Book Joy
My boss and I walked downtown to the independent bookseller at lunch today. It's not a mystery bookstore but the mystery department is well-stocked, and with an emphasis on the things I love--Conan Doyle, Chandler, Hammett, etc. I found probably a dozen books I wanted between the mystery section, two Margaret Atwood books that are on my list of must-reads, and a few others.
I got one.
I've bought a dozen books before. At one of the chain booksellers where I got a discount for buying so many and probably got one or more free. I sat them in a stack by my couch and went through the pile and didn't have to buy another book for three months, at least.
But from an independent bookstore, with nooks and crannies and hidden caches of books out of print of otherwise obscure, half the joy is finding the book, remembering where it came from, what kind of day it was outside, taking it home and wallowing it in for as long as I can justify my inertia.
The other half of the joy is going back.
I got one.
I've bought a dozen books before. At one of the chain booksellers where I got a discount for buying so many and probably got one or more free. I sat them in a stack by my couch and went through the pile and didn't have to buy another book for three months, at least.
But from an independent bookstore, with nooks and crannies and hidden caches of books out of print of otherwise obscure, half the joy is finding the book, remembering where it came from, what kind of day it was outside, taking it home and wallowing it in for as long as I can justify my inertia.
The other half of the joy is going back.