About a month ago I took my daily walk in Boston and ended up in my favorite used book store, where I admired a book with a beautiful red leather binding embossed with gold leaf. It was The Short Stories of Dorothy Parker. I had under my arm two books that I absolutely needed, and the price of $30 was more than I was willing to leave behind. I don't mean it was unfair; it was a tremendous bargain for so fine a volume. I am a fan of Dorothy Parker's poetry, but I had never read her prose, so I decided that I'd get it from the library instead.
The Plymouth library didn't have it, but I requested it on interlibrary loan. The other day I picked it up, and the librarian remarked that not many people these days know who Dorothy Parker is. The book is an old Modern Library edition and there is a Post-It inside the cover noting that it was received in Plymouth with a broken binding. I can't help comparing it with that red leather edition, which had the stiffness of a book that has been displayed, but never read. I don't mind the tattered condition. I come behind a long line of readers and I don't mind being in their company.
Just now I opened it. The first sentence of the first story reads; "The woman with the pink velvet poppies twined round the assisted gold of her hair traversed the crowded room at an interesting gate that combined a skip with a sidle, and clutched the lean arm of her host." I read it with enormous pleasure, as though I'm beginning a delightful journey with a friend.
