A strange, almost surreal thing happened to me a month ago. A bookish friend had brought me to a thrift shop in some far-distant suburb I could never have reached on my own, carless as I happily am, and we found the place to be pretty much exactly what you might expect. The store speakers were cycling between “Stayin’ Alive” and the greatest hits of Hall & Oates, the shoppers were pushing carts full of old clothing, and the shelves were crowded with chipped tchotchkes. Shops like this always have a pro forma section of books, but those books are usually even more predictable than the silk-screened “Hang In There” wall-hangings. Old romance novels, old Tom Clancy paperbacks, well-worn copies of Bill Bryson.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Stevereads to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.