Becoming a bookseller

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“Are you talking to the books again?”

I’m currently surrounded by about 500 books, acquired yesterday from an elderly couple about 20 minutes away from town who were selling them on behalf of another woman whose sister just passed away. Apparently she didn’t have any friends, she just read a lot, played music, and did outdoorsy things like hiking and skiing.

Far from being an expert, when we went out to their property to price the books, I was mostly guessing. All of them looked at least 15-20 years old, at most 60 years old. So they were in great condition, but they’re old. Not old, just old. When it was obvious they didn’t like the amount I proposed to pay for the whole lot, I tried not to talk about the age too much. It seems insensitive to talk to elderly folks about something not being valuable because it’s old. Old in people years, not in ancient civilization years.

Old in people years is precious, but not exciting or sexy. Some books get to transcend people years. That’s part of the reason people like them so much. Books are timeless!

Except they’re not. I have already maneuvered around and sneezed and coughed and waded through enough piles of books to see very plainly that most books are not timeless, as objects or as ideas. Most books live regular people lives. They live, they’re shiny for a while, then they get “that smell”, and then they die.

It’s difficult to be objective about the arbitrary value of a book. I often find really great stories in thrift stores that are mass produced and thus too boring to sell in the store for more than fifty cents. Maybe a dollar. You can’t have too many books like that – they take up space. I want to liberate these books, give them away for free if I have to, but I’d quickly run out of the limited budget I have to start with buying freebies.

My aesthetic eye is actually much more useful at this point than my knowledge of books and publishing. If the design looks so generic that a first year graphic design student could do it, I know it won’t re-sell for much. As ignorant as we tend to be talking about art and design, we’re a demanding public. The graphic designer is just as important to the success of the book as the writer. (Of course, this depends on how you define success, which is always in flux.)

When I buy a bunch of books and then later look at them online, I am generally pretty spot on for how much I estimated their value. It turns out you can judge a book by its cover.

That said, as I steadily work at adding each book to my inventory Excel sheet, noting the condition of the book, if it’s signed, if it’s a first edition, I often find beautiful illustrations and type between some of the most mundane-looking covers. I catch a sentence with a genuine voice. Collect a slip of paper with a drawing on it. Find an inscription to a loved one.

Dear Jill, 
I am sorry we didn’t see you this Christmas. It wasn’t the same…

Dear Nicholas,
I hope you enjoy this story as much I did at your age…

Dear Karen,
Happy birthday! I can’t believe you’re already 15…

Miss you

Let me know what you think of the book.

It’s not that hard to look at a book and discern its monetary value if you have a visually critical eye. If you quickly flip through it and spot some water damage or a handful of dog-eared pages, knock the number down a bit lower. Too much damage and it’s dead weight.

Sometimes I find a book that is old and smelly, or damaged in a way that makes it less appealing to look at, and I can’t bring myself to discard it because a little girl has written her name in crayon on the inside cover or the words are printed so crisply that I run my fingers across them like bedsheets with a high thread count.

“Are you talking to the books again?”

“Yes, sorry.”

“Well, as long as they don’t respond.”



Why Dylan Farrow is Brave

It’s not my intent to argue Woody Allen’s guilt or innocence. For better or worse, plenty of other people have done that already. I’d rather focus on part of Dylan Farrow’s open letter that addresses the many other sexual assault survivors out there who are still afraid to tell their stories.

Farrow’s open letter is harrowing, painful, clear, challenging. It’s the letter someone writes after many years of suffering, having finally found a stable position of strength and support to speak from. Her story is not an easy one to tell, whether or not the accused is famous and beloved. According to the Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network, “an average of 60% of assaults in the last five years were not reported”. I personally have several friends who have never even told their families about the sexual assault they experienced. Many of them have horror stories of mental health professionals regarding them coldly and skeptically once they tried to tell their story. A perusal of Project Unbreakable on Tumblr (though it certainly deserves more than a perusal) quickly illustrates how often victim testimonies are met with hostility and skepticism by families, friends, medical professionals, and police.

It’s understandable to an extent. Most cases of sexual assault are made by individuals the victim knows personally, and more than likely the friends and family know this person, too. It’s hard to accept that a person you regarded as “good” and safe has sexually assaulted someone you care about. On the scale of insensitive responses, at best the loved one tries to find out if there’s been a misunderstanding and at worst the loved one accuses the victim of lying or deserving it.

This is part of the reason it matters so much that Farrow was able to publicly share her story on her own terms and that as fellow humans our first response is to listen. If you already decided that you knew what happened before reading her statement, you are just as guilty of bias as the “lynch mob” you rail against. If you already decided you knew what happened before reading her statement, you are part of the problem.

We need to have space in our society for victims to speak and to be given the benefit of empathetic doubt. Even if the account given by Farrow is not factually true, that doesn’t necessarily mean that she is a liar. Instead, let’s consider that she is a woman who genuinely, unwaveringly believes that she was molested by her adopted father when she was seven years old. This account is supported by her mother and brother. There is no evidence and no legal recourse.

That is tragic. That is common. Whether or not it happened, she has carried a terrible pain and fear inside her throughout her whole life. The evidence of suggestibility of children does not exonerate Allen or condemn Farrow. If anything, it simply further implies that Farrow is not the scheming, lying cow some have claimed her to be. She has suffered. There is no justice for her, as there is no justice for many sexual assault victims.

Farrow is certainly a victim, but as the result of which moral transgression specifically, that’s less concrete. In any case, her action – an attempt to tell her story, to tell the truth – should be regarded as brave. It is brave.

Some responses have been disheartening. Stephen King, whose opinion I typically appreciate, described Farrow’s letter as containing “palpable bitchiness” on Twitter. Somewhat anonymous voices in the comments sections of various articles and on Twitter have suggested that she just wants attention. One response that I found particularly unsettling was the vehemently argued position by some men that we absolutely cannot trust the testimony of sexual assault victims because otherwise men will become the victims of false testimony.

That’s certainly a possibility, and it does happen. Does that make it okay for sexual assault victims to carry the burden of injustice themselves? Why is it always better for a sister, a wife, a friend to be doubted rather than her attacker? The power distribution is blatantly lopsided.

Imbalances stand a chance to be rectified when they are acknowledged and discussed. The article written by Patrick Perion, A Child Abuse Investigator’s View of The Woody Allen/Dylan Farrow Case, addresses issues of miscommunication and ignorance about child abuse investigations. You don’t need to be an expert to realize that people are more likely to react poorly to something they refuse to acknowledge except when immediately faced with the crisis at hand than if there’s public, on-going discussion aimed at awareness and fairness.

Aaron Bady’s Woody Allen’s Good Name makes a similar point: “In the court of public opinion, a woman accusing a great film director of raping her has no credibility which his fans are bound to respect. He has something to lose, his good name. She does not, because she does not have a good name. She is living in hiding, under an assumed name. And when she is silent, the Daily Beast does not rise to her defense.”

The Daily Beast article being referred to here is the one written by Robert Weide. Weide demanded that we consider the known facts before sending Allen to the firing squad, certainly a righteous demand to be made. However, Weide gave himself away when he published Farrow’s new name, the name around which she has built her stabilized life. If he was truly empathetic to her, whether it’s deeply rooted manipulation from her mother or sexual assault from her father, he would have respected the privacy of her name.

He wouldn’t refer to alleged sexual assault as “shall we say, touch[ing] her inappropriately”, as if he was, shall we say, re-hashing a conversation about sexual exploits between two consenting adults in a movie. And why did he use quotations when referring to the anticipated accusation that he is blaming the victim? Jessica Winter’s Don’t Listen to Woody Allen’s Biggest Defender outlines the problematic tone of Weide’s piece very well.

These are passive acts, yet still potent. They speak volumes. They speak to sexual assault victims who still cannot tell their story without once again being victimized by those who should listen. If we cannot listen and then speak without diminishing the person brave enough to share their account of the truth, how can we hope to assist in the healing of a society that has too long ignored the varied, nuanced, and profound suffering of its own people?

Lena Dunham put it best when she said, via Twitter, “The response to the response to the response doesn’t matter. What matters is that a victim spoke and, in doing so, reversed her victimhood.” And then in a following tweet, “We should be thankful to Dylan. We must begin to heal, to change the way in which we process and respond to stories of abuse.”