Tuesday, June 20, 2006

some idealistic future

I want to tell you a story. A few years ago, I took an honours seminar class on the works of Timothy Findley. The world of Mr. Findley is one of infinite wonder and madness, family and frenzy. I admire his work very, very much, and I truly wish I had been able to meet him before he died. I like to think that he and I would have much to talk about.

After I took this class, my mum began to pick up his books for me whenever she would see them in her trips to the Value Village, the Goodwill, or even at yard sales. Unfortunately, she's never remembered which books I already have, and as a result there are a few titles that I now have 3 or 4 copies of.

She bought me a copy of 'Stones' a few weeks ago. It's one of his short story collections (the one we actually read for my class, too), and the copy mum bought was the basic mass market paper back, which is substantially less pretty than my trade paperback. As a result, I didn't really pay much attention to it, and the book wound up 'hanging out' on our bar for a few weeks.

After my graduation from the BEd last week, the boyfriend was over for post-convocation shenanigans (er, supper), and as he was looking through the collection of junk that our bar attracts, he looked at the copy of 'Stones' a little more closely than my mom or I had.

As it turns out, neither my mother nor I had noticed the inscription on the title page.

I like to think about books and their previous owners. I wonder who this one was signed for, and why they were able to give it away. How strange that it should come to me...

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