Pulp Fiction

Posted on March 12 2016, by Gladys Breckenridge

It's raining today, so I spent most of the afternoon in the lodge library. It's not a big room, about 20 ft by 20 ft. There are floor to ceiling shelves on three walls, and a great stone fireplace on the fourth. The floor is covered with a bear skin, there are three overstuffed chairs in the corners, and Whitney keeps a small fire going most evenings. The book-lined walls and the thick pine door, make the room almost soundproof. Understandably, the staff and guests often escape into here when the good cheer becomes a little too boisterous in the main hall.

There is a surprising variety of books, both high brow and low. The railroad baron Bartholomew Noble, who build the lodge, had a wide range of tastes. And after him, decades of guests and staff filled the shelves with every type of book you could imagine. There is one shelf in particular, I find very amusing. It is a fine collection of the trashiest pulp fiction novels I have ever seen. Presumably they arrived here in the suitcase of one of the lodge's guests in the 1940s. Every cover is a trashy and camp work of art. Here are some of my favourite. (And I assure, their contents are just as lurid and sexist as their covers!)




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