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.
What a trip down not-so-memorable lane! What an enjoyable pause if all else, to see your full signature and remember those hungry days. Indeed, how would we survive if we did remember...the brain has a wonderful pruning mechanism...use it or lose it!
Did you introduce yourself? Offer to autograph? Often an autograph lowers the value though my signed Ferlinghetti's are keepers. Your life (now) is so charmed, such heavy prices paid in full...
At those prices I probably will never have that collection. Though every time I'm in a book store (used and rare) I always look for it. I have felt the feeling you describe. I had to label it "being human". Thanks Sherman
This makes me feel seen. I forget so many things. Once I made the mistake of delving back into an inbox of emails from over a decade ago... I'd never been so grateful for the fallibility of memory.
That’s a great premiss for a story or poem: engaging with one’s younger self as embodied in a rare edition of something published long ago that was thought forever lost. It’s put me in a reverie. I’ve had what I feel are mystical experiences in my four-decades of antiquarian book-collecting and I’ve come to discover that, although the contents of these rare editions are themselves enriching, the relics left by the former owners (be they marginalia or pressed flowers) are often equally fraught with untold tales and intriguing mysteries. For example, a few years ago I purchased an obscure medieval Turko-Islmic “Mirror for Princes” that was translated by a scholar named Robert Dankoff. Inside the book was a postcard sent to a woman in NYC in March 1991 from someone whom I presume to have been one of Dankoff’s students and who sent the postcard from Mongolia. But it doesn’t end there: there was a double-columned, type-written folded yellowing translation of a medieval Turkish poem that was signed and corrected by Dankoff himself!
Oh, yes, the magic of the previous readers, the marginalia, and also with even a copy of a used book wildly-highlighted by a college student. Trying to figure out what the multi-hues meant to them.
That’s a lotta cash. That translates into a lotta love - for your words, at any rate. But aren’t our words so much of who we are? So, I guess it’s true love. I also think forgetting is one of our greatest gifts. I couldn’t make it through a day without a healthy dose of forgetfulness. But, I have not forgotten you my friend. Nor will I ever.
It is indeed rare. Yes a memory is that which one sometimes doesn't remember those who are part of our life. What a beautiful thing it is, that you know...all of it.
This is a beautiful story in a bittersweet kind of way. It makes me wonder how come those books you lovingly inscribed end up in the book store. Did those inscribees (?) pass away, or have to downsize or what? There are stories there, even if you don't know what they are.
I’ve listened and read this thread in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. iPhones are miraculous. The reason I’m here is that 13 years ago I was sitting in a cafe in this same city and a 10 year old girl walked thru selling books. I said ‘no’ to the books and then asked ‘Are you hungry?’ She nodded and looked at the floor. I called the waitress over and she ate.
Yesterday she cooked me a meal in the new house she and her new husband have built in their home village. She said the meal was the same that she ordered 13 years ago. Beyond comprehension.
My mom once introduced me to a lady at a department store when my mom was pretty old. She and the lady told me that the two of them bumped into each other couple years back and realized they were old friends. But even after a couple years, they could not figure out when and where they met decades earlier. It was really baffling to them and I don't think they ever figured it out.
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.
Yeah, it does hurt to find any inscribed book of mine in the used book store! I'm always, "Okay, Davy, I guess I'm not good enough for you."
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. :)
Oh, wow, what a great story! Does it help you to know that the romantic relationship that inspired that poem ended thirty years ago?
Haha! It’s such a bittersweet piece, I’m not surprised. Young love is not for the weak.
Or something .
Hahaha! Yup!
It is hell to remember every loss or slight. It is indeed a blessing to forget some of them
Yes, it is.
What a trip down not-so-memorable lane! What an enjoyable pause if all else, to see your full signature and remember those hungry days. Indeed, how would we survive if we did remember...the brain has a wonderful pruning mechanism...use it or lose it!
The hungry days!
Did you introduce yourself? Offer to autograph? Often an autograph lowers the value though my signed Ferlinghetti's are keepers. Your life (now) is so charmed, such heavy prices paid in full...
Yes, I introduced myself. And I'd say that my life is 62% charmed!
47 per cent for moi.
At those prices I probably will never have that collection. Though every time I'm in a book store (used and rare) I always look for it. I have felt the feeling you describe. I had to label it "being human". Thanks Sherman
As noted elsewhere in the comments, I plan on republishing.
This is beautiful.
Thank you!
It is a curse to have such a memory.
It sometimes is.
I like this post AND the comments, too!
Yes!
This makes me feel seen. I forget so many things. Once I made the mistake of delving back into an inbox of emails from over a decade ago... I'd never been so grateful for the fallibility of memory.
Oh, wow, I'd probably be weeping if I read through old emails. You are brave!
Lol, 100% do not recommend!
That’s a great premiss for a story or poem: engaging with one’s younger self as embodied in a rare edition of something published long ago that was thought forever lost. It’s put me in a reverie. I’ve had what I feel are mystical experiences in my four-decades of antiquarian book-collecting and I’ve come to discover that, although the contents of these rare editions are themselves enriching, the relics left by the former owners (be they marginalia or pressed flowers) are often equally fraught with untold tales and intriguing mysteries. For example, a few years ago I purchased an obscure medieval Turko-Islmic “Mirror for Princes” that was translated by a scholar named Robert Dankoff. Inside the book was a postcard sent to a woman in NYC in March 1991 from someone whom I presume to have been one of Dankoff’s students and who sent the postcard from Mongolia. But it doesn’t end there: there was a double-columned, type-written folded yellowing translation of a medieval Turkish poem that was signed and corrected by Dankoff himself!
Oh, yes, the magic of the previous readers, the marginalia, and also with even a copy of a used book wildly-highlighted by a college student. Trying to figure out what the multi-hues meant to them.
That’s a lotta cash. That translates into a lotta love - for your words, at any rate. But aren’t our words so much of who we are? So, I guess it’s true love. I also think forgetting is one of our greatest gifts. I couldn’t make it through a day without a healthy dose of forgetfulness. But, I have not forgotten you my friend. Nor will I ever.
Thank you, Peter. Yes, the gift of forgetting...I love you, Peter!
Love you too Sherman
It is indeed rare. Yes a memory is that which one sometimes doesn't remember those who are part of our life. What a beautiful thing it is, that you know...all of it.
Thank you, Bill.
This is a beautiful story in a bittersweet kind of way. It makes me wonder how come those books you lovingly inscribed end up in the book store. Did those inscribees (?) pass away, or have to downsize or what? There are stories there, even if you don't know what they are.
I just assume it's people selling them to make some cash.
I’ve listened and read this thread in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. iPhones are miraculous. The reason I’m here is that 13 years ago I was sitting in a cafe in this same city and a 10 year old girl walked thru selling books. I said ‘no’ to the books and then asked ‘Are you hungry?’ She nodded and looked at the floor. I called the waitress over and she ate.
Yesterday she cooked me a meal in the new house she and her new husband have built in their home village. She said the meal was the same that she ordered 13 years ago. Beyond comprehension.
Oh my gosh, that just gave me goosebumps. Wow.
My mom once introduced me to a lady at a department store when my mom was pretty old. She and the lady told me that the two of them bumped into each other couple years back and realized they were old friends. But even after a couple years, they could not figure out when and where they met decades earlier. It was really baffling to them and I don't think they ever figured it out.
Whoa! Time the Revelator.