When we remembered, with an hour to go, that the English Library’s book sale was still on last weekend, we were pleased we’d left it so late. It would surely have been picked over to the point where we wouldn’t need to spend the week’s grocery money on books.
How wrong we were.
This is just my impression, but it’s an educated one: an avid book reader had died and his estate had been donated to the library. I do say ‘his’ with deliberation as the kinds of books felt male to me. They were not the sort of books most people would want, but were absolutely right up my alley: old, but not fashionably so. Merely eschewed by most as out-of-date, I suppose. In the end I picked up 14 books and could easily have taken more.
I have two on the go right now. A book of Leonard Michaels’ short stories and Donleavy’s The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B. They both reek of the sixties, and yet they could scarcely be more different from each other, at first glance, at least. I may well have to review them together….