The library sent me a postcard--they are having a book sale. Of course, I'll be there--how could I miss a chance to add more useless, unwanted books to those that already fill my groaning shelves, gather in piles on, under and around the nightstand, languish in the spare bedroom and have recently conquered the garage.
I read so many books that I go to two libraries almost every week. The trouble is,"Of the making of many books there is no end," as the preacher says. Most of them don't suit me. When you get older, some of the gimmicks don't impress you any more: the mysterious chap with the secret sorrow, the housewife trying to find Meaning in Life, the young people meeting cute; the clever plot to assassinate some bigwig that is foiled in the end by our clever hero. Similarly, courtroom cleverness, serial killers, heroes who are so smart bullets bounce off their brains. Been there, read that.
But I still like to read, and I don't feel like re-reading Pride and Prejudice for the 11th time, so I live in hope of finding a fresh idea, a new protagonist, or an exotic setting. And I sometimes find real treasures at these book sales: a book of stunning photographs of New Mexico, or the planets, a guide to the statuary in Fairmont Park in Philadelphia--honest! or treasures of the Luevre.
Lately I have enjoyed reading about out-of-the-way places, like Laos, Saudi Arabia, or Iran. Or ancient Rome. Also American history through the Civil War, and biographies of interesting people, like Benjamin Franklin.
So: off to the book sale!