Ah, how I love second-hand bookstores. I was recently in Delhi’s Nehru Place, a sort of collective market for electronic goods. All the roadside vendors sell cheap goods from China — battery-operated speakers and the like. Amidst all this, I stopped to browse at a pavement book stall, because I can’t just pass one without stopping. To my amazement, as I was browsing, the owner came up to me, and in perfect English, asked me what kind of stuff I was interested in.
He pointed out the “serious” section, in the direction of Sartre and Ibsen. In fact, I got better service at that pavement stall than I have experienced in any other major bookstore. And the fun of it was that it was a second-hand stall, so you never knew what you were stumbling across.
After I bought my book, he handed me a small hardcover book. “Take this as a present,” he said. It was the improbably named Teach Yourself Swimming, and I found that title so funny, that someone could teach themselves swimming through a book, that I delightedly accepted.
Published in 1953, my edition is dated 1958, and is one of a long line of Teach Yourself books. The other titles include Conjuring, Amateur Acting, Ballroom (Modern) Dancing and even, Mountain Climbing. I guess if you don’t already know how to swim, this might be a useful guide, but as I do, I’m just going to remark on the chapters.
‘Home Preparation’, says a subhead, which goes on to say swimming at home will be very useful if you ever want to go into a pool. “I know personally,” says the author, “of at least one case when a boy of 12 years of age, who had never been in a swimming pool before, spent three winter months learning the various ‘land drills’ in a school gymnasium at odd times. Then, when the pool was opened in May, he walked straight down the steps into the water and proceeded to swim a width!” Remarkable. Might I also add not to try this at home?
But this little book is charming, with illustrations of various kinds of strokes, including a diagram about how to prepare yourself by lying in a tub of water in your bathing suit and submerging your head. Old books offer so much pleasure, especially if they’re quaint and kitsch like this one is.
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