MacIntyre & Moore's & Me

[eredien]

There is a dangerous, beautiful lethargy that overtakes a certain species of people, especially authors, in good bookstores and libraries. The abundant texts, there for the shelf-plucking, melt into your brain via your eye the same way the Lotus-eaters' petals dissolved sweet on their tongues, and produce much the same dazed effect.

It is especially bad if you happen to be the kind of person drawn to take on not just one topic, but all of it, as your subject of obsession, fascination, deep study, trying to grasp all its wonder as a whole, as Julian's hazelnut. (One of yesterday's non-purchases, a volume of her 'showings,' placed back on a hip-height shelf with a sigh.) You wander in and cannot get out; Theseus-clew is Gordian knot for a maze lined in paperbacks.

You wander by the shelves, and titles, topics, present themselves to you, both friendly and alluring, like a not-quite-yet lover met unexpected on the street. A daze overtakes you: you take books off shelves, read them, put them back; check the reputability of authors and sources and copyright dates.
You begin to shelve duplicate copies together.
You are far gone.

You wish you could figure out with some certainty what to buy, what to leave, what to check out of the library, which titles to write down (this action inevitably leads to loss of interest, or the slip of paper, but you will take your pen out anyway). You cannot decide.

What your secret heart really wants is a blizzard to descend upon the square and bury the store in a matter of seconds, such that cellphone reception and rescue dogs will be blocked, and you will be forced to sit there, reading it all, subsisting on the fiber from the yoga posters on the community bulletin board and melting snow for the tea they must hide behind the counter in places like these.
You will save the cookbooks for last, you decide, just before they dig you out.
You will want this snowstorm even if it is July.

Finally, you will discard some of the books, the ones that would put undue strain on your wallet, shelves, or back, and stagger to the counter, eyes wide. Overload.
Possibly you are drooling slightly over some delectable find. You will not realize this, though you will be able to stop it from getting on dustjackets without conscious thought.

You stand in front of the counter, mulling it over, reading the old Chaz Addams cartoons, wondering idly if the history of English printing book will still be there in a week, wondering if you are going to be able to carry them home, wondering how long you have been standing there and blinking, wondering how often this happens to the person behind the counter, wondering if they think you're on something, wondering how much difference between that and books there is for people like you anyway.
Deciding, "not much."

Shrugging, getting your bag back from the check; running out somewhat shamefaced after coming up twenty-five cents short on a purchase that was only $1.75 to start with.
But you cannot, somehow, be as embarassed as you feel you perhaps ought to be--the thing that leads people to lean in for another kiss, no matter how awkward the first, is whispering in your ear: "it doesn't really matter."

"Going home to read new books": one of the sweeter pleasures of life.

Comments

[esgalaith.livejournal.com]

Ah! That explains it! I'd thought there was simply some sort of a warped time vortex inside every bookshop and library resulting in it being several hours later in the world outside no matter how brief your visit. o.o