Books

This weekend was the Newberry Library Book Fair, where the avid reader can can get great deals and the devoted collector can make great finds.
The library was impressive in itself, the kind of place books deserve to be housed. (Think historic- gilded banisters, marble floors, and vaulted ceilings.)
Because I went on Sunday, the inventory was thoroughly picked over. There wasn't much left in the way of current fiction, and the nonfiction titles remaining were mostly cheesy looking and obscure.
Luckily for me, the average used booksale peruser must not be especially interested in the authors of the "lost generation." I was able to scrounge up a biography a piece on Fitzgerald, Pound, and Mencken.
In the end, I didn't buy anything- even though all titles were half off in an attempt to clear out on the last day. For whatever reason I couldn't imagine myself reading the books I had picked up, and at the last minute I placed them on the reshelving table. As much as I like to think of myself as someone into used and old books, in truth, I guess I feel the same way about someone else's old books as I do about someone else's old clothes- not quite as appealing as new ones. Or maybe its that, at this point in my life it's neither practical nor afforable for me to collect books- for display, bragging rights, or other purposes. So, I stick to buying books that I REALLY want to read, not just the best that's left.