I finished “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott today morning and before keeping it back to the wooden shelf doubling up as a TV stand, I scribbled, “2012” on the front page.
Ostensibly, to sit with grand kids fifty years hence, pick it up and tell them, “Look, I bought this book in 2012. Yes, they had books and even ball pens in 2012”.
Even that would be using the book as a trophy – as an 85 year old shriveled pale shadow of my today’s self.
I do that even today – using books as a trophy.
Fuckin’ vain wannabe.
Call me that but its true.
I love recommending books to anyone who sees them on the shelf in my bedroom or under the table in my drawing room or on the floor in one of the rooms I only use to look for missing car keys (which is not quite rare). I love talking about how there are a couple of books I have read some 10 times just as there are movies I have seen fifty times.
I love showing off new books that I buy – not that I put them in a showcase in the drawing room for everyone from the doodhwala to the neighborhood middle aged loser to see. But yes, anyone who cares to a dig a bit deeper, I feel proud when people see books dealing with esoteric ideas on my table. I guess they feel, “Fuck, this guy is so intelligent” and I feel smug. Guess it makes me feel intelligent. Guess it makes me an empty vessel.
Whatever. Looks like it did make up for a decent opening piece.
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