Saturday, June 27, 2009
I would show you a picture of these copies, but the author probably wouldn't want it that way. They're blank on the front, back and spine: featureless white. Most of them have a ranty red insert inside, peppered with profanities and laced with incongruous bohemian pontifications. One has a sketch of a Japanese house in it. Someone made off with the last one. No one has ever read them except to take a peek at them when I was trying to sell them on the street.
The book is a coming-of-age story about a person who refuses to fit into the system. Bleak, snide and angry, it's the perfect book to pass around at a twenty-something party. If you are lucky you will be able to take in its caustic aroma and then pass it off to a friend and never see it again. It doesn't want to stay with you anyway.
I tried selling these books for about 2 years with every sort of description of them: avant-garde, Kerouacian, rebellious, you name it. I've sold just 4 for $5.00 each. The author asked me politely to sell them at $5. Believe me, I have tried. But it's time to give these books a new home, or homes.
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