So... it turns out that someone in New York (a poet, in fact) received twenty-two of my precious missing books in the mail, all jumbled up with books of hers. It wasn't all of my books (Arcades Project? still missing), and in addition she wound up with three books belonging to an unknown third party. But my copy of This Sex Which Is Not One was in there, along with my complete Plato, my Myra Jehlen (what, I needed it just yesterday) and my Gubar-annotated A Room of One's Own.
Now I'm starting to have hope that my other books may return to me through the magic of the internet. (Yup, she googled me.)
So IF YOU HAVE MY BOOKS!: I really miss them. Send them?
4 comments:
Oh my gosh this happened to us when we moved to Hawai'i. One of Alex's boxes of books obviously opened in transit, and it arrived, reclosed by someone in the post office, with the space in the box filled with random stuff from somebody else's box: a new cordless phone, a cheap fountain pen in a fancy presentation box, several books on dressage... Alex was all "where's my Deleuze and Guattari?"
So uncool, right?
I think that after the USPS goes belly-up, this is how all packages will be sent: stuffed into boxes without addresses, carried from place to place by good samaritans, slowly being guided to their recipients through Google searches. It will take 2-3 years to get anything, but the bonding with strangers will be worth it.
Ha—I expect that to be the scenario for a new Colson Whitehead novel.
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