and continue the conversation. Until then, read, write, and remember to send in your submissions!