I got the limited edition for Stephenson’sQuicksilver, magnificently bound, signed, in a different format and all. A luxurious book.
I cannot play with it! I can not read the thing with my hands dirty, or while in bed, or while drinking coffee, and god forbid, I cannot leave it around with my other books, you know, the ones that get bent pages and broken spines and small marks as a result of being alive and read. Nooo. This book is a prissy one, requiring to be placed on the shelf after each judicious reading, hands washed beforehand, and please be very healthy when handling it. I can not leave it in the car overnight, or during a hot day, I can not read it at the coffee house, or take it with me to my friendsâ€™ houses. Too precious for its own good.
Angry David (who, in actuality, is a very nice individual, only too right about a whole lot of things) remarked that the only books that are worth reading are those that have marks, that are completely worn, books that have shown not only that they have been read, but that they have been handled, sometimes roughly, sometimes lovingly. He is absolutely right.
This shiny useless book reminds me of beautiful girlfriends, the ones that can not go on the rain, nor eat an ice cream: gorgeous and a pleasure to behold, but annoyingly complicated. Much better to be living in the world, you know.
So, I should be getting a cheap copy of the book, a used one, an ex-library; one with dog teeth marks and coffee stains, one that has been read and enjoyed. Still, I am not ready to give away my trophy book either.