In I Can't Remember the Title But the Cover is Blue, Sydney, Australian bookseller Elias Greig tells stories of customer service in a bookshop, where most of the customers are weird.

Here's one example:

Freckly lady in a rope necklace marches up to counter, pushes up her sunglasses, looks furious.

Me: *cautiously* Morning –how can I help?

Frecklefury: Do you have a copy of The Secret River by Kate Grenville? 

Me: We should do –let me check … Yep, we do –

Frecklefury: *tight jawed* Good! I’ve got someone in mind for it. 

Me: *fetches it from the shelf* Who are you giving it to?

Frecklefury: *with feeling* A Racist! 

Me: *blinking* Oh! Awesome! Want me to gift wrap it?

Frecklefury: Would you? That’d be great. 

Me: *wrapping* So … how do you think this person will react to the book?

Frecklefury: *snarling* I don’t give a sh-t! *pauses; narrows eyes* I hope the bitch cries.

The Secret River is Australian Historical Guilt Porn about the conflict between white people and Australian Aborigines in the 19th century. What's wrong with Aborigines is not the fault of whites, either then or now, but what this illustrates is not about Aborigines, but the conflict between Australian Goodwhites and BadWhites.

Somewhere in Darien, Connecticut, there's a white woman buying one of Ta-Nehisi Coates's books with exactly the same "I hope the bitch cries" attitude. It's hate literature, but if it hates white people, it wins prizes.