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Married, with books | page 1, 2
I start to wonder if paperback books don't reproduce spontaneously in their own dark corners. Two copies of Graham Swift's "Waterland," two copies of John Berger's "G" -- explainable. But how did Matthew and I, two publishing types, end up with three copies of Tom Peters' "In Search of Excellence"? And why are there five copies of "Mrs. Dalloway"? A thin volume of Updike poetry turns up stuck between Philip Roth and E. Annie Proulx. Where did this come from? I vow to look into it. Soon I have two canvas sacks full of miscellaneous paperbacks. I feel liberated. Powerful. I heft the unwanted and redundant down to the local secondhand bookstore. They're only giving a dollar a book, but like a reluctant dog owner at the pound, I just want to see these babies end up in good hands. When even the bookstore won't take some of our rejects, I pile the rest on our stoop, where in keeping with the miracle that is New York scavenging, they disappear quickly, carried noiselessly away along with my pile of old tennis shoes, stray pot lids and broken-zippered luggage. Upstairs, Matthew is considering our ongoing Chekhov dilemma. I'm an enthusiast -- no, a fanatic -- and we own two shelves' worth of stories, plays, biographies, notebooks and miscellaneous arcana, including the gorgeous but poorly organized Ecco Press edition of the stories, in 14 different-colored volumes. Surely this is excessive, especially in light of the shorter collection we recently bought, expertly curated by Richard Ford, which contains most of my favorites in superior translations. "The Ecco set should go," Matthew says. Mournfully, I start to reach for them -- but their radiant spines induce a nearly hypnotic pleasure. I grab mint-green Volume Three in one hand, creamy mango Five in the other. I remember the summer I spent tracking these down, volume by volume, in San Francisco. I had no money and no job, but the absence of the elusive Volume Eight ("ecru") triggered a paranoia (I hope they don't notice, I thought, studying the faces of my guests) that evolved quickly into a full-blown Hitchcockian dementia. I completed the set at last after chasing a bus down Mission Street and making it to City Lights Books just before midnight on a Friday. I'd been home alone, watching TV and obsessing, when I was struck by a premonition that it was there. And there was the fabled addendum volume to the series, with its blood-red cover and a glowing testimonial from Raymond Carver on the back: "The Unknown Chekhov." To this day, it remains so, to me at least. I have no plans to read it, but part with it? Never. As the sun begins to set we start panicking. Now I'm rifling through piles in a haphazard search for overlooked galleys, unused cookbooks, anything that brings pause. William Styron's "Sophie's Choice" stares up at me and I shamefully think -- I know! I know! How can I choose? I love the gentle burgundies of the Everyman Library collection, and I need to see the dusty copy of Anne Beattie's "Park City" sitting on my bedside table. I collapse on the couch, defeated. "Let's chuck the bed," I say. Matthew solemnly nods.
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