Do you ever look at your shelves of books and feel overwhelmed? Last Spring, in full Zen mode, I began the big clear out. I don’t like throwing books in the bin, so I thought I’d put them on the sidewalk in sets of twelve over a period of a few weeks. I choose the first set, all in in excellent condition. Internet Explorer 5. Secrets of Windows ‘98. Gary Snyder's ‘Riprap’ poems. Miss Garnett's Angel. Theories of Colour, etc. I search out a yellow plastic box, and stack them neatly side by side in the box, spines showing. I take it downstairs and leave the box with the books inside on the sidewalk. I also have a dodgy TV to go, so I nip back upstairs for it. When I return there's a skinny nervous, small-eyed, brown-teethed guy there, well shifty. He is arguing with his formidable, large bun-haired wife. He wants to take the box. I am thinking he means take the whole box, with all the books. For a brief moment I am impressed. he must be a real reader, you can't judge a book by its cover. Bad pun. Then the wife says, “Do we need any more boxes? Do we? No. We don't need any more boxes.” He says he will keep it in the garage. She says the garage is already full of boxes, there’s no room for any more. He takes the box anyway, and then he tips all the books out, leaving them sprawled over the sidewalk, pages flapping in the breeze. Maybe you can judge a book by its cover. They both walk up the road arguing furiously as he is checking out every corner of his new box.
Now a while back I couldn't wait to lose these books. All of a sudden I am miffed at the the wiry man for scattering the books and just walking away. I feel vandalised. I neatly lay the books out next to each other on a low raised wall. As I am doing so a tall, soft-footed character with electric hair comes gliding by. He stops, scans the books, smiles at one that catches his eye. He reaches down, speaks quietly to himself, “Ah! Riprap!” He carefully picks up Gary Snyder's book. “Thank-you!,” I say to him. He looks at me and blinks in a kindly way. Then he eases on down the street, absorbed in reading his new-found Riprap poems. I look pitifully at the other books, hoping they too will find such discerning owners. Then I realise something. I want that box back. An empty box. Now there's something I could use.
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