We have an awesomely righteous used book store that’s a quick bike ride away called The Cranbury BookWorm. It’s a late 19th century Victorian packed to the rafters. Once a year I go…well, twice. Sometimes three. Be fair, four, Tell a lie, five. I go there just the seven times a year.
Anyway, today was one of those days. Nothing like the safety of endless books. I’ll endure the dusty sneezing any day, thank you very much.
Now I understand that there is a certain amount of popular
fiction tripe nonsense crap work that is bound to show up. It doesn’t mean I have to pay any attention to it. Fortunately it was tucked in a far corner on the second floor. I think it should have its own room…say under the floorboards. But to each his or her own guilty pleasures. I guess.
And, of course, there is always the educational aspect. It’s not all mysteries, romance and classics ya know…