If the library post wasn't enough of a tip off, I have a problem with books. I like them too much. Bookstores make me weak in the knees. All sense is abandoned the moment I enter one. I buy books the way fashion victims buy ugly clothes. I like to think that my books are more meaningful than a polyester bubble skirt, but this is small consolation.
Compounding the problem is the bookshelf dilemma of which I've already spoken. I simply do not have the space to store books.
One might hope that, under the circumstances, I'd take appropriate precautions to avoid exacerbating either situation. And normally it's not hard. I don't live near any book stores. There are a few near work but they're not close enough to pose any real threat. I always forget they exist. Since I've moved here, my main monetary temptation has been not books at all, but the consignment shop that set itself down between my apartment and my bus stop.
However, today it all went wrong. I went to a book sale. And not just any book sale. It was The Big Book Sale, held annually in a gigantic warehouse by Fisherman's Wharf. The posters advertised upwards of 300,000 books to be sold. It was a three day sale and today was the last day, so all the books were less than $1.
The proprietors are smart. They don't mess around with baskets or bags for their patrons. You walk in and deck yourself out with a shopping cart. I suppose there's some sense in that. The warehouse was twice the size of my local grocery store. And the products were cheaper.
Having optimistically foregone even a backpack for transporting these suckers home, I tried to limit myself. I attempted a bit of triage. But the problem is simply that if you shove a book in my hands, almost any book, and ask me if I'd buy it for a dollar, the answer is probably yes. My friend J found this out today as she started shoving books into my arms which I absolutely had to read. She was forgiven for this; they look like good books, and she brought a car and was willing to drive me home.
I learned today that I do some strange things when books are available on the cheap. I've discovered that I am capable of homesick book acquisition syndrome: I buy books because they were in my parents' house. I offer up the following for your consideration:
The New York Times Cook Book - Having been an avid Times reader for quite some time, I am quite confident that the recipes contained herein are wonderful. I'm sure they're full of merit and no doubt will bring me much pleasure should I ever try to execute one. However, I have absolutely no idea what's in this book. I didn't even crack it open before I bought it. It landed in the cart because for as long as I can remember, it has occupied a coveted spot next to The Joy of Cooking in my parents' house. That spot is desirable not for its company but for the fact that it is in the kitchen, ready to be whipped out at a moment's notice if needed. My parents have plenty of cookbooks, and most of them sit pristine in the living room waiting to intimidate less culinarily inclined guests, 2 rooms away. I would suspect a certain quiet smugness on the part of my parents for this except that our neighbors all cook excellently as well (they have a club expressly for this purpose) and while three books of Indian cooking technique might bring terror to the hearts of mere mortals, the members of the Stonehenge Gourmet are not so easily unnerved*.
The New New Thing - This has been consistently lying around our house for the last few years. Or months. Whatever. It was published recently, and I know my dad has been talking about it to other people. I don't remember what my dad says about the book, or to whom he says it, but if it starts that many conversations, it's worth a read. My dad likes to read current writing on various industries of interest to him, such as the news industry or the tech sector. More often than not, our living room coffee tables** are covered with volumes delving into anything from the history of cryptography and code breaking to the study of internet search.
Martha Stewart's Christmas - Let it be noted that this book was published in 1989, well before Ms. Stewart became the embodiment of vilified perfection she is today (though I believe, even then, she was publicly hated and privately envied for her disgustingly perfect homemaking). For quite some time, this book also basked in limelight above the microwave. I think it has been relegated to the dark cabinets in the study with the cookie cutters, but it is reliably reintroduced to the glory of the kitchen every Christmas for The Great Gingerbread Event (which deserves its own post, so look for that closer to the holidays). I was quite excited to find it and I was gaily reliving many past Christmases as I showed J the Gingerbread House To End All Gingerbread Houses with the gold leafed roof. A woman next to me overheard this conversation and promptly started in with the typical Martha comments: "She probably mined the gold herself." etc. Ms. Stewart would be quite disappointed I'm sure, to hear that this woman was unaware that there is, in fact, more than one cook book by Martha Stewart. For though there were no others at the book sale, I know that in our house, the gingerbread undertaking requires not just Martha Stewart's Christmas, but Martha Stewart's Pies & Tarts as well. For whatever reason, the gingerbread formulas in each are different, and over the years my mom has added various footnotes and post-its with to both with invaluable information. So the yearly gingerbread ritual begins with the Retrieval Of The Recipes, followed immediately by the Deciphering Of The Margin Notes, occasionally accompanied by the Scraping Off Of The Old Gingerbread Dough, and finally the Argument About Which Recipe To Use. I think my mom actually has a set favorite, but I can never remember which one it is.
The photos above represent my haul. They also represent $31. So from a monetary perspective, I did more than alright. I just don't know where I'm going to put them.
*I had great hopes and dreams for the end of that sentence, but their realization relied on the presence of another book: The Smart People's Thesaurus. I discovered it hidden away on my bookshelves as I was packing to move. It was a gift to me years ago, and I had foolishly forgotten about it, instead spending many frustrated hours in the following years paging through other less exalted sources of synonyms. Its rediscovery a few months ago led to great rejoicing on my part and a fearsome vow to never let this unparalleled volume go neglected again. Well, now I can't find it. It's here somewhere because I remember packing it, but it must be in hiding to spite me.
**Yes, coffee tableS, plural. And they're all covered in books. Not coffee table books, but meaty, intelligent pieces of writing that will make you smarter for having read them. And that doesn't begin to address the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that cover one wall. I think the ceiling is twenty feet. The shelves aren't quite that high, but they're close. And there are plenty of overstuffed pieces of furniture and a working fireplace. I miss the living room.
