THE SEVENTY-SEVENTH PAGE

I was able to supplement my genre reading with books from the small, though sturdily staffed and shelved village library, where I first had spoken with my late lad. From time to time I would check out books searched out for me by the library staff, but I preferred buying books from the monthly library sale. I’ve never felt I truly possessed a book until I had read it and shelved it on my own shelves. As we know by now, my parting with a book was like parting from a lover--except more painful.

I scoured the bins of books with some sorrow because it meant someone had discarded a book. Worse, often the library had discarded it. The horror of the increasing consideration of novels as disposable when read is horrifying to me. The fact that it is done by the ordinary citizen weaned on paperbacks (as if they were disposable, anyway) is deplorable. The notion of the home library is little more than just that--a notion, perhaps that of a decorator. When the public library joins the ranks of the book disposers and purges fiction, we know something has gone very wrong in society.

And you may bet your ass that we know something has gone very wrong in our society when I find one of my novels in the 25 cent bins.