Monday, March 16, 2015
The impulse is never far from the surface with me, no matter what the season. I recognize that I have a generally tidy disposition. To wit, this month I've been cleaning out my painting studio, airing everything out, looking at old work, and preparing for new work. What a lot of stuff I seem to have made in the past 25 years, and beyond (I even have a portfolio full of childhood drawings and books I made, which my mother gave to me some years back when she was cleaning out). Stuff. Made by me. Drawings, paintings, collages, handmade books, diaries. Blog entries. What's it all for? All this making? Best not to examine that question too closely, and simply forge ahead. (Although: Because I love it, might be a fine answer, for now.) The same goes for reading. I enjoy it; I would rather read than watch tv or noodle around on the internet or go out. At about seven p.m. every evening I stop whatever it is I'm doing because I realize I could be reading a book instead. And then I do just that. Books, books! Shall we have a long book chat, since it's quite been some time since my last writing? Okay, then. My winter reading project is winding down, and I still haven't made it through the introduction of the History of Herodotus. Other ancient authors wait too, but a few weeks ago I veered off on a tangent and have yet to return from it. I read The Hill of Kronos (Dutton 1980) by Peter Levi. Synopsis: young Jesuit-in-training goes abroad in search of ancient Greece. Fascinating book and gosh does it contain some beautiful sentences. Here are two (p.19):
"We passed Calabria, painted green and hung out to dry for a thousand years. The sun sank exactly behind us, and the ship sailed under stars that sparkled like sea-salt in the dark."
After a too-brief first sojourn in Greece, he returns to England, where, unsurprisingly (p.114):
"It was a difficult winter. The snow fell as it always does."
Man, I hear you. Levi yearns to live among classical ruins, and visits and re-visits Greece over two decades. His book makes me long for sun and dust.
Next I spent two weeks slowly reading Rose Macaulay's odd dense thicket of a book, Pleasure of Ruins (Thames and Hudson reprint of the 1953 first edition). It shouldn't have taken me two weeks, but Ryan and I were simultaneously watching archaeology shows online dealing with many of the sites I was reading about. Despite my bias about tv I must say it was dreamy to see in color some of the ancient landscapes Macaulay spends 450+ pages rhapsodizing about. Rome, Persepolis, Carthage...but I'm getting ahead of myself. Before I started Pleasure of Ruins proper I read another book, entitled Roloff Beny Interprets in Photographs Rose Macaulay's Pleasure of Ruins (Holt, Rinehart and Winston 1977), which I picked up in a local bookshop for four dollars last month, because I wanted to look at more photographs of the sites I'd been reading about in all the classics. Well, in the brief preface by Roloff Beny (and I must say, what a terrific name) he hooked me, line and sinker, by saying (p.25):
"My copy of Pleasure of Ruins, now battered and travel-stained, had been my constant companion for nine years. I had been dedicating a good part of my waking dreams to an almost predestined pursuit of the itineraries explored by Rose Macaulay..."
After investigating his photographs and reading the brief selections excerpted from the original Pleasure of Ruins, and acknowledging their general exellence, I decided I'd better read the whole thing. Luckily I have a copy. One of the great joys of having a home library - you often have on hand exactly what you wish you had on hand. In this case, a softcover unabridged reprint, picked up some years back for four dollars. The only other book I've ever read by Macaulay is her novel The Towers of Trebizond (which I read back in 2008 and wrote about here). Also about travel, archaeology, religion, ancient sites, and melancholy, but in fictional form, versus this difficult-to-describe colossus of a book, which combines all of the above with her overarching theme of Ruin-lust, the feeling of delicious romantic desolation that overcomes one when one contemplates the crumbling remains of civilizations (delectatio morosa, she says, p.249). The book really is an extended meditation on this feeling - gazing at the remains of the past, and the attendant emotions that inevitably must arise in the viewer in response to all that gazing. She spends time contemplating (p.40):
"...Troy...Crete, Mycenae, Tyre, Nineveh, Babylon, Thebes, Rome, Byzantium, Carthage, and every temple, theatre and broken column of classical Greece..."
Fearsomely intelligent and learned, she uses about eight other languages (most untranslated) when quoting, and she quotes at length across many centuries, from authors who loved ruins as much as she, and also travelled to see them. Parts of her book read like a who's who of travel narratives and I found myself taking notes, to see if I could find reprints of some of her sources.
Dreams, waking thoughts and incidents by William Beckford (1785);
Rare Adventures and Painfull Perigrinations by William Lithgow (1632);
the travel guide to ancient Greek sites by Pausanias, which Rose Macaulay and Peter Levi both go on and on about at great length;
Chateaubriand's travel memoirs which sound wonderfully high-flown and romantic;
a hundred other sources, from ancient times up to some familiar names like the beloved Byrons (Lord and Robert) and Henry James, well into the twentieth century.
So much to read next it's an embarrassment of riches! Speaking of which, Pleasure of Ruins is so very quotable I must indulge in a few, before we set aside Macaulay for now. In the unpaginated introduction, she writes:
"... this broken beauty is all we have of that ancient magnificence; we cherish it like the extant fragments of some lost and noble poem."
She continues to revel in (p.9):
"... that blend of pleasure and the romantic gloom which has always been the basic element in ruin-sensibility..."
All this ruin-talk echoes so strongly in me. Have I ever mentioned that my first home was built atop a ruin? Before I was born my parents moved to Maine and built a house on the foundation of an old demolished summer house. The remains were very much like a kind of archaeological site. It was fascinating then, when I was a child, and it remains so today, even though (and especially since) that home is long gone, lost to me in every way except memory. It's on my mind because I've been trying to write about it, rather unsuccessfully. More about that later, perhaps, as well as my ongoing spring cleaning efforts, which also continue to occupy my mind. I mean, I could go on and on right now, but it's well after seven p.m. and, as I mentioned earlier, instead of sitting here at this computer, I could be reading a book.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
(obligatory snow photographs)
Record-breaking snowfall! And I can't even... I'm all out of... I've got no... I don't even know what to...
Snap out of it, that's what - this is Maine, in the thick of winter, we know what to do! The backyard isn't quite as deep as the front yard. Ryan dug this path to the shed. Next year's woodpile is curing under the drift to my right. No, I have not gained weight this winter, but thanks so much for asking - I'm wearing a sweater, insulated vest, two jackets, etc. and I'm warm as toast.
Want some snow, wherever you are? We have plenty to spare - here you go!
Weather, it's all anyone can talk about here, if we can find the words! It was twenty below zero last night and another 6-12" of the white stuff is on the way tonight and tomorrow. I wonder if I'll be able to find the mailbox again. It may be lost to us until a thaw comes. (If a thaw comes.) In non-weather news, I have made no headway whatsoever in the History of Herodotus, and am lost in Rose Macaulay's Pleasure of Ruins instead. More on that when basic survival isn't my primary concern.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Books, books, and more books; snow, snow, and more snow. I deal with avalanches of both, this time of year, when I undertake extended reading projects and attempt to keep our driveway passable. For now there is a lull. We are between storms. And I have no new incoming books, so I am working with what I already possess in the way of ancient literature and commentary thereon. Today was quiet, weatherwise, although more significant snow is coming tomorrow and possibly over the weekend. (Trying hard not to fret about that.) After lunch I walked up the hill behind our house and back, and there were chickadees singing in the woods, and bare patches on the road. The sun is noticeably higher in the sky and feels warm on my face, and I drink it in like a tonic, after being housebound for weeks.
Ransacking the book room produced some lovely finds - books I've always meant to read, and now here it is, finally time. I've been carrying around Gilbert Highet's Poets in a Landscape for ten years. Originally published in 1957, it's an appreciative look at his favorite writers from Roman times, seen from the point of view of a traveler in their footsteps, one searching Italy for what remains of their homes, towns, and contexts. Highet was a classicist himself (and led a fascinating life) and provides his own translations throughout, as well as evocative photographs. There are chapters on Catullus, Virgil, Propertius, Horace, Tibullus, Ovid, and Juvenal. Spending time with this book is like going on an extended tour with a kindly yet slightly hedonistic professor. I would have happily roamed the Italian countryside, and Rome itself, in his wake, listening.
Since finishing this and the David Ferry translations I mentioned last time, I've left Rome and doubled back to ancient Greece once again. In the book room I found the following coffee table book - The Greek World, with color photographs by Eliot Porter and text by Peter Levi (Arch Cape Press 1980). I've had this for over twenty years, and I'm pretty sure I bought it from the remainder table at the first bookstore that employed me, when I was just out of college. The photographs again help with context and are quiet, monumental, and redolent. And I'd completely forgotten that the wonderful Peter Levi wrote the text. Here is a seasonably appropriate taste (p.137):
"Aristophanes is not only untranslatable but almost indescribable. He is like Homer. He is like a snowstorm. If I had just one day of life in ancient Athens, I would spend it in the theater watching a play by Aristophanes."
Levi goes on, this time about Plato, and that issue of voice, which I mentioned in my last post (p.139):
"...thirty years after I first read The Republic I am still not able to analyze it with any assurance. Maybe I am simply dazed by the charm of a style that sounds so close to a speaking voice."
Levi himself has a wonderful writerly voice, and I'm very excited because at one point Levi quotes himself, from his Greek memoir The Hill of Kronos, and I thought for a minute, Gee, that sounds so familiar... before it dawned on me that I have a copy! Unread, but not for long! His book about Afghanistan, The Light Garden of the Angel King, is one of my all-time favorite travel books, and I don't know why I've never read The Hill of Kronos, but I found a copy some years back, and tucked it aside, where it firmly stayed. But it's finally up next, in the ever-evolving reading queue.
Along with a slightly more daunting prospect. After reading selections from it in The Norton Book of Classical Literature, and deciding I wanted to read more, I brought home the History of Herodotus from my book booth, translated by David Grene (University of Chicago Press 1987). It's a lovely fat hardcover. I'm still just in the introduction and, with nearly 700 pages to go, feel a bit apprehensive, but am buoyed up by Grene's encouragement (p.15):
"Probably no Greek writer makes so strong an impression of talking directly to us as Herodotus."
There's that voice again. The one speaking across centuries of time, yet sounding so present. It's one of the main reasons I read - to listen, to come to know, and to experience the resulting sense of connection. How wonderful it's been to discover this voice anew, both in ancient writers' works and in the works of those who love them.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant
Almost time for Valentine's Day. Gosh these winter holidays keep right on happening. I find that the annual round provides regular and excellent reminders of what matters most. In this case, what do we love, in this life? Hopefully our spouses and partners, families, homes, animal companions, the work of our lives, the things we've gathered close to make life more beautiful and meaningful as the days pass. Books not least among those things. To wit, my classical reading project continues. In the last week I've finally finished The Norton Book of Classical Literature (all 850+ pages!), and I've also read Poets in a Landscape by Gilbert Highet (Common Reader reprint 1996), and last night I finished Virgil's Aeneid, translated by Robert Fitzgerald (Random House 1983). So, lots to say about all that.
First, the Norton - editor Bernard Knox provides such a compelling selection and range of authors and translators. In the case of this particular reader, I found certain authors I most definitely wanted more of, and others, well, not so much. It went something like this. From Greek times, a big YES to Herodotus, a big NO to Thucydides. YES to Aristophanes, NO to Sophocles. YES to Plato, to Theophrastus, to Callimachus (my notes about him are comical: "read all of the Aitia? how long? read all available Callimachus? how much?"), YES to Sappho, and to Theocritus. In Roman times, a big YES to Catullus, and especially to Horace. And NO to Virgil and Ovid, sad to say. The fault lies with me, I'm sure, though I will read Virgil's Georgics if I stumble across a copy. It all comes down to voice. I love the contemporary-sounding phrase, the straightforward language and poetry about everyday life. I do not love the epic voice. When reading Horace and Virgil I couldn't help but remember the difference between Byron's Childe Harold and his Don Juan. The overtly arcadian, misty-parnassus world of consciously poetical language versus the conversational, adventuresome yet ordinary narrative. As I encountered different authors in the Norton, I kept thinking Do I love this voice? And sometimes Do I even like it at all?
David Ferry says in his introduction to The Epistles of Horace, this, about voice (pp.x-xi):
"It's the voice that's the life of these poems: so free, so confident, so knowledgeable about himself, and about work, so contemptuous of pretense, so entertaining, so joyful. The voice is an invention, of course, or a playing field of inventions, but it gives the illusion of speaking to us as we hear it with a startlingly familiar immediacy....It is the voice of a free man talking about how to get along in a Roman world full of temptations, opportunities, and contingencies, and how to do so with your integrity intact....It's a voice that's on a civilizing mission, fully aware of all its difficulties, of how the temptations and contingencies are always there, in such a world and in our own natures..."
That's why I love Horace so much. That voice of his, and what he says with it. Virgil... well... some is very beautiful, and some lines I truly love. But. The voice just isn't there for me (again, the fault lies with me, I'm sure). I find myself wondering Who would attempt a sequel to the works of Homer? (His Aeneid revisits and continues the stories of Homer and then some.) And Where is Virgil himself in all of this? It could come down to the difference between writing based on personal experience and writing invented for deliberately epic purposes. The epic is not my favorite form by any means. I really had to grit my teeth to read all of the Aeneid, and I will admit to skimming over some of the extremely gory sections of the last three books. Lots of it was far too heroic - war, war, and more war. I guess even in my ancient literature, I am one of those readers who longs for connection, not instruction. And in speaking of voice, I will also say that in all this ancient reading, Sappho and one or two others aside, I miss the female voice. You know, the other half of the human race? Since it seems that these authors are writing mostly about men, for men. Such a simplification, but so noticeable, when reading through famous works spanning hundreds of years.
I meant to write about ancient love poety today, and just look at me. Everything but. I will say this - that I expected to love Ovid, and his lovely books all about love. But I didn't. Perhaps after reading the Aeneid I'd had enough of war, and so when Ovid said, in his Amores Book I (Norton p.732), "lovers are all soldiers in Cupid's private army" and went on to further equate love and warfare in no uncertain terms, I set it aside. And I don't think I need to talk about Ovid's seduction handbook either, The Art of Love, other than to say it seems awfully coldhearted and artificial for something purporting to be about love. (In fact it reminds me of The Prince by Machiavelli - explicit, diabolical. Unloving.) Well, his books did get Ovid banished, so there is that.
But let's not end there. Ancient literature abounds with memorable love poetry. Even though the best of it is about difficulties in love - this, from doomed, lovelorn Dido in Book IV of the Aeneid (p.114):
"She prayed then to whatever power may care
In comprehending justice for the grief
Of lovers bound unequally in love."
That's not exactly an upbeat sentiment to end this Valentine's-week reverie with, I know! On a happier note, I'll talk about Gilbert Highet's fine book, Poets in a Landscape, at a later date, when the melancholy brought on by the Aeneid has lifted. Meanwhile, amo, amas, amat...
Sunday, February 08, 2015
the wavering hours
Full-on winter around here, with record-breaking amounts of snow. Every few days, another foot. Tomorrow, more than another foot. It is all I can do to keep up with it, in fact I am no longer even trying. Just letting it happen. As if I had a choice. And I'm not painting much, so am subsequently rather grumpy. In short, I seem to be stuck in my annual slough of despond. Thank you, February. However, books are sunlight, as always, and I am reading. After the aforementioned sojourn with Mark Twain's Notebook and a brief art-book spree I returned to my shelves of ancient literature with renewed determination, and have now finished a trio of wonderful books: The Odes of Horace (Farrar, Straus and Giroux 1997), The Epistles of Horace (Farrar, Straus and Giroux 2001), and The Eclogues of Virgil (Farrar, Straus and Giroux 1999), all translated by the poet David Ferry. I bought all three at a library sale in 2004, for three dollars each, hardcover first editions in jackets, all near fine, one even inscribed and signed by David Ferry to boot. I've browsed in the Virgil before - I mentioned it on this blog once, long ago - but I've never read all three cover to cover until now. They are lovely indeed, in form and in word. With facing-page Latin, wide margins, and creamy substantial paper they are a pleasure to hold and read. Their pastoral nature, full of landscape detail, feeds the longing within me for green things growing. And of course, in the way of famous ancient things, the words feel eerily relevant and are shivery-beautiful throughout.
The Odes of Horace, iii.29 (p.253)
"...There may be storms tomorrow,
Maybe fair weather. Nobody knows for sure.
What I have had in the past cannot be taken
Away from me now. Fortune, who loves to play
Her cruel game and plays it over and over,
Can do what she likes with me or anyone else.
I'll praise her while she favors me, but when,
As she prepares to fly away, I hear
The rustling of her wings, I'll yield my luck
And wrap myself as in a garment in
My knowledge of who I am and what I've been..."
The Epistles of Horace, i.18 (p.95):
"Interrogate the writings of the wise,
Asking them to tell you how you can
Get through your life in a peaceable, tranquil way."
"Where is it virtue comes from, is it from books?
Or is it a gift from Nature that can't be learned?
What is the way to become a friend to yourself?
What brings tranquility? What makes care less?
Honor? Or money? Or living your life unnoticed?
...what do you think I pray for?
'May I continue to have what I have right now,
Or even less, as long as I'm self-sufficient.
If the gods should grant me life, though just for a while,
May I live my life to myself, with books to read,
And food to sustain me through another year,
And not to waver with the wavering hours.'"
I won't quote endlessly from these famous texts - I always feel like everyone must already know their contents by heart except me - but I had to mention those passages. I told my mother I was reading classical authors this winter and she told me about taking years of Latin in school, and how her Latin teacher had the students keep lists culled from their texts of what the teacher termed Utterly Memorable Lines. My mother still has her list, somewhere. I have compiled my own.
So interesting to compare translations, too - David Ferry's with what Bernard Knox chooses in The Norton Book of Classical Literature, which I spent a lot of time with last month. I recognized and wanted to take notes from the same passages in each, even though the word choice and phrasing was often very different. The strong underlying sentiment, the full river of emotion, carried the meaning of both versions comparably well. I can only imagine the nuances I've missed out on by not being able to read Latin. But that thought is not to be dwelled upon, at this dismal time of year or any other. All the things I can't do - ugh - wavering thoughts that tend to float around, rustling, when I spend too much time indoors.
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
in the bleak midwinter
The opening lines from Christina Rossetti's beautiful carol are cascading through my mind this morning as I look out at the wildness of the blizzard.
"In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
So beautiful it makes me want to cry. Both the song and the storm. Oh winter, here we all are, in it together. Let's think about warmer weather for a moment. Or at least a reminder of it - I took this photograph a few weeks ago but the view from here is very similar today - snow, apple tree, curtain. I saw these lace curtains in the island summer house of a dear friend, on a breezy, sunshiny day, and they were gently blowing around. The birds looked like they were flying. Now, I am not much of a lace-curtain kind of person. But. These. She told me where she found them, and I went out and bought three for our dining room windows, and now whenever I look up I see the birds, and in my mind's eye, the island, the breeze, the warm summer wind.
Speaking of which, the other song that's been stuck in my head lately is something I played while packing away our Christmas ornaments. Last fall I bought a turntable at a yardsale down the street, and I've started playing my vinyl records again, not least among them several Frank Sinatra albums I've owned forever. One has an old favorite, Summer Wind. Loooove it.
But none of that is really what I want to talk about. Not songs, not lace curtains, not the weather. Books, right? After some weeks of diligence, I am falling off the ancient literature wagon. Backsliding. Thanks to one book in particular. Ryan and I visited a bookseller friend last weekend, and he sold me a very nice first edition of Mark Twain's Notebook, edited and prepared for publication by Albert Bigelow Paine (Harper 1935). I thought of setting it aside but it was insistent, and as soon as I read the opening entries (loooove reading diaries) I was lost. 400 pages later all I want to read now is more Mark Twain. So. Good.
But that is also not what I really want to talk about. Which is the history of this book. That is, its known physical perambulations within in the immediate vicinity. I bought it from my dear bookseller friend, who has himself owned it for 23 years. He bought it from the estate of a collector friend of his. This person was an avid buyer of books old and new, and used to be a regular customer of mine, at the first bookstore job I ever had, over 25 years ago. He'd call me up and ask me to tell him all about any new books we'd received in his areas of interest, before he'd make the trip to the store to see them in person. When I knew him he was elderly and rather frail, and usually traveled with an attendant. But back to the Mark Twain book. This collector bought it from another local bookseller, whose secret code is penciled inside the back cover. I wish I could crack this code and find out how long he owned it before selling it to the collector. Not to mention where he bought it in the first place. When I bought it, last Sunday, I brought it home and made careful pencil notes inside the front cover about all this, with names and dates. I wonder how long I'll own it, before it finds another home? I can't think about that for very long (memento mori and all that - too sad to contemplate, at least during a January blizzard, with old songs playing in my head). Well, I always wonder how books get from one place to another, and how long they linger with their keepers, and for once it is nice to actually know. And, sadness aside for a moment, I like to imagine this book's future, with other booksellers and collectors, as a valued, beloved object, one that brings the voice of this author so richly to life. It was such a pleasure to travel with him again, through these pages. What a writer.
Back to old songs for a moment. Mark Twain writes in his notebook that one of the most moving and pathetic things in the English language was, to him, (p. 319):
"...the refrain of a long-ago forgotten song, familiar to me in my earliest childhood: 'In the days when we went gypsying, a long time ago.'"
The pathos...! He also says, about his own fame (p.190):
"My books are like water; those of the great geniuses are wine. Everybody drinks water."
He knew his own worth, during his lifetime, and yet he still undervalued himself. Well, some of us no longer care for wine. And we are made of water - we need water to live. Blizzard notwithstanding...
Monday, January 12, 2015
papery and painterly paperwork
A quiet snowy Monday in January is the perfect time for paperwork. Reading too, but every once in a while paperwork takes precedence. I'm deep into the literature of the Roman Empire in The Norton Anthology of Classical Literature (up to page 700 so far, yay me!), but that's not what I want to talk about today. Instead, I've gathered up all relevant receipts and printouts and bill stubs (still analog, don't judge) and am preparing to file our income tax. We have a lovely accountant who checks everything over for us and files electronically. Foremost in this small sea of paper - I say small because I really do have something of a microbusiness at this point - are the printouts, month by month, of all the books that sold in my antiques mall booth. I like looking these lists over, and remembering when and where I first bought the books, not to mention pricing them and putting them out for sale, and now, hey, many have sold and are on to new homes and new lives with other booklovers! The system keeps working! The books number in the hundreds, and it still feels exciting to me, even after many years of buying and selling. So what sold? Fiction and poetry top the list, followed by cookery, memoir-y type books in various fields, and little bits of everything else, spread out over every bookshop category imaginable. Or every category I have in my book booth, I should say. Here is a sampling, in no particular order:
many Patrick O'Brian novels (huzzah!)
The Road to Oxiana - Robert Byron (sold two copies this year!! of one of my all-time favorites!!)
Word Freak - Stefan Fatsis
Monster in a Box - Spalding Gray
Bound for Glory - Woody Guthrie
lots of David Sedaris
current bestsellers including The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt and The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert and several Nora Ephron books and anything I can get my hands on by Neil Gaiman
Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier
Brat Farrar by Josephine Tey
lots of Thoreau (maybe my bestselling author of all time)
My Life in France by Julia Child (so, so good)
The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis
poetry by Yeats, Billy Collins, Mary Oliver, Pushkin, Robert Frost, Seamus Heaney, Charles Simic, Louise Gluck, Gwendolyn Brooks, T.S. Eliot
tons more novels, by Henry James, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jane Austen, Stephen King (local boy...), Zora Neale Hurston, Fanny Burney, Mark Twain, Lorrie Moore, Wilkie Collins, Conrad, Dickens, Hawthorne, Mark Helprin (two copies of Winter's Tale!), Richard Russo, Marilynne Robinson, David Mitchell, Dave Eggers, Nick Hornby
I haven't even mentioned Maine books, or nautical books, or history, travel, religion, art, gardening, nature, how-to, children's, etc. Lots sold from all these categories. My favorite might be classics, not just because that is my winter reading project this year, but also because I just LOVE that people still value these books, and buy them, and read them, or even simply intend to read them. On my lists from this year are Sophocles, Plutarch, Virgil, Plato, then on to Chaucer, and the Kalevala, Hildegard of Bingen, up to The Oxford Book of Seventeenth Century Verse and beyond.
Also sold are many books on how to write, including old favorites Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg and Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, and If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland, which has to be the most light-a-fire-under-you book ever for wanna-be writers, and On Writing by Stephen King, which runs a close second. See, hard evidence that people still read good books, and still want to learn to write good books too, isn't that a hopeful thing?
One more - some terrific books are gone from the books-about-books section, including a paperback copy of 84, Charing Cross Road.
As is evident from these titles and authors, I'm not selling many rare books these days. After buying and selling some wonderful and scarce (and expensive!) books in years past, both on the internet and at shows and in the little bookshop that could, I now have no real outlet for such items, and frankly I'm not finding them anyway, anymore, when I go out book hunting. The good folks at libraries and thrift shops are sifting their stock for rarities before anything ever comes close to the sales floor. I've made my peace with that, and while I still love to look, I'm not holding my breath thinking that a great first edition is going to be recognized and snapped up by me - not the way I used to find modern firsts, and real antiquarian books, fifteen years ago. (Note to Fate, or whomever: I do remain open to this possibility, though, so please do not forsake me! I shall remain vigilant!) All that is to say that I am content to scout around for the everyday secondhand books that I happen to love to sell and sell again, old favorites and recent favorites both. It's a win-win, since I get to book-hunt, and find new stuff to read, and also sell, on a manageable scale that leaves me all the painting time I could ever wish for, and then some.
Speaking of which, I glance back at the aforementioned paperwork and am very happy to report that is the first year in which income from my paintings has overtaken and surpassed my book income. A milestone. Whatever made me choose these professions, destined to keep me on the church-mouse side of impecuniousness for so long, I do not know (well, I have inklings...), but what I do know is that they both pay huge dividends in happiness and contentment, and I hesitate to ask for more than that. Why should I, when this life is fine as it is - I mean, who gets to do this...? Oh, I do! I thank my lucky stars for this surfeit of success. And think it's about time to find a winter library sale. I need to restock.