Yesterday I bought a signed copy of Captain Corelli's Mandolin in the hope that at some point in the dim and distant future it may be worth more than the £7.99 I just paid for it. It's a future modern classic, you know.
There was a little smidgen (did I just make that word up?) of disappointment when I learned that Louis De Bernieres has a fairly lifeless signature. Given the levels imagination and creativity oozing out of his novels, I expected something a little more... literary. Great floral swirls and diving swoops of ink next time, please, Louis. Those book collectors of the future will want something impressive for their money.
Who am I to talk? My straight forward signature is as dull as it comes. First name and last name neatly (or not so neatly, depending on how the mood takes me) written in my normal, every day handwriting. For some people signing their name is like scrawling a (very short) symphony; for me it's like... writing. My name. No, I'll never be a doctor. Or famous. No celebrity flourishes for me.
Incidental aside: Corelli only has one "R". Just thought you'd like to know.
Back to the plot, Salman Rushie will be available to sign a book for me in a couple of weeks, should I feel so inclined to go and visit him in the great shrine of bookness known as Borders. I'll have to check my diary; I may be too busy practising writing my name.
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