THE NINETIETH PAGE

Researches for my own private Manhattan Project delayed my return. I thought Conrad might have something useful or at least inspirational in THE SECRET AGENT. The old methods are best, and I preferred the low-technology of the poisoned water coolers to the tiresome high-tech of the defiled computers. At last dead-ending off a country road in a former garage turned book shop (the car apparently left to the elements) I found a copy, sat down on an old encyclopedia set, and re-read it to no profitable purpose. It was less entertaining than I recalled, but my stay gave me an opportunity to chat with the proprietor, who had worked on the road as a commission book salesman for many years. He said he had tired of selling unwanted books to stores, who had no alternative but to return them for credit against the purchase of a bestseller with whom they might actually turn a nickel. He wasn’t complaining; he just didn’t like the way business had headed in recent years. He preferred the serendipitous moments for a visitor, who usually came to his book garage without purpose, and left with the unexpected. I, of course, could not tell him that I had come with purpose. This was probably a private deception. All my grown life I had carried around lists of “needs” which goaded me into shops from which I emerged with nothing like the sought books.