I go to thrift stores for the books
I almost always find something good that I didn’t know I needed.
I went to the gigantic Powell’s Books in Portland a while back. I could have spent an entire weekend in the poetry section deciding what to buy. Amazon has made it less natural to peruse unfamiliar books or genres. It’s so easy just to seize on the exact title I want. After that the site leads me to authors who are similar to authors I already love. It isn’t hard to decide when each choice is informed by my favorites. But at the bookstore, I didn’t pine for the internet. I wanted to be shopping for books at the Salvation Army.
Powell’s hit me with the paralysis of choice. Amazon traps me inside my own taste. The thrift store sets me free. Most of what I read comes from thrift stores. There is no illusion of control, just hope and disappointment.
A couple of months ago, I felt a burst of gratitude when I spotted a late-period Philip Roth novel amidst a heap of microwave cookbooks. And because Everyman cost $1.50, I could keep looking. A few minutes later, I found a tiny book titled Oriental Rugs in Colour, by Preben Liebetrau. It is smaller than my hand and full of startling, vibrant photographs of rugs from Iran, Turkey, and Afghanistan. I keep it on my desk for moments when I need a burst of color. It set me back 50 cents. Everyman has also resonated. After making phone calls to three old friends, all of whom are dying, the novel’s aged protagonist considers his own infirmities and says, “Old age isn’t a battle; old age is a massacre.” That line has followed me into several nursing home visits.
