Cranky Pants

Man, I'm not sure if it is the crappy weather, or if everyone is not getting enough sleep worrying about H1N1 or what but boy have people put on their cranky pants today. The worst part of this is that 'innocent bystanders' have to suffer for that most insufferable of qualities: entitlement. Both of the incidents I'm about to narrate could have been avoided if people just didn't assume the world revolves around them, or that the rules don't apply to them, or that everyone is out to ruin their day.

About an hour ago a gentleman came into the store and wanted to make a return. Here is, to the best of my memory, the transcript of his conversation with (unbeknownst to him, the worst person he could have possibly pulled this stunt on, let's call them Beth):

Customer: "I purchased this book yesterday because I couldn't find my other copy in my room. I found it now, and I'd like to return this. I'm returning this book."
Beth: "I'm sorry, but we can't do that. That is textbook; it's being used for a class. All books used for classes had to be returned by October 9th."
Customer: "But I just bought it yesterday."
Beth: "That... doesn't really matter, sir. The returns information is on that bright pink slip of paper stapled to your receipt..."
Customer: "I didn't read that. I didn't know. I'm returning this book."
Beth: "But you got in from the textbook aisle, right? And you didn't know it was a textbook?"
Customer: "Right."

long pause.

Beth: "OK, I'm going to make an exception, this one time..."
Customer: "Good, 'cause I make an exception to shop here. I've bought thousands of dollars of books here."
Beth: "An exception from what?"
Customer: "From shopping at other bookstores. From buying books on-line for a fraction of the price."
Beth: "OK, look, you've already won here. We're allowing the return. You don't have to yell anymore."
Customer: "Good, so let's just drop this, OK?"

long pause. transaction completed.

Beth: "Have a nice day." (said, amazingly, sans sarcasm).

There is lots to say here but firstly, even though I work here and have our best interests at heart, at the outset I hadn't taken sides. Our returns policy for textbooks is harsh, but it was enacted to prevent people from treating us like a lending library. Students would actually walk in, buy the book for class, and then return it an hour later after class was over. Most times the book would be damaged enough by handling, that the publishers we order from would deny us returns. In short, we're stuck with lots of books that don't look new and won't sell. Add that up every semester and in an unforgiving economy and yikes. No wonder bookstores are closing all over the place.

So yeah, the returns policy is harsh. And in this situation, I actually would have been inclined to cave. But it became very clear early on, perhaps the second "I'm returning this book" that this guy could give a care about us. He was used to getting his way, and in this case, being denied a return was the equivalent of telling him he failed at life. We were a tool at his disposal which when functioning correctly, always left him feeling better. Now I'm not sure if the whole "I already had the book" was true, or if he just did as he implies he goes out of his way to avoid, and his Amazon order just took longer than he thought to arrive. But the guy sure was a piece of work. We're not going out of our way to disservice you as an individual.

The second incident involved a woman who was asked to check her bag up front. She then proceeded to rattle on about how she "always hated this policy" and "been coming here for 20 years..." Well here's the thing. New people work the register every few months. To them it makes no difference if this was your first time in the store. And they aren't profiling. They are not judging you. You have to check your bag because everyone does. Everyone does because a few folks would like to fill their bags full of books and walk out with them. That, and its tiny and cramped in here. If everyone was walking around with a University sized book-bag stuffed with laptops and everything there would be no room to do anything. Don't be so entitled; it is unfair to give you preferential treatment.

rant over. sorry. weekend? ohsweetjesusyes.

Where Does Your Honor Lay?

Independent as fuck!

You've probably seen this phrase, most likely embossed in neon on a sticker affixed to a skateboard, streetlamp, or an otherwise "alternative" retailer's storefront window. It can mean various things, and i do not mean to suggest i am comprehensively aware of them all. But I do have a certain perspective, having worked for several years in an independent bookstore. I take a great amount of pride in where i work, and what I've been able to accomplish. And I've only just begun to understand the challenges and benefits of being independent.

Independent bookstores are dying, there is no denying this. Curiously, big chain bookstores are also doing downright poorly as well, but people have to be getting their books from somewhere, right? Turns out Amazon is that somewhere quite often. Amazon is wonderful for a great many reasons, some of which include information gathering, price discounts, and used goods. Serving a buying public in the hundreds of millions, Amazon purchases its products in massive quantities, often on consignment (i.e. under the premise that the goods are theirs forever, even if they do not sell). As everyone knows, the more of something you buy all at once, wholesale, the less you pay for it, and this is essentially how Amazon can offer such great prices.

An independent bookstore is a small operation, and cannot purchase things in large quantities. As such the products we receive are more expensive and need to be sold as such if we hope to break even, let alone make a profit. But this leaves us with a huge conundrum. Why on earth would anyone ever buy something through us, that they can get for cheaper elsewhere? In the end, we cannot hope to compete financially, but we can compete in the community, and that's where the 'Independent as Fuck!' attitude comes back into play.

Amazon is great in a lot of ways but it isn't a place and indie stores have some advantages. Some of these are tangible. You can't go to Amazon to see your favorite author give a reading. Some are less readily observable, and bit more, well, how can i say this without sounding like a bleeding heart liberal... economically moral. It is a difficult argument to make, and i do not even pretend to think that i can adequately explain myself here, but i will give it a try.

Every penny that comes in our front door goes to purchase more books for the store (and to pay our modest salaries etc.) With all of us living and working in the community, much of the money we make goes right back into the restaurants, bars, stores and venues around us. We also give small sums to various local charities and charge sales tax that goes to fix roads, fund schools, etc.

(Except in New York) Amazon does not charge sales tax. And with revenue in the billions, that's a lot of lost funds that could be used for all sorts of important things. As a 'store' that is not a place, Amazon does not give to your local charities. how could it unless it gave to all of them? So there is a whole lot of money coming in that has to be going somewhere, right? Amazon may even be very fair to it's many employees, I do not know. But what I do know is that the founder, Jeff Bezos is worth 6.8 billion dollars, and he is just one of it's board members. I'm sure that kind of corporate financial underpinning can make a great deal of good things happen, but that kind of accumulation and consoldation of wealth strikes me as exactly what your local community does not need. Surely some of that 6.8 Billion should be yours, yes? But then again you did not earn it, in fact, you may even have saved significant amounts of money by purchasing goods on Amazon for far less than you could elsewhere. you see how complicated this gets so fast?

I try and look at things as fairly as possible. This is less an us versus them scenraio, and more of a choice. You have a choice to buy independently, and a choice to buy from some entreprise like Amazon. It is not necessarily good versus evil, but do know that your choice has repercussions. Should you need to save those extra dollars by all means, do what you have to do to get by in increasingly difficult times. But also know that if you can afford to do so, shopping independently has its advantages. And a great many folks will benefit from your decision, not just a few.

Clash of Kings

I heart George R. R. Martin. There. I said it. In particular I love Martin's epic 'high fantasy' series the Song of Ice and Fire. I write 'high fantasy' in scare quotes because it seems that wherever I read this descriptor it is employed as defense against lowly ole genre fiction. I for one have nothing against lowly ole genre fiction. I like my pulp just as much as I like my Proust. More helpfully I think, is the kind of sci-fi/fantasy that 'high fantasy' implies. The scattered and often underwhelming forces of a few Good eggs versus a seemingly unstoppable tide of Evil. We're talking a broad scope, insurmountable odds, hundreds of characters, and thousands and thousands of pages. Tolkien is often the name folks cite when invoking 'high fantasy'. But Martin's world of Westeros, while it does contain fantastic elements, seems much more focused on people and how they deal with each other.

I have just finished the second volume of the saga, A Clash of Kings. Like all good sequels, it builds off the foundation without rehashing whats already come before. Straight out of the gates we're introduced to characters who previous played minor roles now creeping to the forefront after the treacherous political moves of Game of Thrones decimated some the kingdom's more honorable figures. While there was war in Thrones, there is carnage in Kings. Loosely based on the War of the Roses, Martin's epic features several rival families all clawing and stabbing to rule a continent. There is incest, backstabbing and blackmail aplenty. There are bitter sibling rivalries. There is religious fundamentalism. And there is Martin's trademark; no matter how important you think a character may be, nobody is safe.

Unfortunately I'm way behind. There are 2 giant-sized novels to go, and fifth due out in September. L has read everything that has seen print, and smiles whenever I mumble 'Good Lord' under my breath as my fingers rifle through pages. She knows what is in store for me and it's time to catch up.

the 100 greatest challenge

I've always been a huge fan of lists. Little did I know, but shortly after I met Croftie I found she was very found of a particular list. She had been steadily marching through the 100 greatest novels of all time, but I have made up some ground. Together we are unstoppable.

A code for below. The books I am certain that just I have read are in blue. Those I know Croftie has read are in red. Books we've both read are in green.

1. ULYSSES by James Joyce
2. THE GREAT GATSBY by F. Scott Fitzgerald
3. A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN by James Joyce
4. LOLITA by Vladimir Nabokov
5. BRAVE NEW WORLD by Aldous Huxley
6. THE SOUND AND THE FURY by William Faulkner
7. CATCH-22 (not entirely sure C has read this...)
   
8. DARKNESS AT NOON by Arthur Koestler
9. SONS AND LOVERS by D.H. Lawrence
10. THE GRAPES OF WRATH by John Steinbeck
11. UNDER THE VOLCANO by Malcolm Lowry
12. THE WAY OF ALL FLESH by Samuel Butler
13. 1984 by George Orwell
14. I, CLAUDIUS by Robert Graves
15. TO THE LIGHTHOUSE by Virginia Woolf
16. AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY by Theodore Dreiser
17. THE HEART IS A LONELY HUNTER by Carson McCullers
18. SLAUGHTERHOUSE-FIVE by Kurt Vonnegut
19. INVISIBLE MAN by Ralph Ellison
20. NATIVE SON by Richard Wright
21. HENDERSON THE RAIN KING by Saul Bellow
22. APPOINTMENT IN SAMARRA by John O'Hara
23. U.S.A. (trilogy) by John Dos Passos (I've read the first volume)
    
24. WINESBURG, OHIO by Sherwood Anderson
25. A PASSAGE TO INDIA by E.M. Forster
26. THE WINGS OF THE DOVE by Henry James
27. THE AMBASSADORS by Henry James
28. TENDER IS THE NIGHT by F. Scott Fitzgerald
29. THE STUDS LONIGAN TRILOGY by James T. Farrell (again, read bk1)
    
30. THE GOOD SOLDIER by Ford Madox Ford
31. ANIMAL FARM by George Orwell
32. THE GOLDEN BOWL by Henry James
33. SISTER CARRIE by Theodore Dreiser
34. A HANDFUL OF DUST by Evelyn Waugh
35. AS I LAY DYING by William Faulkner
36. ALL THE KING'S MEN by Robert Penn Warren (began this but couldn't stomach it)
    
37. THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY by Thornton Wilder
38. HOWARDS END by E.M. Forster
39. GO TELL IT ON THE MOUNTAIN by James Baldwin
40. THE HEART OF THE MATTER by Graham Greene
41. LORD OF THE FLIES by William Golding
42. DELIVERANCE by James Dickey
43. A DANCE TO THE MUSIC OF TIME (series) by Anthony Powell
44. POINT COUNTER POINT by Aldous Huxley
45. THE SUN ALSO RISES by Ernest Hemingway
46. THE SECRET AGENT by Joseph Conrad
47. NOSTROMO by Joseph Conrad
48. THE RAINBOW by D.H. Lawrence
49. WOMEN IN LOVE by D.H. Lawrence
50. TROPIC OF CANCER by Henry Miller
51. THE NAKED AND THE DEAD by Norman Mailer
52. PORTNOY'S COMPLAINT by Philip Roth
53. PALE FIRE by Vladimir Nabokov
54. LIGHT IN AUGUST by William Faulkner
55. ON THE ROAD by Jack Kerouac (hated it!)
    
56. THE MALTESE FALCON by Dashiell Hammett
57. PARADE'S END by Ford Madox Ford
58. THE AGE OF INNOCENCE by Edith Wharton
59. ZULEIKA DOBSON by Max Beerbohm
60. THE MOVIEGOER by Walker Percy
61. DEATH COMES FOR THE ARCHBISHOP by Willa Cather
62. FROM HERE TO ETERNITY by James Jones
63. THE WAPSHOT CHRONICLES by John Cheever
64. THE CATCHER IN THE RYE by J.D. Salinger
65. A CLOCKWORK ORANGE by Anthony Burgess
66. OF HUMAN BONDAGE by W. Somerset Maugham
67. HEART OF DARKNESS by Joseph Conrad
68. MAIN STREET by Sinclair Lewis
69. THE HOUSE OF MIRTH by Edith Wharton
70. THE ALEXANDRIA QUARTET by Lawrence Durell
71. A HIGH WIND IN JAMAICA by Richard Hughes
72. A HOUSE FOR MR BISWAS by V.S. Naipaul
73. THE DAY OF THE LOCUST by Nathanael West
74. A FAREWELL TO ARMS by Ernest Hemingway
75. SCOOP by Evelyn Waugh
76. THE PRIME OF MISS JEAN BRODIE by Muriel Spark
77. FINNEGANS WAKE by James Joyce
78. KIM by Rudyard Kipling
79. A ROOM WITH A VIEW by E.M. Forster
80. BRIDESHEAD REVISITED by Evelyn Waugh
81. THE ADVENTURES OF AUGIE MARCH by Saul Bellow
82. ANGLE OF REPOSE by Wallace Stegner
83. A BEND IN THE RIVER by V.S. Naipaul
84. THE DEATH OF THE HEART by Elizabeth Bowen
85. LORD JIM by Joseph Conrad
86. RAGTIME by E.L. Doctorow
87. THE OLD WIVES' TALE by Arnold Bennett
88. THE CALL OF THE WILD by Jack London
89. LOVING by Henry Green
90. MIDNIGHT'S CHILDREN by Salman Rushdie
91. TOBACCO ROAD by Erskine Caldwell
92. IRONWEED by William Kennedy
93. THE MAGUS by John Fowles
94. WIDE SARGASSO SEA by Jean Rhys
95. UNDER THE NET by Iris Murdoch
96. SOPHIE'S CHOICE by William Styron
97. THE SHELTERING SKY by Paul Bowles
98. THE POSTMAN ALWAYS RINGS TWICE by James M. Cain
99. THE GINGER MAN by J.P. Donleavy (think C started but never finished)
    
100. THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS by Booth Tarkington

Adventures in Bookselling

Today something odd happened. Which in and of itself isn't odd--strange things happen around here with alarming frequency. However this doesn't make them any less bizarre.

This morning a customer handed me book which she claimed was defective. The title: You never Call! You never Write!: A History of the Jewish Mother. I glanced at the cover, the binding, no scuffs or tears or anything that might suggest botched manufacturing. I began to think the lady was pulling a fast one on me, trying to get another 10% knocked off the price for no good reason. I was about to skim through the pages but was intercepted by the somewhat impatient costumer, "It's on the inside," she says.

Hidden between pages 224 and 225 was a thin card with this inspiring, no so subtle bit of proselytizing 'literature' on it:

Jesus answered and said unto him, "Most assuredly, I say unto you, unless one is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God." (John 3:3, 10:1, 14:6, 6:47-51; Acts 10:38; Rev 1:8)

I have to admit, it made me chuckle. That someone would go this far for so little. Really? A born again advertisement/condemnation in a history of Jewish mothers? This type of book sabotage is unfortunately not uncommon. I once had to go through the entire History of the Middle East section and fix every title having anything to do with Islam because some kind soul had turned each book around so that the spines were facing inward. A stupid prank all in all, but a bunch of the books were actually mangled in the process, probably not a big concern of the prick who did the job. So yeah, I was now a bit concerned other books would be very lazily vandalized.

But upon further exploration I found that the card wasn't simply stuck in the book, wedged down so it wouldn't fall out. It was actually pierced by the threads of the binding. Apparently the printing facilities for this particular press have at least one passive aggressive anti-Semite working very not-so-hard to get their message across to as small as segment of the population as possible. People sure have an odd way of following the edicts of their God. I just wish so many of them weren't so annoying about it.

Countdown to Christmas #5 (December 10th)

Having never read him before, and having never owned one of those nifty Library of America hardcover books, I decided to double up and purchase the Tales by Lovecraft. Now before I lay me down to sleep each evening I take a good few seconds summoning the courage to return to the Wawah, fail, read a comic book or two, and then dive into a short-story or two by Lovie.

Man was weird. And his stories--weirder. Also, a bit of a racist. I read some of his chronology appended in the back of the text and Lovecraft wrote some full blown "White is Best" essays and now I can't help but find hints at this thesis in his stories. I'm trying my hardest to not let this fact overwhelm things, because his work is definitely interesting nonetheless. And without much thought you can see just how influential his 'weird' fiction was for contemporary writers. I throw out the quotes because that word has become a genre somehow, and Lovecraft certainly has something to do with its conception. The problem, of course, is that 'weird' fiction has little in common with itself besides being mildly to shockingly off-putting. Aside from that, and the tendency to be fantastic or science fiction-y, weird fiction is a tag like Emo, one that gets used as a descriptor way too often and without much thought and in the end doesn't describe any one story/song so much as an idea.

Emo = Cthulu? Who knew?
Yikes, bad rhymes make for one uncomfortable exit.

Countdown to Christmas #3 (December 6th)

I read books. Most times i finish 'em. But often i don't. That's just the way it is. Sometimes I make it pretty far along and for some reason, some bright shiny thing distracts me say, or I forget to bring said book with me find myself with some down time and start something else only to find it more engrossing. So these 'once started' books find their way back to the bookcase after a short while, a short while where i tell myself every day that I will go back to them soon, that this momentary tryst with their rival is nothing at all, that's its their familiar and slightly tired pages I really want, etc. In any case, they find their way to the bookcase and sometimes take with them hidden jewels.

I'm a big fan of the unorthodox bookmark. Receipts, rave fliers, post-it notes, doodles, notes, souvenir concert tickets, old wallet-sized photos, birthday cards, I've used all of these and then some. So its always a surprise when I pick up a book i once started, flip through the pages and stumble upon an old familiar face that has nothing to do with the book in question. Sometimes the bookmark i find is very old friend, having led me through dozens of works or more only to be trapped greedily in the tepid clutches of an overdone 'masterpiece' like Love in the Time of Cholera (still haven't summoned the courage to return to that highfalutin mess) or just gets mired in something I really enjoy reading, just is too long or too clever for me to finish all in a row without dabbling into something else and getting distracted (like Borges' collected fictions or my Oxford World Classic King James Bible).

The other day Croftie picked up LitToC, read the first paragraph and grimmaced and nearly stuffed the novel back in its tidy grave in the bookcase before noticing a slight bump in the middle. She fluttered the pages and out fell a well worn flier from a canadian club, a place called the pub quartier latin in Montreal, a place i have no interest in going to but a place that saw fit to produce a flashy notecard sized add that subsequently accrued a wealth of memories for it saw me wade stoically through Moby Dick, helped me burn swiftly through Lolita and accompanied me on my Rendezvous with Rama. The flier is pockmarked and dog-eared, the glossy finished is gone in all but a few spots, a heavy creases line the lower right hand corner. Funny thing is... I remember making those deformations, or at least remember when they first occurred, sometimes far more than I remember the individual plot twists of the great works of literature that caused them. So weird what you remember. So strange what lingers and against all odds, returns and makes you smile.

adding another jewel to yee olde bookcase

It officially goes on sale tomorrow. I've had it in some form since March (via an advanced reader's paperback galley edition). Today, the 'real' books arrived at the store and one was damaged. So I'll be taking him home tonight, to sleep amongst friends on my bookcase. He's enormous and hardcover and wonderful and normally $37 and promises to be a phenomenal translation of an even phenomenaler work (which i read in a different translation a few years back in my great books in world lit kick). His flaws, his I'm not fit to be sold in a bookstore flaws, were easily fixed with a razor (for a few of his pages were over long, all he needed was some love and a haircut). God i love working in a bookstore.

Books of Doug: #1

First off, if you haven't already, read this:
Books of Doug Mission Statement

Books of Doug #1: Richard Bachman's The Long Walk

Before reality television, before Battle Royale, before the Patriot Act, before he gave up the pseudonym 'Richard Bachman,' Stephen King wrote a slim gem of a novel in the year I was born, 1979. The premise, though deceptively simple, is nearly impossible to relate in a satisfying way. The story is set in the near future, in an America which is just slightly dystopian. Every year 100 young men approximately 16-18 years of age are selected at random out of a pool of hundreds of thousands of applicants to compete in what has become America's premiere 'sporting/reality television' competition. These 100 boys gather on May 1st at the Maine/Canada border. At 9:00am they all begin walking south, and must keep a pace of at least 4mph. If they fall below this speed they are given a warning. If they remain under this speed for an addition minute they are given a second warning. Warnings can also be obtained for a variety of offenses such as attacking a fellow walker. If a walker is warned a third time and still does not pull things together he is given 'his ticket' and is out of the walk. Of course this being a King story, the 'ticket' is a bullet in the head.

The first objection to such a story might be, 'well, its just a bunch of kids walking and dying.' And i would respond, "Yes. That's exactly why it is so good." There is zero artifice here. We get to know a great many of the walkers through the eyes of Ray Garraty, the protagnist everyman type, and much of the novel revolves around the mundane. Talking, boasting, playing, arguing, bullshitting, eating, dozing, etc. It is because the contents of the Walk are so everyday that both its horrific premise and its philosophical themes resonate so clearly. This is not Battle Royale where kids are forced to put a weapon in their hand and kill their fellow classmates and the most vicious, violent and clever walk away in the end. But in a certain sense it is no different. Weapons are replaced by one's own will-power, one's desire to live. You still have to 'kill' everyone else, you just let them do the honors of bowing out on their own.

Yet it is the humanity between the competitors in the Long Walk which is the most striking features. King has always been an expert character author, and by the time we are 5 miles down the road he has created a host of likeable, wonderful, complex, and dark young men. By the time each of these boys reach the end of their tethers you are rooting for them to go further, you care about them, you relate to them, they remind you of someone you grew up with, or someoby you wish you grew up with. And this empathetic reaction can only be achieved through very plain, realistic writing.

King's prose is just that. It is also full of gore and violent imagery but I needn't have to point out, so is life. His writing can be painfully bad at times, at one point in my life I decided to 're-write' this story on my own, and I even began copying the novel, sentence for sentence, 'improving' sentence structure and word choice where i could, for the first few chapters until I realized what I was doing was ridiculous. King's prose for the most part is sound enough, and when it fails it doesn't sink the ship. The only way it would was if his philosophy was ornate and over-complicated and over-wrought like so many young authors strive for these days. King's themes are humble and almost transparently simple. Everyone, walker or no, has their own road to travel and when it is your time to buy out, you do, and the only thing that was important along the way was treating your fellow man with respect and diginity, helping them in their times of need as much as you can, making their lives as fun and happy and joyful as possible for what little time we share with them.

The fact that this dystopian future is so close to actually being here is another matter which greatly enhances the appeal of the book. Personal liberties have been restricted to protect the country against, in the case, certain unnamed communist and fascist regimes that would seek to ruin America. America in return has become a sort of totalitarian state where people disappear if they are enemies of peace or speak out against the government. King calls this disappearing act 'being squadded.' Garraty's Father who plays a much more important role in the novel than he might first appear to, is one such political dissident. Yet the populace must be placated too, thus the advent of events like ther Long Walk which has become kind of like the super bowl, march madness, the world series, and American Idol combined. Billions are wagered on who will win, what total number of miles each walker will walk. Millions crowd the sides of the roads for the chance to see someone get their ticket, or to grab a discarded shoe or other much more disturbing souvenirs. Ancient Rome's gladitorial arena is echoed here, but also the crowds around the Reign of Terror's public executions. If anyone is the villain or antagonist of the Long Walk it is King's rendering of the Crowd, a blank, faceless wall of bloodlust and human depravity.

Against this wall the walkers stand out as if spotlighted. They tell jokes, miss their girlfriends/wives, reminisce about their favorite moments growing up, miss their moms and dads, tell stories, live life. And then of course they die. They die from foot cramps, from sun-stroke, from malnutrition, from blisters, from bad luck, from lack of fitness, but mostly from fatigue. Some try and escape off the road and are shot as soon as their foot leaves the pavement, one of the few times you don't get a warning. Two even storm the rumbling half-track tank-like vehicle that drives beside the walkers and carries the soldiers and their equipment which keeps tabs on the walkers speeds and whereabouts. But they all die except for one.

Now the first question Lara asked me when I told her the plot of the Long Walk was, "why would anyone sign up for this horrible thing?" For lots of reasons, the least applicable but most obvious one being the 'Prize'. If you win, the goverment supplies you with anything you could ever want for the rest of your life. The catch, of course, is that by the time there is only one person left standing said person is usually in a pretty bad state, their desires are leveled to basic necessities, and the prize often just turns out to be one's life. Other reasons for signing up are less obvious and have to be inferred. Perhaps this version of America, while far from Stalin's Russia, is not a very pleasant place to live, or it is hard to work one's way up in life. Many of the walkers are poor, in fact all of them that we are introduced to are lower middle class or less. Walkers also attain a brief but awesome kind of celebrity. And there is certainly a sort of masculine stoic pride involved, of proving that one is not afraid of overwhelming odds, that one is man enough to walk down every one of one's peers, of bending others to one's will.

Yet one of the stars of the Long Walk, a kid named Pete McVries figures out the most likely reason. Suicide. Its basic and it's freudian as hell, it's the death drive laid out on a bare table for everyone to see. But like the death drive it isn't so simple. Because the death drive is also simultaneously the the desire to live one's life to the fullest, and the walkers certainly do that, albeit at an accelerated pace. To live one's life in just a few days.

There are some wonderful moments here, during the 'living'. Ray Garraty spends most of the first 3/4s of the novel walking through Maine because he knows that in his home town he will get to see his girlfriend and his mother. Doubts as to whether he will make it that far (more than half of his friends don't) or see them in the thick crowd haunt him the entire way. But when he finds them he doesn't have any warnings and he gets to stand with them, holding their hands, mouthing sentiments over the deafening crowd noise. Yet in the end McVries has to drag Garraty away from his loved ones against his will shouting 'what do you want Ray? Do you want the last thing they'll remember you by is the stink of your blood on their clothes?" Lest we forget this is a horror story after all.

The end of the Long Walk is as powerful as it is enigmatic. I won't go so far as to tell you who wins, though it becomes clear enough once you are only a few pages in. It is how they win that is so disturbing. No, they don't kill anyone, and they don't pull off some miraculous feat. They simply carry on further than anyone else. But that's not important. What is important comes next. As the Jeep rolls up carrying the grand marshal of this event, the Major as he is called, the last boy standing stops walking. He stares at the Jeep but then sees a figure, either dressed in black or in silhouette standing on the horizon. As the Major claps his hand on his shoulder the boy shrugs it off, begins walking to the mysterious figure. When the major claps down once more the boy "finds enough inside himself to run."

There is a huge debate as to who or what this figure represents. Some say it is the personification of Death, and that at this moment the last boy left dies. Or that this figure appears to lead the last boy into 'whatever comes next' after life. I prefer to think, whether or not the last boy lives or dies, that this black figure is his Father, or someone else in his life, someone he has lost, and he is delusional, perhaps lost his mind. Maybe it is a combination of some of these theories. Maybe the boy dies, sees his Father and runs with him into 'whatever comes next.' In either case the ambiguity, something which King is careful to avoid throughout the entire length of the stark, plain novel, has an awesome force. Like Garraty's girl and mother in Freeport, the last page alone is enough to keep me going further, reading this novel again and again.

Other notable works by King that came close to making 'the Books of doug" and might appear later in the series if I decide that the one book by one author rule is silly and arbitrary:

The Eyes of the Dragon
The Stand
The Dark Tower Series
The Talisman (with Peter Straub)

Books of Doug: Mission Statement

Books are pretty damn important to me. One might go so far as to say they are my life. I work in a bookstore, I have a Masters degree in reading books, and as a writer and aspiring author I seek to create even more books. Yet above all else I enjoy reading books. I cannot even remember the last time I went a whole day without reading at least a few pages of something or other. What a horrible day that would be.

There are a select few books which I return to, year after year, sometimes every few years, which if they do not define me as a person, certainly define me as a writer, define me as the type of published author I wish to be. Recently I've decided to revisit, yet again, some of these titles that i know practically by heart. If you are wondering why on earth I would read a story I already know inside and out, then you are missing the point, and this series of articles I am about to post is not for you. But if you are the type of person who has slowly cultivated a private collection of dear, dear friends, 'desert island' books if you will, books you'd save from your burning apartment if you only had time to grab a handful or so, or you are curious as to what stories I've sewn myself together out of, then read on.

Some of these stories are masterful compositions, canonical works of literature with characters, dialogue, plot points embedded in the popular psyche of the modern mind. Some are obscure. Some are blatant rip-offs of other, perhaps 'better' works, and still others most would consider meaningless tripe, airport novels, or just plain bad writing. But the point is, they all mean a good deal to me. I love them for their faults as well as their beautiful moments. In short, I wouldn't have them any other way.

If you want to continue on to the first article in this series, you can do so by clicking here.

A Horse is a Horse

(of course, of course)

Why do the most abominable things in my life happen in threes? I've already documented the Bathroom Trilogy of Terror. Now I'm smack-dab in the middle of a creepy old man/sexual predator triple header. Bus-stop was only the first example.

Yesterday I got to work and was told to go clean up some books that were returned the previous day--not my job, but the actual person who does this has been sick, so I happily consented. At that early hour of the morning few employees are working and even fewer customers are shopping. Its generally quiet and one can get many things done very swiftly. The large stack of returners was located at the register, a cramped space to begin with. Take said tight space and add a moveable cart, the heap of books, myself and the cashier clerk, let's call her Jezebel, and there's not much room at all.

Jezebel, a part timer who exclusively works the register, is a busy body, an infamous sychophant, and today, rather scantily clad. In her hair is a crown of what appears to be dandelions. She is wearing a white canvas-like dress that has a preposterously low neck-line. Its just all hanging out there for anyone to see. Moveable cart between us, I begin to load the heap of books and bus them out of there when a customer comes in.

I immediately get a very very bad feeling about this. The man is a regular and slightly... off. There are rumors he did a lot of cocaine in the 80s and I'm not going to say I disagree with these assertions. He's a bit of a Robin Williams type, constantly mumbling things, mostly nonsensical, many of them jokes, claims to see leprechauns hiding behind bookshelves around St Patrick's day, does turkey-calls around thanksgiving, etc. The man comes over to the counter and his endless stream of consciousness stammers when his eyes fall on Jezebel. He recovers quickly however and spouts,

"Why, you must be Lady Godiva!"

Jezebel nervously laughs and maybe turns red, I've got my back to both of them and can't say for sure. The cart is loaded up and I turn around only to receive a second salvo,

"And you must be the Horse!"

Now, I am pretty well versed in myths, legends, histories and such things but these allusions failed me. I looked at Jezebel and raised the 'I have no idea whats going on' eye-brow. She smiles and turns away from the creepy customer. I leave her after the man is gone. Hours later it occurs to me to find out just what the hell was going on. When I get some downtime around lunch I wikipedia 'Lady Godiva' and immediately make the 'so shocked they climb up and almost off my forehead' eye-brows. Turns out Lady Godiva has nothing to do with chocolate (my only previous connotation of the name) and is a famous woman who paraded naked on a horse around the streets of some English city for some noble cause or other.

Now, lemme try and understand this. Was the creepy old man trying to give the young girl a compliment? If so, the horse comment that followed cannot be regarded in any way but sexually. She rides the damn horse for crissakes. Compliment? seems unlikely. So was he admonishing her in some weird literary way? I haven't the foggiest. All I know is that I am glad i didn't know the allusion at the time it was said. Manageable awkward would have been replaced with Apocalyptic awkward. And I can only imagine how this horrible trilogy will be completed...

the contemplative life

After a myriad recommendations I finally decided to pick up a copy of At Swim-Two-Birds by Flann O'Brien. And I can't quite put the damnable thing down. I find myself laughing at the most inopportune moments like on the Red-Line right after a drunken WhiteSox Dad has just asked his 8 yeard old daughter to quote, "Pull my finger." I'm sorry, I wasn't laughing at your delightfully uncouth sense of humor DrunkenWhiteSoxDad, but at the sheer magnificence of O'Brien understatements. For example we are introduced to an un-named young author/student who does little but sleep and drink. It takes no time at all to come to the conclusion that this chap is lazy. The closest O'Brien comes to actually declaring this is when he has the young man say "the contemplative life has always been suitable to my disposition." O'Brien later describes a rough'n'tumble poet 'of the people' who spits and is generally manly. After much description pertaining to the color of his phlegm and the sounds made when said mucous is expectorated the author adds: "In some respects [Kelly] was a coarse man."

But the novel is also a very difficult one. I'm still trying to come to grips with its odd structure of story within story within story. What makes things more complicated is that the characters the un-named narrator creates in his own fiction sometimes interact with the 'real' people in the narrator's world. And that Trellis, one of the characters the un-named author invents, is an author himself, and that Trellis' creations weave in and out of the other author's fictions. Its enough to give one a head-ache if it were not so fun, funny, and rewarding, 'cause I like me a book that doesn't give itself up like some brazen hussy. There is such a thing as courting one's novels and I'll be sad when this courtship comes to an end in 121 pages. There's always The Third Policeman i guess.