Hmmm...
It is now well after five in the morning, and I am about to make my first post to LJ in a long, long while.
"But why," you may exclaim, "would you do that? Do you not know that five is quite late?"
"Of course!" I could reply. "But I've just fallen in love. With a book."
All today, and all yesterday, and even the far Saturday beyond that, I've been hurrying harried thither and yon, looking to purchase, procure or produce excellent gifts for everyone I love (a daunting task - there are many of you, and all so tough to shop for!).
Of course, one of the first places I looked was the used bookstore; it provides lovely gifts for cheap. I stayed well away from the influence of that dark behemoth, Barnes and Noble, as I knew that were I to enter I would leave destitute and with only half of my list accounted for. B&N is always left 'til last, so that I can pick up gifts for all the people I don't know what to give.
Today, I finally went to B&N, to check if they had a very particular book I'd heard tale of. The answer is no, no they didn't (and neither did B. Dalton's, the Dickson St. Bookstore or anywhere nearby, except perhaps Nightbird Books).
However, on the way back from the service counter I thought, "Hey. You know who's great and should know it? Fran Abbate."
Going to the Essays section, I lifted from the shelf a copy of Seven Nights, the essays of Borges, a favorite author of hers and mine.
Here, my dear reader, is where I fall into an inescapable trap, one designed for People Just Like Me, by the cunning men of B&N.
There on the shelf, in a paperback cover just two hues greener than seafoam, was a thin volume titled Ex Libris. From Books.
I lifted it off the shelf as well, perusing the back of the book to find that this volume was a collection of essays by Anne Fadiman, an editor and bibliophile professional. It was ten dollars, and many on my list of giftees are book lovers as well; it made sense to get the book, and wrap it up for someone I may have forgot.
Returning home, I began the process of wrapping presents. After eight or so had been tied up in tinsel and flash paper, I came to the books.
I refused, refused, to crack open the Borges, because I knew it would be the end of me to begin reading now. Likewise with the many others in the stack, each one trying my willpower. Finally I broke and read one - it was short. A second, shorter still. A casual meandering through a third, a look at the pictures of another. At last I came to Ex Libris. Here, I opened the cover, briefly, to read a page or two, get a feel of what book it was, and who ought to receive it.
Foolish, foolish me.
As you already know, I made a mistake. None of you are receiving this book. It is mine, and will be that way for quite a while, I think.
The book itself is about a woman's life, Fadiman's, who lays down her anecdotes with a straightforward approach to the feel of books that I haven't seen in an age. She assumes, right off the bat, that the people who would read Ex Libris are the kind of people who already have strong feelings about books. She knows her audience, because they are her, in some measure.
I have read the first two entries. After the first I knew that this book would have a place on my shelf for many, many years. After the second I had begun to guess that it might take frequent trips from home to visit the shelves of others, and make light conversation with them.
So, to the people who are still reading this solely because they love words, to the people who can relate to "once found herself poring over a 1974 Toyota Corolla manual because it was the only written material in the house she had not read at least twice," and to the lunatics who sort their books by nationality of writer, year of publication, subject matter and size: You already know this book. It will teach you nothing new, but it will give you a look at another woman who shares your affliction. You can use it to see the future, to find a friend or to learn more about your own disease. It is invaluable.
To you people: Go buy this book. By the time you're reading this, the stores are beginning to open. Amazon never closes. There is no excuse to avoid this thin, green volume, not for you.
I know, I know: tl;dr.
"But why," you may exclaim, "would you do that? Do you not know that five is quite late?"
"Of course!" I could reply. "But I've just fallen in love. With a book."
All today, and all yesterday, and even the far Saturday beyond that, I've been hurrying harried thither and yon, looking to purchase, procure or produce excellent gifts for everyone I love (a daunting task - there are many of you, and all so tough to shop for!).
Of course, one of the first places I looked was the used bookstore; it provides lovely gifts for cheap. I stayed well away from the influence of that dark behemoth, Barnes and Noble, as I knew that were I to enter I would leave destitute and with only half of my list accounted for. B&N is always left 'til last, so that I can pick up gifts for all the people I don't know what to give.
Today, I finally went to B&N, to check if they had a very particular book I'd heard tale of. The answer is no, no they didn't (and neither did B. Dalton's, the Dickson St. Bookstore or anywhere nearby, except perhaps Nightbird Books).
However, on the way back from the service counter I thought, "Hey. You know who's great and should know it? Fran Abbate."
Going to the Essays section, I lifted from the shelf a copy of Seven Nights, the essays of Borges, a favorite author of hers and mine.
Here, my dear reader, is where I fall into an inescapable trap, one designed for People Just Like Me, by the cunning men of B&N.
There on the shelf, in a paperback cover just two hues greener than seafoam, was a thin volume titled Ex Libris. From Books.
I lifted it off the shelf as well, perusing the back of the book to find that this volume was a collection of essays by Anne Fadiman, an editor and bibliophile professional. It was ten dollars, and many on my list of giftees are book lovers as well; it made sense to get the book, and wrap it up for someone I may have forgot.
Returning home, I began the process of wrapping presents. After eight or so had been tied up in tinsel and flash paper, I came to the books.
I refused, refused, to crack open the Borges, because I knew it would be the end of me to begin reading now. Likewise with the many others in the stack, each one trying my willpower. Finally I broke and read one - it was short. A second, shorter still. A casual meandering through a third, a look at the pictures of another. At last I came to Ex Libris. Here, I opened the cover, briefly, to read a page or two, get a feel of what book it was, and who ought to receive it.
Foolish, foolish me.
As you already know, I made a mistake. None of you are receiving this book. It is mine, and will be that way for quite a while, I think.
The book itself is about a woman's life, Fadiman's, who lays down her anecdotes with a straightforward approach to the feel of books that I haven't seen in an age. She assumes, right off the bat, that the people who would read Ex Libris are the kind of people who already have strong feelings about books. She knows her audience, because they are her, in some measure.
I have read the first two entries. After the first I knew that this book would have a place on my shelf for many, many years. After the second I had begun to guess that it might take frequent trips from home to visit the shelves of others, and make light conversation with them.
So, to the people who are still reading this solely because they love words, to the people who can relate to "once found herself poring over a 1974 Toyota Corolla manual because it was the only written material in the house she had not read at least twice," and to the lunatics who sort their books by nationality of writer, year of publication, subject matter and size: You already know this book. It will teach you nothing new, but it will give you a look at another woman who shares your affliction. You can use it to see the future, to find a friend or to learn more about your own disease. It is invaluable.
To you people: Go buy this book. By the time you're reading this, the stores are beginning to open. Amazon never closes. There is no excuse to avoid this thin, green volume, not for you.
I know, I know: tl;dr.