Too Many Books. Brain Is Fried.

I have not managed to do one iota of work today (yet). Whoopsy. See, what happened is, yesterday I was on Powell's website (a thing of much beauty) when I discovered that you can sign up for used book notifications. Pick as many categories as you want, & every day they will send you an email for each category detailing all the used books they've processed.

This morning I received my first batch of notifications. It is insane. There were over 200 newly arrived used art books alone. This is really, really bad news for my re-emerging book purchasing addiction.

Then I figured out that I can browse all of their sale books. A good many more than are on display in the stores come up. Just what I needed.

Of course, at some point during all this I discovered that I can keep a wish list. So...in five hours I've managed to get through the used books in my nine categories, all twenty seven pages of the film & television sale books, & fifty pages of art sale books (sixteen pages left to go!). And that's it. I would be shaking my fist & cursing your very name, Powell's, if my attention weren't so terribly distracted by your enchanting little rucksack, which would be the perfect thing in which to haul all this book booty. Sigh. I confess, I am weak.

Anyway! The moral of the story is, if you ever feel compelled to the depths of your soul to buy me presents, I would urge you to go here, type in my email address to access my wish list & get me the most expensive thing(s) on said list. You can even make me pick it up at a store location (Hawthorne, please) & save on shipping.

Unless you want to go to Abebooks & buy me an English translation of Condillac's Treatise on the Sensations. But then I will really love you even more, as that is the book I want most in all the world.

Negate Buyer's Remorse; Or, Suck It Up Like The Wanton Consumer You Are, Bitch

I really, really love Alasdair Gray. He may well be my favorite author. Every time I'm at a bookstore, any bookstore, I make a beeline for "Literature - G". Because you never know what you're going to find. Once I found a copy of a book called Mavis Belfrage, which I'd never even heard of before. I get dizzy trying to keep up with Mr. Gray, so by & large I leave internet scouring to others. Because when I do indulge in minor investigations, I tend to find things like gorgeous signed lithographs that cost $800. Or I remember that there are approximately 8 million titles by him, & I'll never get them all.

Anyway, so I went to Powell's on Hawthorne last night to buy a book - specifically to purchase The Cinema of Todd Haynes: All That Heaven Allows, edited by James Morrison, to keep me sated until the 21 November opening of I'm Not There. And of course, after I found it, I went to "Literature - G". Then I went to the Powell's computer. And they still had it...

...The hardcover first U.S. edition of Lanark: A Life in Four Books. *Sigh*. Look at how beautiful it is:


Of course, it's not the actual first U.S. edition. No, that honor was bestowed upon a trade paperback released in 1981 (the year the novel was first published across the puddle). I don't have time to investigate the vagaries of why it was published in paperback first, & why it was then published in hardcover, so for me it must remain one of life's mysteries. I suspect perhaps the publisher of the first was a larger, more corporate entity than George Braziller, the hardcover publisher.

But by now you must realize that the reason I have gorgeous pictures of this amazing book is because, yes, dear reader, I purchased that 1985 hardcover U.S. first edition. The problem is, I paid so much for it, it makes me a little sick:


Ha! Don't I wish! Sorry, sorry. If I'd been hip to the Gray back when I was seven years old I coulda had it for that price. Things are a little different now:


And yes, I thoroughly wash & dry my hands before touching this book.

So the problem is, that's almost twice as much as I've ever paid for a single book. EVER. And, um, although I wouldn't go so far as to say that I regret the purchase, I am questioning its wisdom. I'm not a book snob by any means, mostly because it's cost-prohibitive & I have other overriding interests. But my adoration of Alasdair Gray is beyond comprehension or reason. And I confess I wanted it. Powell's has had it for quite some time. Every time I went to that computer & looked Gray up, I saw it & I suspected that one day, some day, I would break down & buy it if somebody else hadn't beat me to it. It's absolutely pristine, too.

I don't know. I don't want to return it. But I feel like it wasn't exactly a decision I should have made. The only thing worse than having bought it is thinking about having bought it. I need to suck it up, keep it & DEAL.

Because I love it.

Besides, now I only have one super-expensive book left on my "want" list (for now!): Etienne Bonnot de Condillac's Treatise on the Sensations. It's fabulous, really - a philosophical text exploring the nature of "vision" in which Condillac imagines a statue which is imbued with each of the five senses, one at a time, & concludes that it is the sense of touch which truly allows us to fancy that we perceive a world outside the self. One day I will be able to pay $150 for it.

Harry Potter & The Deathly Hallows

Is an immensely satisfying conclusion to the series.

I am pleased.

First, Last & Only

Far be it from me to make such bold proclamations, but I've never before commented on Oprah's Book Club & I hardly think it possible that I should be moved to comment again after this.

And actually, I don't think I know anybody who laps up Oprah-tastic reading selections like so much spoiled milk, but just in case I'd like to proffer a friendly warning with regard to her latest suggested title:

Middlesex sucks. So much so that I very nearly stopped reading it at the turn of every page; of course, given my sometimes masochistic bent toward finishing every book or movie I start, regardless of how wretched (Martin Scorsese's The Age of Innocence comes to mind as an early & enduring example), I did in fact read the entire horrid thing. In my defense, I thoroughly adored Jeffrey Eugenides' first novel, The Virgin Suicides (& was equally miffed when Sofia Coppola made her film adaptation, given my secret yearning to make one myself); so naturally I presumed that Middlesex would overcome its initial crappy trappings. Alas! 'Twas not to be.

In conclusion, do yourself a favor should you see this book, copies of which will undoubtedly forevermore be stamped with the "O" seal of approval: run. Run fast. Run far. Just run. Though to be sure Mr. Eugenides accrued accolades aplenty for this work, enough to cement my opinion into that of a dissenting minority of readers. And I'm certain that Oprah's endorsement will do much more for sales than that silly old Pulitzer Prize he won.

I will still buy his next book as soon as it comes out. After all, he is clearly a Serious Writer: