SIGN OF THE TIMES

Though we’re all guilty of buying useless material goods, Alexander McCall Smith believes one can never have too many books – and the barmier the better

Alexander McCall Smith's advice is that if in doubt you should always buy the book

Buyer’s remorse is something we all feel from time to time. The incidence of this very particular form of guilt – or self-reproach, perhaps – spikes sharply at the beginning of the year. That is when salesmen prod your material appetites once more, these appetites having been shamelessly encouraged during December (although in this context the word December is a broad one, encompassing October and November, such is the effect of Christmas-creep). So prices are lowered, the word ‘sale’ is plastered everywhere, and the stage is set for an epidemic of buyer’s regret. Wherever you go, you see it: drawn faces, downcast looks, furtive concealment of wrapping paper. Buyer’s remorse.

But there is one purchase that very rarely triggers buyer’s remorse – a book. The book is the one thing you should always buy if you have the slightest inclination to do so. More than that, if you feel a bout of retail therapy is what you need to lift your spirits, then do not go and buy a new outfit or a new bicycle – such purchases will only result in buyer’s remorse – rather go and buy a book. Books are not expensive by comparison with other items, and their effect on the psyche is several times more beneficial than other things (let’s say 4.2 times more powerful). Admittedly there are occasions when you regret having bought the wrong book, but you do not regret having bought a book.

You will always regret having seen a book you want and not having bought it. That regret can last a long time. In extreme cases, it can haunt you. So always, always give in to the urge to buy a book. I do not always practise what I preach – hypocrisy gets a bad press, but there are circumstances when hypocrisy is justified. As Max Scheler, the German philosopher, once reminded us: signposts do not walk in the direction in which they point. It is better, though, to admit one’s failures. In my case, the omission to buy the book I should have bought occurred in Toronto, in a second-hand bookshop called Atticus Books, now closed, but up until a few years ago a place of pilgrimage for bibliophiles.

Browsing through the linguistics section, I came across an irresistible 600-page tome edited by Jean Umiker-Sebeok and Thomas A. Sebeok (yes, them), entitled Monastic Sign Languages. Sebeok was a leading semiotician known for questioning the theory that chimpanzees and other apes could be taught real sign language. All they might acquire from their trainers, he said, was a relatively unsophisticated signal system. This, he argued, was not language. Moreover, they could not pass this signal system to their offspring – an important criterion of a language.

Monks are a different matter, though: they clearly can be taught sign language, and this might be rather important in the case of monastic orders observing a rule of silence. I took Monastic Sign Language off the shelf and marvelled at it. In this book the Sebeoks had gathered some of the most important articles on the systems of sign language used in monastic orders. There was Clelia Hutt’s paper on Trappist gestures; Paulus Volk’s classic De Silencio, and Mario Martins’ Livros de Sinais dos

Cistercienses Portugueses. But the major part of the volume was the magnificent Cistercian Sign Language by Robert A. Barakat.

Barakat tirelessly arranged photographs of hundreds of monastic hand signals across 250 pages devoted to his work. These photographs of real monks using the sign language show the full range of what can be communicated by a Cistercian. So, for example, a monk need not be at a loss of signs if he wishes to say: ‘Where is my typewriter?’ This is how the sign is described: ‘Hold hands in front of body with fingers loose, then move hands up and down as though typing.’ That seems reasonable enough. But what is the sign for wax? That seems less intuitive: ‘Place right forefinger sideways on mouth, then move the finger across the lips once more.’

I had to have that book. But when I looked at the price, I saw it was $125. That is a lot to pay for a book that one would not be using every day. So I reluctantly put it back, only to experience buyer’s remorse the moment I arrived back in Scotland. If only Monastic Sign Language were to be nestling amongst the shirts ready for the laundry. But sometimes buyer’s remorse for a non-purchase can be remedied. The following year I found myself in Toronto once again. Arriving at Atticus Books I went straight to the desk. This was an opportunity to have some innocent fun and to brighten the day of the man sitting behind the cash register.

‘You don’t happen to have a book on monastic sign language?’ I asked.

He looked at me in astonishment. ‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘we do.’

He returned a few minutes later with the Sebeok’s great treatise, and I bought it immediately. As I left, I imagined his picking up the phone and calling his boss. ‘You’ll never guess what happened. You know that book on monastic sign language we’ve had for 15 years? A customer has just been in, and you’ll never believe what he said to me!’

If we can give others a moment of pleasure, even by means of an innocent ruse, why not? As for buyer’s remorse, avoid it by buying fewer useless things and more books. There is no regret down that path: only enlightenment and consolation – for both of which terms, I can tell you, there is a monastic sign.

“There is one purchase that very rarely triggers buyer’s remorse