Books Books Books

I was going to go on a rant about D.C. traffic this morning. But then I thought: WHY BOTHER? So the pricey narrow little streets of Georgetown have pricey little Hummers rambling about (with no mountains--or wilderness for that matter--that I can see), so what? Big asses and big egos need that sort of thing I suppose. Don't think I live there, please. While dripping with cash, Georgetownites are a sleazy bunch. Just to give you an idea of the mindset of these all-too-bewildering creatures, the publisher of a "nonprofit" environmental Press drives his SUV maybe three miles to work. D.C. Sometimes I wonder.

I wish I could say the book packing was going on apace, but I keep stopping to read what I should be packing. And the winnowing is not an easy task. Do I keep the paperback edition of Moby Dick just because I used it in my college course: The American Novel? I have a hardcover edition, should I remain sentimentally attached to the paperback? Finally I decided "no." But it took me an hour to make that decision. Good grief. Literally. And of course, again, I'm using this as an excuse for not getting back to the winnowing at hand. Later, Dear Reader, we'll discuss the provincial reviewing of books in connection with D.C. as well as New York City--especially NYC--not to mention all the other lit-biz outlets, save one*, and their disturbing neglect of fine books, and why we find ourselves wallowing in this abysmal state. The boxes are calling. Must run.

*The Bloomsbury Review