Greetings,
Even though I technically have a rule of donating one book for every new book I bring in, I tend to overlook it until my shelves and coffee table are overflowing. Naturally, I can’t resist attending my library’s biannual book sale, and I’ve even volunteered in the past just to get early access.
What sorts of treasures have I found at these sales? Everything. Last year, I picked up a battered 1957 manual of “The Better Homes & Gardens Handyman’s Book” that I use for simple home repairs. I also discovered a beautifully illustrated, six-decade-old cocktail book called “The ABC of Cocktails” full of drinks I’ve never heard of before and an unusual cookbook from 1951, “Large Quantity Recipes,” which gives instructions for making beet cocktail for 50. Cookbooks from church groups and clubs are especially captivating, particularly when there are annotations — “Never again!” someone wrote angrily over a recipe in a crumbling Dallas Junior League cookbook.
Yet my favorite finds are the frayed paperbacks, fiction that I never knew I needed to read.
—Tina Jordan
Last year, I discovered two of Rex Stout’s beloved Nero Wolfe mysteries, neither of which I had previously read. Although there are dozens of them, the first two I came across were No. 13, “And Be a Villain,” and No. 30, a compilation of novellas entitled “And Four to Go.” It disappointed me that I wasn’t starting at No. 1 (I prefer reading in order), but I took the plunge. I was instantly smitten with Wolfe, an ornery detective who despises leaving his luxurious brownstone on 35th Street. While he solves crimes with his assistant, Archie Goodwin, he fusses over rare orchids and consumes extravagant meals courtesy of his chef, Fritz. The mysteries in these two books are fairly traditional — cyanide poisonings, for example — but Wolfe is the appeal, a magnificent and quirky detective overly fond of yellow silk pajamas, comfortable chairs, and the word “flummery.” Lord Peter Wimsey and Hercule Poirot seem bland in comparison.
Read if you like: Dorothy Sayers, Louise Penny, Josephine Tey, P.D. James
Available from: Libraries and bookstores (though you may have to place an order). I’ve discovered the audio versions, which are excellent.
Here’s a rare find that I came across at a library sale: a satirical novel that lampoons the inner workings of a fictitious book review that bears a striking resemblance to The New York Times Book Review. The author was an editor at The New York Times Book Review for many years but took early retirement after The Nation published the first two chapters of “The Belles Lettres Papers.” (He later stated, “I made up the facts, but not the essence.”)
“The Belles Lettres Papers” may not sound appealing as a parody of the stuffy, formal world of literary criticism in the 1980s, but it’s sharp and entertaining, filled with transparent characters and publishing scandals. The New York Times reviewed the book under the headline “Anyone We Know?,” describing it as “knowing and satirical, with a vengeful edge and in-jokes — plenty of references to authors and critics that most people don’t know about, many razor-sharp barbs, and jingling clefs.”
Read if you like: Books about the publishing industry like “The Man on the Third Floor” by Anne Bernays; “Three-Martini Lunch” by Suzanne Rindell; and “The Accident” by Chris Pavone
Available from: Libraries
Why not …
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Become a larker? Lara Maiklem, a mudlarker from London, sifts through the debris along the banks of the Thames during low tide and discovers historical treasures, such as Roman brooches, Elizabethan coins, medieval shoe buckles, and Tudor footwear. However, as she notes in “A Field Guide to Larking,” you don’t have to live near a river to go larking. “Larking is the art of discovering items that don’t belong, ownerless objects that have been lost, abandoned, and displaced…. The world is filled with fascinating things; you just need to take your time to find them.”
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Get completely and utterly lost in “The Master Theorem: A Book of Puzzles, Intrigue and Wit,” which is so perplexing that it produces a sense of escape-room panic?
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Take a bite out of “Philip Sparrow Tells All: Lost Essays by Samuel Steward, Writer, Professor, Tattoo Artist,” which originally appeared in The Illinois Dental Journal in the 1940s. I guarantee that these morose, melancholic, Sedaris-esque essays on cryptography, bodybuilding, Gertrude Stein, ballet, men’s fashion, and Chicago contain nothing related to teeth or dentistry.
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