Barnes and Nobility

Not that I don’t have enough books as it is, but I once again found myself in a book store this evening, looking to add to the imposing stack of books waiting to be read.

Okay, stack is too meager a term, there are literally shelves of them. But that’s beside the point.

I found two likely candidates, one the first book in a series that looked interesting, the other the second in a series whose first book I’m reading right now and enjoying. But in the end, I left the store with nothing (while my fiancee walked out with a book, which is a real switch). Why? Was it finances? Was it the realization that I had enough unfinished business book-wise?

No, it was because one had a small tear on the spine and the other had some bent pages.

It’s not that I treat my books as pristine objects once I get them home. Oh, I’m not tossing them around the house and ripping pages out, but I’m not storing them like the copy of the Declaration of Independence either. But dammit, if someone is going to put some wear and tear on one of my books, it’s going to be me. I’m not buying it that way. I want to choose where the creases and rips go, not someone who pawed it in the middle of Barnes and Noble.

Now, are you ready for the really sick part? I have no problem buying used books. Because I’m not paying full price for damaged goods. And because at least the former owner had enough respect to pass the book on to someone else when they were done with it instead of just tossing it.

So I walked out empty handed. And the funny thing? The book I got for my fiancee had a big crease on the back cover. And she didn’t care.

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