“And who understands? Not me, because if I did I would forgive it all.”
― Ernest Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls

We like books. Not so much novels (though I do read them sometimes and Louis had been somewhat of a Stephen King fan at one point or another, as well as an Anne Rice fan) but usually informational books: science books, certain how-to books, etc. My kids enjoy books too. There is an uproar if we skip reading them a bedtime story. And I know my nieces enjoy books too (more on that in another post). I’m glad it runs in the family. I have a particular obsession with my books. I like them to remain as new as possible: no creases, bends, markings, rips/tears, etc. I flip-out if someone mishandles them – really flip-out. My brother was aware of my obsession and told me I’d get over it one day:

“How can you do that to your book?” I said, noticing how worn it was. “I like my books to stay new.”

“I used to be like that too. I like my books old now. You’ll get over it one day. You’ll see.”

“Not bloody likely,” I said.

Well, I think that day has arrived. I was looking at a paperback on amazon today. It costs about $15 new. I happened to notice that there are used versions of the book for as low as $0.01. (You read that right – 1 cent!) Now I’m thinking: “I can forego the newness of this book for a virtual 100% price reduction. It’s practically free for crying out loud!”

Suddenly, and maybe not so surprisingly, new mint books have lost their luster.