In the rare book store, I find two copies of my rarest book, a chapbook of poems titled I Would Steal Horses. One copy of my book is in perfect condition and is priced at $7,000. The other copy is battered a bit and only costs $900. Only! I don’t buy the books, of course. That would be a foolish and expensive display of vanity.
My book was published in 1992. I'd only received 100 copies as payment and gave them away to family and friends. But, in that book store, I discover those two rare copies are warmly inscribed by me to people whose names baffle me now, even though they’re uncommon names that should make them easier to recall.
Why can't I remember these people who must've mattered to me three decades ago? Did I break their hearts? Did they break mine? Did our friendships end with anger or shame? Or simple inattention? I don't know. Did somebody else inscribe these books with my name? No, that’s my handwriting. And it’s my real signature, not the exaggerated one that I’ve been using to sign books since my career became so strange and unwieldy.
Jesus, what kind of asshole am I? Look at me! The cruel amnesiac! But am I the only one who's forgotten the name and face of somebody they used to love? I don’t think so. I suspect that’s happened to each of us. After all, how could any of us survive if we memorized a comprehensive list of every loss and regret?
Been there all right--but NOT finding any of my books reaching 3 digits, let along 4! Insufficiently "rare"? But I do find it faintly (at least) embarrassing to find one of my signed & affectionately inscribed books abandoned among the used items, whether I recognize the person who bought it or not--I think I'd rather NOT! Well, yes, vanity of some sort after all.
I spent years trolling for a copy of that chapbook. When I first read The First Indian on the Moon, I fell in love with your work, and wanted to read EVERYTHING you wrote. I actually tracked down someone who owned a copy in California, and via multiple phone calls, letters, and flat out coercion , got them to lend it to me for EXACTLY one week. I remember how “I would steal horses” ( the poem) made me cry, because I was just dumped by a guy who I wished loved me like the narrator in that piece.
It’s still one of my favorite poems ever. :)