Nick Hornby's 1995 novel High Fidelity:
"I had a terrific time," says Marie afterwards. "I didn't think it would work, but it did. And we all made money! That always makes me feel good."
I don't feel good, not now that it's all over. For an afternoon I was working in a place that other people wanted to come to, and that made a difference to me -- I felt, I felt, I felt, go on say it, more of a man, a feeling both shocking and comforting.
Men don't work in quiet, deserted side streets in Holloway: they work in the City or the West End, or in factories, or down mines, or in stations or airports or offices. They work in places where other people work, and they have to fight to get there, and perhaps as a consequence they do not get the feeling that real life is going on elsewhere. I don't even feel as if I'm the center of my own world, so how am I supposed to feel as though I'm the center of anyone else's? When the last person has been ushered out of this place, and I lock the door behind him, I suddenly feel panicky. I know I'm going to have to do something about the shop -- let it go, burn it down, whatever -- and find myself a career.
Tags: Nick Hornby, High Fidelity