Shopping

Yesterday––great weather. I went for a walk. The library was having a book sale, and I stopped in for what turned out to be the better part of an hour. Twice a year, for a weekend, they fill up the "community room" with tables covered with used hardcovers and paperbacks, and books are no more than a dollar.

Used book sales are a dilemma for me, moreso as I grow older. The trade-off between the pleasure of acquiring the books and then the burden of incorporating them into my already overflowing bookshelves–-along with the sad reality that I read so much less than someone who claims to love books might be expected to read––is a deterrent. Nevertheless, I like to look at books, be around books, think about reading books, think about writing books. . .so a book sale is still an attraction.

I browsed. I considered. I registered some mild despair. . . contemplating all the effort, all the thoughts, all those words waiting there, in a sort of Sleeping Beauty–state, waiting for some enchanted kiss–– someone to choose them, bring them home, open the covers, take them in, roll them around in their heads for a while, before shutting them back up on a shelf for more silent eons.

Too much anthropomorphizing. It's not the words I pitied, I guess, it's the writers who put so much blood, sweat, and tears into producing them. And OK, it's probably not "the writers" I'm pitying, but me.  Would it be worth MY blood, sweat, and tears––if I could ever be bothered to actually squirt them out (eww)––to finally manage to write something and have it published*,  when there are already ALL these volumes on all these sale tables, and in all these local libraries, not to mention the NYPL, Widener, and the Library of Congress?

But let's not blow things out of proportion. This is just a shopping story.

As luck would have it, I came across a nice Everyman's Library volume of Emerson's essays!

Serendipity! Coincidence! But, no. Remembering Her wisdom--there are no coincidences––I knew I had to buy it because, glory be, this might be a sign, telling me this is to be The Summer of Emerson.

The book would be $1 and all I had was a twenty. I saw the disappointment in the face of the volunteer cashier, so I told her I'd look around for some more, so she wouldn't have to make change. I spent another half hour, considering carefully, picking up, putting down. Eventually I settled on enough books to run up a tally of $5. Here is what I got:

He's a good writer. I wanted to read this. Sorry, you can't click to look inside here.

I recently read Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea and found it surprisingly relevant. Also, check out the subtitle. Duh.

A recommended author. This copy is clean and unread. Sorry again; no clickie.

A memoir. Are you sensing a theme? 

And another little gem, which will find a home in Brooklyn. 

That was yesterday's story. I'll save today's story for tomorrow.
Gotta pace myself.

* I know, I know, I know.