Book Sale

It’s an overcast Saturday afternoon in January, and I’ve been lying on the living room sofa finishing Book of Days by Emily Fox Gordon.  It’s a volume of personal essays, which I like to both read and write.  The blurb on the front cover says Gordon has the ability to strip herself bare.  She’s got that over me, which is probably why her work appears in paperback for $15 USA $17.50 Canada.  I doubt any of you would like to see me strip myself bare in any sense of the phrase. 

It’s not the striptease that kept me reading to the last page.  In one essay Gordon describes her various bouts of psychotherapy, and I get the feeling that, for her, essay writing is a continuation of the analytic process.  She has developed the skill of revealing intimate thoughts, and now instead of paying for the privilege she receives royalties.  I stayed with her because she writes a dandy paragraph, which is an ability I admire. 

I wanted to finish reading the book to make way for the contents of a box I brought from the Plymouth Public Library book sale this morning.  As volunteers, Annette and I arrived at the library at 7:45 and went in the employees’ entrance in the rear.  The early hours of the sale is infested with book dealers, who pound down the corridor when the doors are opened and begin snatching books from the tables as fast as they can. 

They come equipped for the job.  Some have sturdy plastic boxes in which to gather their loot.  Many carry scanners so they can read the barcodes on the books and gather information about their desirability.  In minutes they clean the tables of everything that has resale value. I don’t consider it an appealing sight. 

Of course as a perk for my labor, I’d gathered some books before the sale began.  My interests aren’t commercial, and I passed up many items I knew the dealers would skim on the first pass.  There was giant book of historic maps.  I like maps of all kinds, and the reproductions were beautiful, but where would I put it?  It was a coffee table book, and when I’ve finished my breakfast, I repair to the living room and use the coffee table to hold my coffee. 

There was a slick book of erotic art, but I was embarrassed to leaf through it, and I don’t know where I’d keep that either.  I did get a handsome Moby Dick, which I didn’t need. I already have Moby Dick in the Modern Library edition I bought when I first read it in college, and I don’t want to get rid of it because of the Rockwell Kent illustrations.  But this new one was too fine to leave to the book dealers, and I decided I’d keep it in my bedside bookcase where I could dip into it from time to time. Melville writes even better paragraphs than Emily Fox Gordon. 

When the feeding frenzy died down, I chatted with one of the dealers.  He was complaining that some libraries are limiting purchases to fifty books and some don’t allow scanners.  I said I preferred to put books directly into the hands of readers.  He replied that all these books would eventually find readers, whether they bought them in used book stores or from EBay. This, he said, is the American way.  I suppose he’s right; the marketplace isn’t always pretty, but it supports us all. 

I paid for my purchases and brought them home to be enjoyed by me and my family.  Annette got a couple of cookbooks, and I got a copy of Black Beauty for my granddaughter who’s too young for it now, but will grow into it. When I finished Book of Days I started another book of essays – Through the Children’s Gate by Adam Gopnik. The light is fading on my Saturday afternoon, and I have a lot of pleasure ahead before I sleep.