Some time back in the early 90's, my tiny city apartment became the second-to-last resting place for old paperbacks. Their former owners had died, or moved on. I have to admit that I bought some of them, because they had been donated to the thrift stores I frequent, and I couldn't bear to leave behind all those collected editions of the great literature of the world. As long as they're still readable, I don't have the heart to throw them away.
I'm not talking about the now-ubiqutous trade paperbacks, with their artistic covers and skyrocketing cover prices. I'm talking about the lowly mass-market ones, now despised by some for their association with romances and bad bestsellers. They sprang into being in 1935, with the almost overnight success of Penguin. Most of the ones that I have date from the '60's, and sport lurid or psychedelic covers. It is impossible to underestimate the explosion of knowledge and art that these books brought to the public arena. Many of them have cover prices of less than a dollar. It would seen anything that cheap that was made that long ago, and out of paper, would be long gone by now, fifty years later.
And yet, many of them are still in circulation, available at library sales and flea markets worldwide.Now I am determined to read as many of them as I can, prompted by the experience of finding a copy of Anais Nin's A Spy in the House of Love that I didn't know I had. If you've read any of my past posts, you can probably imagine that I went through an Anais Nin stage in high school, and you might even surmise that her diaries stated me writing my own journals, of which this blog is a kind of public extension.
Which brings up the whole subject of whether or not knowing the backstory of a novel changes the reading of it--but that's another post...
At any rate, I was entranced by this novel that I had forgotten, and now wonder what other treasure are hidden in the mess. I'll keep you posted.
