Cornstalk

I have spent my day and days off in idle pursuits. [Read: I’ve flicked through the easy bits of the weekend papers, read bits of books I’ve read before, spent too much time on the internet, done none of my housework, and drunk some beer.] This afternoon I felt the need to do something – okay, I lie, I wanted to make good on cheap books – and took a wander down to Cornstalk. I must admit that I picked up some gems and have given my arms a lovely workout on the walk home. What I had not expected was to feel so guilty about profiteering. It seems reasonable that when a store closes the stock’s price is reduced. So far so good. The harassed and saddened looking owner charging next to nothing for his stock – not so good. Had I been a better customer I would’ve spent some more time in his store and more money buying his stock. Insofar as second-hand bookshops go I have had some fantastic finds in Cornstalk. Today was no exception. Yet, somehow, my economical purchases have been cheapened by the loss of the store. Ironically, I wish I’d paid full price. I wish I’d bought more often from there. I wish I could have tipped him or something.
Then again, if books can be memorials and holders of memory and all things wonderful then my epitaph for Cornstalk shall be the charming little tome ‘The Intelligent Woman’s Guide to Socialism and Capitalism’ by Bernard Shaw. How could I let anyone but me buy this? Well, obviously, I couldn’t. I have yet to read a page and already I am smitten. [– well, who wouldn’t be with such a title?] It combines two of my favourite things, history and politics, in my preferred context. Dating from 1928 it is inherently historical and its content is political [I am so excited by my find that I am failing to articulate my meaning!]. I do love to read about political innovation and innovations in political thought from a time before the phrases are hackneyed and their meanings altered. Not that these were ‘new’ ideas in the late nineteen-twenties merely newer than now. So much more fascinating and exciting then than now. I think I might have to go off, think about what I mean to say, worship my sweet little book [take it to bed, gaze at it adoringly, that kind of thing..] and perhaps come back, one day, and blog further.
There were other books and I bought a [very heavy] handful – a volume of science fiction short stories from between 1942 and 1969, the cover of which reads ‘Adventures in Religious Science Fiction’, could be fun for a buck; a copy of ‘The Silmarillion’ from the year of my birth, I strongly suspect that my father may thieve this; ‘Radio Free Europe and the Pursuit of Democracy’ – good experiences with Nancy Mitford have left me with an eagerness to purchase anything with ‘the pursuit of’ in the title; and some Christina Stead because I always feel so slack for never reading Australian fiction – especially that written by women. I love new old books. I am such a book tragic. Now fuck off, dear readers, I have books to play with!