I am contemplating just such a delicious, precarious pile of tomes of eclectic persuasion, gleaned from the basement archives of the Powassan Library, commonly known as the used book store. Into this cool little cave are regularly deposited everything from the contents of Grandma's cottage bookshelf to the detritus of the departing college student. Such has been the largesse of donations lately that library staff had begun to beg anyone who looked like a volunteer and could employ the enviable skill of alphabetizing to please, please have a go at weeding out some of the less saleable material and shelving the rest.
So it was that I recently gamely headed down, only to emerge hours later with the bounty described above, now perching on the side of my desk. The cost of such a treasure is a donation of my own choosing. And while I hope to assist in the basement again I can't imagine it happening any time soon. If I get my nose into any one of my chosen dozen--and my butt into said comfortable deck chair--I fear I will be listed as AWOL by family and Facebook friends and library staff needing a hand.
A stunning, possibly mind-boggling array right? Ahh.
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The charms of summer have their ways and I have learned it is best to go with the serendipitousness. If company cancels, one should immediately freeze the planned meal ingredients, check that the supply of hot dogs is bountiful and dive into the nearest book. Thus it was that I found myself on the cottage deck with tears of laughter rolling onto the pages of David Rakoff's Don't Get Too Comfortable. It is an autobiographical collection of humorous essays by a former Canadian living in New York.
At one point, he riffs on the matrons who attend the couturier shows during fashion week as only a gay man can. Even though that scene is so far out of my milieu I can envision "those fabulously wealthy Ladies who actually buy and wear the dresses. They are a small group and, as far as I can tell, not related, but it is extraordinary how many of them look as alike as sisters. Perhaps it is their universal whippet thinness, the shared knife-blade noses, or the full, pillowy mouths. Or is it the look of constant surprise in their unnaturally wide, unblinking eyes? The Ladies are an uncanny cluster of genetic coincidence..."
No matter the topic, be it "the indignities of coach class, the torments of low thread count, the never-ending quest for artisanal olive oil and other First World problems", the book's subtitle, he succinctly documents our truths and ridiculousness in an intelligent David Seders-like style.
Sadly my discovery of this author has been tempered by research into his other publishings. They stopped abruptly in 2013 due to his death at 47 from cancer. So even though I have sworn off restocking my recently decluttered book shelves, I may have to make an exception in this case and scour about for all his works. Don't tell my husband.
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The other lovely discovery of my summer has been another Canadian author, Robertson Davies. (Also dead but at least he lived into his 80s and left us a bountiful trove of trilogies, novels and plays.) I am happily in the middle of The Cunning Man, enjoying the talent of a true wordsmith as he moves his story through Sioux Lookout and Toronto. I wonder if Canadian Lit students are studying him these days. In a way I hope not. Although he is a treasure I would hate to think of how the joy and artistry would be beaten out of his works in a typical high school novel study. Maybe better to spread free copies of his works around cafes and the internet for young people to discover.
Or convince them to spend some quality time in the new or used sections of a library. Happy reading.
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