Just Saying

The library is culling its collection, which is wonderful for the Book Store in a tidal wave sort of way. We're getting carts filled with entire letters of the alphabet from the fiction collection, plus lots of nonfiction.

Some of the books have never been read, which makes me feel sad. Imagine pouring your heart and soul into a book that is bought, shelved, and removed without a single patron's glance.

I suppose  that as long as the book was bought, the money is made and the author received satisfaction from that. But somehow I still believe there's more to writing than the sale at the end of one's labors.

Anyway, I've scored a few nuggets of gold as a result of the cull and processed a lot of (ahem) gravel, as well. And I couldn't help but gloat a little bit this week when a few generous tomes by Thomas Pynchon came through. I read The Crying of Lot 49 ages ago and remember nothing of it. Excerpts - read long ago at C.S.'s urging - from Gravity's Rainbow were memorable, but not in a good way.

Our lucky Book Store customers will find a few of Pynchon's recent works at the book sale next month, reasonably priced at $1 apiece and worth every penny!