Confession

Today I spent $40 on books. I just had to get that off my chest.

Really, it's my first truly indulgent purchase since I moved here. Otherwise all my spending has been on food or drinks (and the drinks I justify as necessary to the making-new-friends process) and the occasional bus trip to visit family or friends. But I thought, here I am in Union Square with a little time to kill, and, well, there's the Strand.

I left all my books at home for space and packing reasons. There's a beautiful untouched library there now, books stacked high against the blue walls of my room in California, and no one to read them. One day, I don't know what I'll do, maybe pile them all into a car and drive to wherever my new home is. But for now, I'm in so much transition I can't have them with me. I've been trying to read New Press books as much as possible (they're free and, after all, what I do now), but I just really wanted something different.

Today the Strand was full with people seeking refuge from the rain, brushing our wet umbrellas against each other as we negotiated space in the narrow aisles. At first that place always seems too big, too crowded, the shelves stretching up so high I can't even read the spines. I thought about leaving emptyhanded. But that's what bookbuying is like, you have to wait for a while, no pressure, just meander, until you get a good idea or see something you'd forgotten about. And then the momentum builds.

First I picked up a George Saunders collection, which got bumped after I remembered some other short stories of interest, namely Garcia Marquez's Strange Pilgrims. Then I hunted down a cheap copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover---remember when I wanted to write my thesis on D.H. Lawrence?---as a consolation for the beautiful second American edition of the uncensored version that I saw in Maine and didn't buy because it was just too dear ($27). Although now that I think about how I just splurged on the Miranda July book for $17 (the yellow one; they didn't have the pink), I'm thinking it was a mistake to pass up that lovely old Lawrence book. Oh well. I considered getting a cheap Daniel Deronda, too, but it was just too ugly to be worth it. And then on the way out the door, I impulse bought Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities.

Now that I've catalogued my loot I feel a little better.