I have mixed feelings about used book sales.
As a reader, I can’t complain about getting novels for only a dollar or two each. (At the sale I attended a while ago, I got a copy of Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole, a couple of Joyce Carol Oats books and seven more for just $10.)
And rationally I know that it’s better that these books are read by someone, rather than sitting on a shelf, lonely and sad. Or worse yet, just thrown away.
But when I see some of my favorite novels shoved into a pile with torn and dirty romance novels and out-of-date travel guides, I have to resist the overwhelming urge to buy them just so they’ll have a good home. Even if I already own a copy. Or two.
It’s equally as heartbreaking when I come across something like this:
What the hell, Ned?! Your friend wrote a book, personalized it for you and you just gave it away? I hope that poor J.W. Boyton is blissfully ignorant about your callous disregard for his novel.
I have quite a few signed books now and the thought of them being sold for mere dollars because nobody cares about them makes me want to cry. So I bought this book even though I didn’t have a burning desire to read “The World of Bliss.”
It’s was the least I could do for ol’ J.W.
(If you feel sorry for J.W. too, go to the book’s Facebook page and join the 19 people who have liked it!)