Foppish Tales of Overindulgence and
Literary Snobbery

Literary Pantie Sniffing

I smell the pages of new books. The intoxicating perfume of fresh pulp makes me light headed. I’m a literary panty-sniffer. I skulk between the stacks at bookstores, crack open the pages of new book, and stick my snout right into the spine to snort like a sow in heat.

Snark! Snark! Ahhhh…

It’s unbecoming, I know. So I hide this behavior – who wouldn’t? I find lonely nooks in the bookstore and carefully scout the vicinity to make sure I’m not being watched (damn those security cameras!). Then when I’m sure I’m alone, my nose takes the plunge.

Snark! Snark! Ahhhh…

Do the pantie-sniffing perverts operate this way in Victoria’s Secret? Do they seek out dark areas in the aisles so they can stick g-strings and thongs up their nostrils?

Oh, the humanity!

On Ignoring Updike

I’ve scorned John Updike. I’ve never finished one of his novels – nor have I read any of his articles, short stories, or grocery lists. I started reading “The Witches of Eastwick” and “Rabbit, Run.” Both books bored me to tears within the first few pages.

I confess to being mystified and slightly irritated by Updike and his success. He’s one of poster children for the intellectual New York set (you know the type – insufferably liberal New Yorker readers who listen to chamber music). They adore Updike almost as much as Philip Roth (who I have read and enjoyed).

I’m no expert on Updike’s writing (how could I be?). But from what I’ve read, Updike’s writing seems too crafted – too unnatural. It reads like it was written and then rewritten and then edited.

That said I will always give the little literary bitch credit for calling Fenway Park a “lyric little bandbox of a ballpark.”

That’s just perfect.

Stolen Moments of Delight

I get around. I read about 50 books a year – but I buy about three times that number. My unread stack is enormous: A skyscraper built with low quality concrete. If it topples, it will crush my neighbor’s house.

I could stop buying new books right now and have enough reading material for the next five years (especially if I break into the books that have been packed into boxes and now reside in the bleakness of my basement – poor darlings).

My addiction drives my wife crazy. When I come home with a new book – I get the look. If only she knew the truth – that I hide most of my purchases. When I go to a bookstore (snorting away in my private moments) and make a flurry of purchases, the items rarely make it out of my car trunk.

I’ll wait for the coast to be clear before smuggling them inside.

I’m a sad, sad man.

Soft, Not Hard

I prefer not to read hardcover books – and I rarely buy them. But I’m not a fan of paperbacks either. I prefer the oversized, trade paperbacks.

I love them.

They smell divine and they’re easy to handle while reading in bed.

Rrrrrr.

Playing Favorites

I don’t play favorites either. One question that stumps me always is: Who is your favorite author. Why not ask me if I love my mother or father best? Or which one of my children is better?

Book Man-Whores love many authors. Dearly! Passionately!

But I do have a stable of writers I return to often: Tobias Wolff, Pete Dexter, Tim O’Brien, Michael Connolly, Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, and Charles Dickens.

I Own You

I don’t like to share my books. Why should I? But even worse, I need to own them – dominate them completely. That’s why libraries are useless to me. Borrowing books feels sleazy and dishonest (have you seen those hideously unfriendly librarians in action?).

And have you smelled a library book?

Yuck!

But part of me wishes I could sink the level of “borrowing.” Think of the money I’d save (and the storage space I’d get back). Ownership – possession – is part of the addiction to me.

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Labels: books, Essay, John Updike, literature

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