Thirty-six. Hope gleams in the idiot heart.
I like unexpected bookstores. The best ones are crammed tight with books like some bizarre jumbly attic library brought down to street level, with a certain quality of light that never quite feels fresh and with almost no one who shops there at the same time you do. All the books are as used as people are; they have histories you can't crack by looking at the cover or even perusing the inside, entirely, rather than being Barnes-and-Noble-Borders-Brand-New. Passages are underlined that you never would have expected, and half the volumes are out of print -- all the better to find something out of the ordinary and good.
My last three forays to bookstores, I've found lovely things. Three bookstores ago, I was in London, and came across Peter Ackroyd's London: A Biography. Ackroyd is a man who wants to wine and dine the city of London, read her poetry by candlelight, and fuck her 'til she screams 'yes'. He's a bachelor - no lie - because his real love is the city of London. If London were a person, he'd have his ring all picked out to propose. Thus, finding this particular book is like getting to read the love letters of a man to his...city, a city he knows the good and bad of and still loves anyway. It's sort of bizarre, but it works for me, because I understand completely how someone can be that devoted to a place, to something other than a person.
Two bookstores ago was back in LA in a children's bookstore, where I found the most gorgeous hardcovers of Mark Helprin's three-boook reimagining of "Swan Lake" as a multigenerational epic, illustrated by Chris von Allsburg (of 'the Polar Express'), as well as a hardcover of Kit Williams's "Masquerade". I realize it may be gauche and anti-intellectual to love books for their pictures, but, well, in these cases, I can't help but envy the kids. I usually keep an eye out for the books with good artwork when I hit the children's-book versions of the old unexpected bookstore.
This bookstore is New York. Years ago, I read a book by a man named Jonathan Carroll which always stuck with me. Today I've managed to find out that he wrote more than just that one novel I remembered; I've been indulging in the five different new books I've found by him. The phrase in the subject line is a bit of poetry tattooed on the wrist of one of his characters, a throwaway thing, but I loved it. I find myself saying that about Carroll's books a lot. Reading one of his novels is like sitting down with a friend who tells the most fascinating stories, and even if what he tells you is bound to make you cry, you want to know anyway. And he tells you all about people you wish you knew, that you wish were your friends, makes you know them right down to the heart of things. And he's brutal, but his stories have an inevitability about them that approaches perfection. Most of all, his writing has the simplicity of Zen koan and the ring of surprising truths in places. Listen:
"Patience never wants Wonder to enter the house, because Wonder is a wretched guest. It uses all of you but is not careful with what is most fragile or irreplaceable. If it breaks you, it shrugs and moves on. Without asking, Wonder often brings along dubious friends: doubt, jealousy, greed. Together they take over, rearrange the furniture in every one of your rooms for their own comfort. They speak odd languages but make no attempt to translate for you. They cook strange meals in your heart that leave odd tastes and smells. When they finally go, are you happy - or miserable? Patience is always left holding the broom." (from his last novel, "White Apples")
Now, I'm going to go curl up to read.
My last three forays to bookstores, I've found lovely things. Three bookstores ago, I was in London, and came across Peter Ackroyd's London: A Biography. Ackroyd is a man who wants to wine and dine the city of London, read her poetry by candlelight, and fuck her 'til she screams 'yes'. He's a bachelor - no lie - because his real love is the city of London. If London were a person, he'd have his ring all picked out to propose. Thus, finding this particular book is like getting to read the love letters of a man to his...city, a city he knows the good and bad of and still loves anyway. It's sort of bizarre, but it works for me, because I understand completely how someone can be that devoted to a place, to something other than a person.
Two bookstores ago was back in LA in a children's bookstore, where I found the most gorgeous hardcovers of Mark Helprin's three-boook reimagining of "Swan Lake" as a multigenerational epic, illustrated by Chris von Allsburg (of 'the Polar Express'), as well as a hardcover of Kit Williams's "Masquerade". I realize it may be gauche and anti-intellectual to love books for their pictures, but, well, in these cases, I can't help but envy the kids. I usually keep an eye out for the books with good artwork when I hit the children's-book versions of the old unexpected bookstore.
This bookstore is New York. Years ago, I read a book by a man named Jonathan Carroll which always stuck with me. Today I've managed to find out that he wrote more than just that one novel I remembered; I've been indulging in the five different new books I've found by him. The phrase in the subject line is a bit of poetry tattooed on the wrist of one of his characters, a throwaway thing, but I loved it. I find myself saying that about Carroll's books a lot. Reading one of his novels is like sitting down with a friend who tells the most fascinating stories, and even if what he tells you is bound to make you cry, you want to know anyway. And he tells you all about people you wish you knew, that you wish were your friends, makes you know them right down to the heart of things. And he's brutal, but his stories have an inevitability about them that approaches perfection. Most of all, his writing has the simplicity of Zen koan and the ring of surprising truths in places. Listen:
"Patience never wants Wonder to enter the house, because Wonder is a wretched guest. It uses all of you but is not careful with what is most fragile or irreplaceable. If it breaks you, it shrugs and moves on. Without asking, Wonder often brings along dubious friends: doubt, jealousy, greed. Together they take over, rearrange the furniture in every one of your rooms for their own comfort. They speak odd languages but make no attempt to translate for you. They cook strange meals in your heart that leave odd tastes and smells. When they finally go, are you happy - or miserable? Patience is always left holding the broom." (from his last novel, "White Apples")
Now, I'm going to go curl up to read.