unrighteousbooks

[unrighteousbooks]

I think you will not believe what I am about to say, but I assure you it is true. Last night I received this book in the mail. It was accompanied by a note which read: "Sir: I believe this may belong to you. It served me well on a very, very long day. I'm happy to be able to return it to its owner. Thank you." Oddly enough, I believe that the book is on that I lost it many years ago, in a town called Punxsutawney. I do not know how it found its way back to me.

Stranger still is that the exact same thing happened the morning before. And the morning before that. And the morning before that, and every single morning that I can recall. I do not understand it, but I assure you that this is the truth.

Late last night, over several glasses of wine, I browsed through the book, trying to understand why it kept reappearing. At some point I drifted off to sleep.

I was awakened by the presence of a troll-like little man, standing before me. He introduced himself. I cannot quite recall his name, but it was odd. Emon Brusque? No, that's not right. Moron Lusk? No. Elon Tusk? Something like that. He pointed to the book. "Poetry's worthless. You should burn this book." He waved his arm around the shop. "You should burn everything here. All books are worthless." He snapped his fingers and the book was suddenly engulfed in flames. Then he shouted "Sieg Heil!" and disappeared in a cloud of fire and brimstone. Immediately I poured the remaining wine on the book, dousing the flames, but the damage was done. The booked was charred and ruined.

The next morning, however, I was shocked to find the book was there again: The same book, the same note, as if the day had simply started over again.

What does all this mean? I do not know. Perhaps there is some lesson in all this. We are sometimes slow to learn our lessons, aren't we? We keep have to repeat them again and again, doing it over until we finally get it right. Whatever the lesson is, books are surely a part of it.

Will the grotesque little troll be back in the morning? I hope not. But I am certain of this: The book will still be here.

[unrighteousbooks]

A strange thing happened last night. I received a book in the mail, along with a note: "Sir: I believe this may belong to you. It served me well on a very, very long day. I'm happy to be able to return it to its owner. Thank you." And I am fairly certain that the book is one I lost it years ago, in a town called Punxsutawney. I do not know how it found its way back to me.

I think this isn't the first time it has happened. In fact, I might have written about it before. Have I? I'm not certain. But it is very peculiar.

How very odd. This book arrived in the mail yesterday, along with a note: “Sir: I believe this may belong to you. It served me well on a very, very long day. I’m happy to be able to return it to its owner. Thank you.” There is nothing else. The note has no signature, and the return address is illegible. Yet the strangest thing is this: I believe that the book did, in fact, belong to me, and that I lost it many years ago, in a town called Punxsatawney. I cannot imagine how it has found its way back to me.

[unrighteousbooks]

We do love old books. If truth be told, we prefer buying books to selling them. Possibly that is why the shelves are getting a bit overcrowded.

[unrighteousbooks]

Working in the shop yesterday morning, I heard a commotion at the front door. Two young men -- one heavy-set, the other much smaller -- barged through the front door. They wore knit caps and large coats and they carried a brightly-painted wooden crate, a book, and a large jar. They stopped when they saw me and the larger man shoved the smaller one forward. "Do it, eh!"

The smaller man replied, "No way, eh? You do it."

"I did it at the beer store. It's your turn."

The smaller man grabbed a stack of books, apparently at random, and put them in the crate. He put the crate on the counter. "We want these, OK?"

They stood there awkwardly, staring at me. I took that as my cue to ring up the books. I took the first one and checked the price and began to enter the amount on the register.

"Uh, I believe there'll be no charge for these books," the larger man said.

"Excuse me?"

He grabbed the book they had brought with them. "OK, we bought this book from YOUR bookstore, and we were at our book club, and a friend of ours -- a cop! -- found a mouse in this book. And he said when that happens, you get free books."

"It's in the Canadian criminal code," the smaller man added. "There's precedent in legal cases."

I stared at them in confusion. "It's The Tale of Despereaux. It's about a mouse. So yes, there is a mouse in the book. You do not get free books because a book has a mouse in it. And we are not in Canada, so whatever is in the Canadian criminal code is not applicable."

At the back of the shop, Crowley overheard the conversation and began moving toward the men.

"I told you this wouldn't work!" the smaller man whispered.

"Release the moths!" the other man shouted.

"We let 'em out at the movie theater."

"You were supposed to get more moths, you knob! Why'd you bring the jar if you didn't get more moths?"

At this point, Crowley stepped up to the counter. "I know you two," he said. "You're the McKenzie brothers. You want free books? Go to the publisher!"

"You sure you don't want to think about it?" asked the larger man.

Crowley grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him to within an inch of his face. "I'm sure," Crowley answered.

Crowley can be a rather intimidating presence. The brothers wisely exited the shop immediately, leaving behind the crate, the jar, and The Tale of Despereaux.

I suppose I shall put the crate with the other strange boxes that I've accumulated through the years. The basement is full of them.

[unrighteousbooks]

As a new year is upon us, I feel that I should address the fact that I have rarely been posting to this blog. I have noticed that the blog has the unintended consequence of drawing more visitors to the store. Nothing ruins the atmosphere of a quiet bookshop quite so much as a constant stream of customers. I do not wish to sound ungrateful, but surely there must be some way to run a bookstore without having to deal with people who are constantly trying to buy my books.

[unrighteousbooks]

A lovely edition of Art in Love, by Mary Knight Potter, published by L. C. Page & Company, Boston, 1906.

[unrighteousbooks]

Does anyone know who Hans Gruber is? Yesterday a customer was wearing a shirt that said: "It's not Xmas until Hans Gruber falls from Nakatomi Plaza." Is this an obscure local tradition, similar to the dropping of the ball in Times Square on New Year's Eve?

[unrighteousbooks]

This is a peculiar little book. I expect that it is the only Christmas book prominently featuring Korean barbecue. I quite enjoyed it.

[unrighteousbooks]

The holidays are fast approaching. Our neighbor Fran has begun to decorate the shop. She has her own shop, and I'm not sure why she spends to much time decorating mine. But I shan't complain, lest I seem ungrateful.

[unrighteousbooks]

A Dream of Thunder

I had a strange dream very early this morning. I was in the bookshop when I heard the sound of thunder. At least, I thought it was thunder. There had been a single loud blast, and then nothing. I walked to the front of the shop and opened the door. There were no clouds in the early morning sky. As I stood there a man rounded the corner, walking in my direction. He was wearing a safari jacket and was carrying something long and dark, pointed toward the ground. An umbrella, perhaps? He was looking down at his feet, shaking his head, and he seemed to be talking to himself. As he drew near, I could make out his words. "Idiot! Damned idiot. Stay on the path, I told him. Don't go off it. Don't go off for any reason. How hard is it to stay on a path? Idiot!" He glanced up and saw that I was watching him. Startled, he began to swing the umbrella up as if to point it at me by instinct; but instead he seemed to catch hold of himself and he swung it behind his back instead. For several long seconds he glared at me with suspicion. Then he exhaled. "It's not your fault, is it? No need to take it out on you. You're stuck with this mess." He shook his head from side to side and repeated, "That damned idiot." He began walking again. "No telling what sort of world you're in now," he said. "Good luck. You're going to need it." As he passed by, I caught a clear glimpse of the umbrella. It was long and it was made of bluish black metal, and it was not an umbrella at all.

[unrighteousbooks]

[unrighteousbooks]

Today, November 3, is Laika Day. I would like to remind those who have accused me of crying when I think about the story of Laika: You cannot prove that. This beautiful graphic novel by Nick Abadis was published in 2007 by First Second Books.

[unrighteousbooks]

I do love a pretty book, even when it's filled with horror. But I suppose that's all right this time of year, isn't it? This frightening but elegant little volume is from Flame Tree Publishing.

[unrighteousbooks]

[unrighteousbooks]

Fran has been stopping by the shop, preparing her traditional Halloween displays. This one seems less terrifying than most.

[unrighteousbooks]

I have not been posting much lately. Today, however, is the last day of Banned Books Week. It should be clear that I am deeply opposed to the idea of banning books.

For that reason, I would like to say this: In the United States, there is an election in November. If you are opposed to censoring, banning, or burning books, this should be a factor in how you cast your vote.

[unrighteousbooks]

A friend gave me a little magnetic bookmark today. I am very fond of it.