There’s a special circle in cell for people who stamp their ownership in books, and then don’t destroy those books before passing them on…
In February, 2026 I acquired a copy of the trade edition of George R. R Martin’s 1987 collection, Portraits of His Children. The book was in pristine condition, but on the first page inside the book some had stamped their name in a way that never can be undone: “Library of [name removed] M.D.” How nice of you, Dr. X, to have your own personal stamp to mar the books that you own. Has Dr. X now shuffled off his mortal coil, and his book then passed to some dealer/seller to push the book along? Possibly so. I’m almost tempted to tear out that page. Instead, I may look for another copy without such a stamp, then foist this book off to someone less finicky.
All grumbling aside, this book collects 11 stories from Martin’s early years as a writer, when he wrote SF stories, and before he ventured into fantasy with the Game of Thrones series of books and TV shows. These were stories published in Analog and Asimov, as well as anthologies. The introduction is from Roger Zelazny, an SF/fantasy writer. The publisher: Dark Harvest—whose first book was by Martin, a book apparently only published in a limited edition (no additional trade edition), and it’s quite expensive on the current used book market. I used to own a couple of Martin novels years ago, and gave them away. I never got into Game of Thrones, so I only have this book because I’m trying to collect all books published by Dark Harvest, a small publisher that existed between 1983 and 1993. Martin’s novella, “The Skin Trade,” is one of the best stories in the Night Vision anthologies.
In my opinion, there’s a special circle in hell for people who mark their places in books with dog-ears—folding over pages in a triangle. May these people reside in eternal flames alongside people who break the spines of the books they read; use a bookmark! Then, there are those equally cursed people who paste in their personalized bookplates or stamp their ownership with “in the library of” with their names, who I cannot forgive. On the outer rim of hellish circles are those who write in books with pens. Pencil marks I can erase, but why mark a book with a pen if you don’t intend to destroy the book?
Scottish writer Iain Banks, who also published science fiction under Iain M. Banks, published books in the UK and USA. In the UK, some of these appeared in trade paperback by Abacus. A few years ago, an influx of these books appeared in the USA. I bought some as I came across them, always hoping to find more. Many years passed with no such luck. However, recently I came across a copy of The Business. Of course, in this book, someone had written “R” next to the titles Banks’ other books. I guess this is a handy way to keep track of what they had read. If so, I thought, why then would this book end up in a used bookstore in Phoenix, Arizona? What strange circumstance would put this book there? They’d also dog-eared the book, and stored it where the sun yellowed its pages. Otherwise the book was ok, and as Banks’ books are hard to find where I lived, I bought this copy.
Three of the five Abacus books I own only list other books written by Banks. The Business, as well as The Steep Approach to Garbadale, show twelve images of covers of Banks’ books from Abacus. The titles are hard to read, so I don’t quite know the seven books in this set that I lack. Given that I’m in the USA, and these are UK editions, and Banks died a few years ago, if I find any of those seven it will be a miracle.
The previous owner of The Business, the person who dog-eared the book, made it as far as chapter three ( page 61). nothing else appears to indicate they completed the book. Did they give up and chuck the book, or pass way before they could finish it? At least they didn’t write their name in the book, but even then, it would take some effort to find their fate if the name did appear there.
Somewhere in the USA those other books must exist. If I find them, I hope they’ll be absent of writings, ownership stamps, and other jiggery-pokery.
Norwegian writer Karl Ove Knausgaard was apparently all the rage a few years ago, with his multi-volume series of novels under the aegis of “My Struggle.” To date, six volumes has been published in this series. He’s also written other books, but is best known for the autobiographical series of books under the heading, My Struggle.
Even as a (former) Norwegian, I hesitated buying/reading his books. He’s too contemporary, too fashionable, I thought, each time I came across his name.
Still, someone I know kept asking me every time we met (not very often, but maybe every two years) whether I’d read his books. I guess that, as a Norwegian, it was somehow assumed that I would have read them. Each time, I replied that, “No, I haven’t read any of his books.” It’s not that I haven’t seen his books in bookstores., or been aware of him. The books were there, though not always in the right order, when I I saw them. Still, I hesitated. Maybe I didn’t like his international success (compared to other Norwegian writers that I thought deserved success). Maybe there were other reasons; the book title hewed too closely to another, more infamous, German title, for one.
Recently, however, I came across two of Knausgaard’s books in a used bookstore, and thought, “Why not?” So, I bought them. One of these books was the first volume in his “My Struggle” series. The other, called Winter, was part of another series based around seasons. Knausgaard’s only a couple of years younger than me, yet he’s a prolific and famous author, while I’ve written only some early-draft crime novels. In other words, there is nothing to compare us, unless you contrast success and nothingness. Winter starts with musings on an unknown and future child (he’s apparently not just prolific, but fertile as well). I set this book aside. I might need to find those other season-related books first.
Meanwhile, the first volume of My Struggle begins with Knausgaard musing on death and dead people. This was unexpected, at least to me, as I thought it would start with his own birth. Then again, after talking about dead people and how we treat them. he transitions into a story about himself at the age of eight, having seen a newscast about a Norwegian fishing vessel capsizing, with those on board drowning. He highlights his own reaction to this event, as well as his interactions with his father. That’s as far as I’ve made it at the moment.
The book begins in 1976. Knausgaard was eight years old at that time. In 1976 I was slightly older, about to leave Norway for a second stint in Zambia. I remember this year vividly. At the of age nine in 1976, this might have been was my “starting” moment in terms of memory, more so than at age eight like Knausgaard. So much happened to me in 1976, a major year in my life. Although I also was in Norway at that time, I don’t recall that same shipwreck incident; in my case there were more personal events that I remember (school, location, a first kiss, the apartment, a so-called friend inviting me somewhere and then eating dinner in front of me, as well as many other things that seared into my memory from that year). Maybe, it’s because we didn’t have a TV, maybe it’s because I saw life differently that time. I certainly didn’t think about death then, not for many years. I thought about life, about where I lived, what I did, and what I saw.
Why is the book called “My Struggle?” I don’t know, at least not yet. He seems to to fear his father at that age, something I don’t think I ever experienced. His father seems to come across as strict, almost tyrannical, despite being a teacher. I think my father at that same age was a little distant, but nowhere near the same as Knausgaard’s father. We’re less than two years apart in age (Knausgaard and I), yet so very different. While I bounced between countries and cultures, he existed only in Norway. Having only sampled a few pages, maybe I’m being too judgmental. Again, what’s the struggle? You had a great life, Karl Ove. You didn’t get dragged to a foreign country. You didn’t change your identity. You’re Norwegian, through and through, not someone split between cultures and continents.
Anyway, I guess I need to read more in that book now, to gain a better insight into why he’s famous. Then again, there are five more volumes to dredge through, if I want to know more. I still don’t get it.
Lost Maples State Natural Area is a state park in Central Texas. In the Fall, people flock here to see the changing colors of the maple trees; maple trees in Texas is a rarity, apparently .
I’ve tried a couple of times to reserve a trip here in November, with no luck. That’s the time the colors change, but I’ve not been able to secure a day pass or a camping pass then. So, on the spur of the moment, I drove two hours from San Antonio to this location in mid-April, to see the park in Spring, instead of in the Fall. Why not, I thought, as it’s still “relatively” cool for Texas.
The first question from the range ranger in the check in HQ when I arrived was, “Do you have a reservation?” I did not, but apparently it was not a busy time, and so I was allowed in the park and do a day trip. I am not sure if Monkey Rock looks like a monkey. Go figure. Maybe it’s the angle.
There are two main trails—East Trail and West Trail. At some point along the West Trail, there is a 2.5 mile loop called the West Loop (more like a lollipop trail), to add more miles or find primitive camping spots. I parked my car near the East Trail trailhead at around 10am. The temps were already at 70 F. I switched into hiking boots, strapped on my daypack, and started up the trail. I encountered only a few people here, some who had camped the night prior, some who were day hiking, or heading to a campsite.
The East Trail starts easy, then hits a steep uphill ascent after about a mile. Switchbacks are unknown in this park, and the trail to the top goes almost straight up for half a mile. Once at the top, there’s a nice easy walk along the ridge. I saw a Boy Scouts troop (can we still say that, these days?) taking a break at an overlook. Were they training for Philmont? I didn’t ask.
The descent was rocky. I paused at one point as a snake crossed my path. I don’t think it was venomous, but I didn’t ask it. I didn’t see any rattlers, and the snake didn’t pause to warn me. The path from the East Trail connects near a pond to the West Trail, so I switched to that trail, and headed west. At one point, there is a sign to the West Loop. I figured, “why not?” and took that path. After half a mile or so, another uphill. I met a few hikers, and returned to the West Trail. Then, alone, I took this trail back to the start. Only, it wasn’t the start. There are two parking lots, and I stopped at the wrong one first. I turned around and found the trail back to my parking lot, and so, almost 10 miles (but not quite) of hiking later I completed almost all the trails in this park; since I took the West Loop I missed one section, but it was a separate return to the trailhead and I wanted a longer hike.
Along the way, the temperatures surged into the 90s (F). I bought lots of water, enough snacks, and so the hike wasn’t too bad. How is this in the Fall? I don’t know. In the summer months, I would skip this hike. Much of it is under trees, but there are sections in the sun. In the sun in the summer you’ll see temps above 100F, and that’s no fun at all.
The drive from my house took two hours, with one stretch slowed to a crawl by two motorcycles too cautious to drive above 45 mph in a 65 mph zone (not to mention a delay caused by construction). Once behind the motorcycles, the routes curved, rose up and down, and for nearly 20 miles there was no way to pass these idiots. Finally, one tiny straight section appeared, and I took it. On the way back, some sports cars had no issue passing me while I was going 65. If they had to deal with those motorcyclists I’m sure they would have tried to pass them around a bend. In my case, I was at 65 and not 40, but I guess that didn’t matter here.
And so, I think I’ve visited almost all state parked near where I live. Now I have to expand that radius. In Texas, two hours is a short trip, I guess.
Well, I made it to 12 days with a consistent running streak at over two miles running each day, before getting hit with an injury. On day 13 I ran through the pain of a strain on the outside of my left calf. I’d planned to only run two miles that day, a recovery run. On day 14, when I’d planned to run six miles, I only ran half that distance, also fighting through the pain. Do I attempt day 15, or take a pause here?
In a normal week I run only three to five days out of the seven. Pushing my running habit to two weeks in a row, even though it’s by no means a major effort each day, may have caused the issue/injury. It’s frustrating. If my intent is to get to 50+ miles a week, and I’m hitting an injury wall at around 35 miles a week, how do I get beyond that barrier and back to a place where it was the norm?
The question now is whether I take some days off and hope the issue resolves itself, or keep the streak going but at a lower mileage than planned. I’ve tried ice, tried ibuprofen, tried compression. At this point, I guess the only option is rest. I think it’s a matter of pride and spirit that kept me running, and I have to set that aside for a few days.
A few years after I left a certain social media platform, I reluctantly signed up once again. I did this since some organizations from whom I need to get information only have an online presence on said platform. I don’t know why they can’t set up their own site, instead of getting locked into another platform. Once I created my account, I locked down all privacy settings, checked that group for information, and then left. The mind within that platform didn’t like it.
The next day, I received an email that my account had been suspended. I had 180 days in which to appeal my suspension.
At first, I thought it was a phishing attempt. I had posted nothing, done nothing aside from looking at one organization’s pages for information. Next, I searched online for any text similar to the email message. It appeared legit. Instead of clicking a link in the email, I went to said social media site. Sure enough, the account had been suspended. Once I clicked on the suspension message, it told me that I had neglected to add a profile picture. I added a picture, and clicked the button to appeal.
Many days later, still no word. I suspect this type of suspension is triggered within the system of that platform, and since I locked down all privacy settings and left the account alone, in less than 24 hours their bots decided this was not enough of an engagement. Thus: suspension. It’s now been several days since I complied with the request that caused the suspension. I’ve heard nothing. According to the message, the appeal can take up to180 days. I suspect that it’s actual people (not some algorithm) reviewing said appeals. Much like government bureaucracy, they’ll get to it when they get to it. It may even take 180 days and then the account is vaporized, forgotten, rendered into oblivion.
Should those 180 days pass with no action, I don’t really care. I found what I looked for, and that platform no longer matters to me. However, it just seems like poor customer service to drive someone away less than 24 hours after they sign up for that platform.
Meanwhile, due to politics, certain people are leaving another social media platform for supposed alternatives. Why not create your own sites, I wonder. Is everything politics now? Certain famous people have declared they’re leaving a once busy platform, citing toxicity. I inhabit only a tiny corner of that platform, and don’t pay attention to anything else. Choice is good. Let’s hope these leavers find what they’re looking for in the other places.
Paperback, hardback, limited edition hardback, signed limited edition, signed and numbered, signed and lettered, leather, slipcased, specially bound, etc. First editions, first hardcover edition, first US or British edition. A book sometimes is published in different states, even by the same publisher. Other books may appear under different imprints; are those books then first editions? The variation in an edition might appear minor, or there will be extras depending on the rarity of the state. The price to the buyer will rise accordingly. And, should the book sell out, often the price will sky-rocket in the secondary market. The price also is dependent upon the author, the publisher, or both. Some books get only a hardcover and paperback edition. Some get only a paperback edition (yet some of those might re-surface in a small press hardcover edition, years later). Other books are published only in special editions, while some run the gamut from paperback to special edition. And some appear only as print on demand, or in electronic format, or audio format.
Many has been the time when I’ve wondered about the “special edition” format. Small press publishers will, more often than not, publish books in several different states. They’ll call them trade editions, limited editions, or numbered and lettered editions. They may change the format of the book, add signatures from authors, editors, illustrators, etc. The more “special” an edition, the higher the price. Some buyers will gravitate to the rarer editions, seeking a slipcased and lettered copy. Is this book any better than a trade edition from that same publisher? Does a number and signature mean than much? If you bought a trade hardcover edition, and then had the author sign it (or inscribe it), would be any different?
Recently I did a quick count, and around 10% of my collection of books contain the author’s signature. Only 4% of my books are “numbered” in the more special limited edition state. None are of the rarest of rare states, although there are a few with slipcases. On a few occasions I have brought books to conventions or author signings, where authors have signed paperbacks and hardbacks, sometimes inscribing the book to me, even though they don’t know me (although I did know one of two and that meant even more to me when they signed the books).
I do feel a certain frisson when I know that a book I own is limited to a certain number of copies. The smaller the limitation, the greater than feeling, perhaps. Probably the hardcore collectors feel that emotions to a greater degree.
And yet, at the same time, having a signed paperback or an inscribed book means just as much to me, since in the latter case it means that I met the author, maybe spoke to him or her. How does having a couple of Ray Bradbury signed books from an in-person event compare to a handful of Jack Vance signed books when I never met Vance? If I bought a signed Bradbury book now, given that he passed a few years ago, would it mean as much as those two signed books that he handed back to me in person? No, definitely not.
And, so, when I buy a book these days, the signature in place doesn’t really matter too much to me. Instead, when I buy a “rare” book, it’s the hardcover that I want, not the rarest variation of that hardcover. If I own the paperback, and a hardcover becomes available, I’ll pick the cheapest hardcover, even if that means the book costs more than $20 or $50. But, at the moment, never above $100. At some point, given our government’s propensity to push inflation as a norm, I know that barrier will at some point be crossed, and I will have to spend $100 for a book. A month ago I passed on a book I really, really wanted, just because it was listed at $149. That price point’s something that will be hard for me to accept, and maybe if that’s becomes the new norm I will need to re-think my approach to books, and stick to what I have, or lesser editions.
I used to like Twitter. Now it’s called X, and I via a browser I no longer appear to have the ability to post anything. Is it the network? is it the tool? I don’t know, but it’s becoming less and less a place that I visit. I like Musk’s stance on free speech, but the tool is become less and less usable since he took over. I’m close to quitting that app, just as I deleted Zack’s app a few years ago. At least, here (for now) I control what and when I can publish my silly thoughts.
Occasionally I buy something from overseas. Sometimes this arrives within a decent timeframe. Sometimes not. Usually these items come with a tracking number, but not always.
“Track your package here,” the email states. I click on the button, and the messages are ambiguous at best. At first, it’s received somewhere, then it makes it to the international departure place. Then it arrives in the country of destination. Then, silence. I wonder, why would it take over a week to make its way from the US arrival point to my address? I live in a fairly large city, with a major airport. One would think that even on a truck driving down the interstate (or other roads), it wouldn’t take one week? It’s not like it arrives on the east coast and I’m on the west coast, where it might spend a week in the back of a truck.
Meanwhile, the tracking information remains unchanged. And there’s nothing that can be done about it, except wait.
Currently one of the hottest show on TV is “The Last of Us,” based on a video game from years ago. I’ve watched part of the first two episodes, and read about the game. Not sure I’ll watch any more episodes. I like Pedro Pascal as an actor, but the idea of another zombie movie is beyond boring. I’m not sure how many seasons of The Walking Dead stumbled around on the screens, but I’ve never much cared for zombie movies. The same goes for vampire movies; one features devious dead people (vampires), the other brainless dead people seeking brains—or flesh. Horror these days seems to center around such strange beasts.
I see horror instead in real life. Not a day goes by without reading about a mass shooting, or a murder-suicide, or horrific killings and rapes. These are the real horrors, perpetrated not by non-human monsters, but real and very much human monsters. Serial killers? Scary, but pale in comparison to soul-less people who kill others, hurt others, and act as if it means nothing to them or the rest of the world. Horror? The real horror comes from places like Russia, people like Putin, Prigozhin, and their minions, their soldiers who shoot for no reason, who murder men, women, and children. Who invade a country for no reason but their own delusion. That’s horror.
Yet, that kind of horror doesn’t make for good TV, apparently. Instead, we get shows about zombies and humans killing zombies, pretending to be zombies to kill other humans. Or, we get something like “The Last of Us,” with the world overrun in two days and split into federal government and rebels, and people in-between. Frankly, that’s been done over and over, and I don’t get the adulation for this show. It’s based on a video game. In that game, the goal is to get an infected but immune human somewhere to get a cure. The irony? The person tasked to get her there decides to save her rather than let he be used to find a cure. So, no cure. Also, in the sequel, he dies. It all seems pointless.
