Detective

As I was checking out of my rare book foray last week, I ended up talking to the proprietor of the bookstore--a pipe-smoking gentleman of some rare breeding and impressive intellect (sort of like me, sans pipe). He noted that I had also purchased an edition of Bernard Malamud's Pictures of Fidelman.

The owner studied me and then said, as he placed the book in the bag, "I had been wondering who might buy this Malumud book. Not many people read Malumud these days."

I said, "Well, this book, I believe completes the corpus for me. I think I now own a copy of every book Malamud wrote."

"He's an important writer," he said, "but most people have never heard of him."

"Odd," I said, "particularly considering he won two Pulitzer prizes and a National Book Award. He was probably one of the best American writers of the twentieth century."

Okay, so I like Malumud. I've got all of his books now. So what?

The loveliest part of these book hunts, of course, are the finds . . . I love the detective work, the sorting through old dusty stacks to find the one gem in the rough. I'm glad Bernie could be a part of it.

And if I smoked a pipe, I'd buy myself a silk jacket and a bow tie.