Thursday, October 20, 2011

The Versatility of Books

The power of books, baby. I love books because they let me escape and they don't give me a hangover. I can learn from books, laugh with books, cry with books, dream with books.
I have kind of a random deal going on. The supermarket I shop at has a used book bin on the way out. Donations - $1 for paperbacks, $2 for hardcover. Just a bin piled high with books. In some ways it offends my sensibilities. I like my books in bookcases, proud and protected. They are my religion, as is music. I handle my Ipod like a sacred religious artifact. I dropped it one day, only a short distance onto the kitchen table. My head almost exploded. I prefer my books to be in pristine condition. Not beat, banged or dinged. I have had to make allowances though because we live below the poverty level, so I buy most of my books used through Amazon. Sorry Book Depot - I miss you dearly.
From another angle though it is kind of cool to see those books piled in that bin. All those words read by other people and put out there for more to enjoy. A rich community of choice representing a variety of topics. Quite random from day to day. I stop by the bin almost every time I'm leaving the store. I can pick up a book, read one sentence and know if it is something I will dig. I won't spend more than a minute or two going through the pile because it doesn't feel right book browsing in a goddamn food warehouse. The cool thing is I end up with books I wouldn't normally go after.
Like the one I am reading right now. About Rosamon Pinchot written by her grand-daughter Bibi Gaston. Rosamon was discovered at the age of nineteen by Europe's top theatrical producer aboard a cruise ship coming back from France. She came from a very wealthy family. This was in 1923. She had absolutely no acting experience but the producer convinced her to star in The Miracle, Broadway's largest production at the time. She was a smash. In 1927 at the age of 23 she was described as the "Loveliest Woman in America". Ten years later at the age of 33 she committed suicide on the opening night of Thornton Wilder's Our Town.
That is one hell of a story, and yet I never heard of her until I randomly picked up this book in the cavernous confines of a food peddler. Now I am lost in this world of the super rich and the arts and I am digging it with feverish abandon.
That's what books are all about. Say your boss calls you a moron in front of eighteen of your co-workers. Say he tells you that every time you think you weaken the nation. Your hand moves slowly towards the sheathed knife strapped to your thigh as you envision his blood spurting across the floor like the spray from Niagara Falls smashing onto the rocks below. Something in your head tells you that prison is not your kind of place, that the people you will meet and socialize with there are not exactly what your mother had in mind when she told you it's good to meet other people and benefit from their unique life experiences. You hold your temper, tell Devil Boss you will try to do better and call him asshead as he walks away, loud enough for your co-workers to appreciate it. You have kept your job and impressed your peers. Brilliant strategy.
You go home that night, pick up a book and forget all about your boss, your job, your small life and smaller paycheck.
If your rage is so huge that reading cannot soothe you, bring the book to work the next day and beat your boss unconscious with it. I recommend hardcover over paperback.

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