While wandering Eastern Market with my father on Saturday, I saw a sign taped to a trash can that spoke of a book sale at the Southeast Library, just across Pennsylvania Avenue.

When I was twelve years old, my mother took me to a sale at the Dunedin Library where we found a lovely three volume history of mathematics. It was actually a huge collection of essays by various folks, rather than a chronological history by a single author. Unfortunately, every other sale at that particular library was nothing but disappointing.

Fortunately, this one did not disappoint.

For the low, low price of four dollars, I picked up copies of the following:

Hestia, by C.J. Cherryh
Childhood’s End, by Arthur C. Clarke
Possession, by A.S. Byatt
Middlemarch, by George Eliot
Triton, by Samuel R. Delany
Spy in the House of Love, by Anais Nin

Middlemarch, in particular, excited me. For some reason, I had lately been struck by the desire to read it. Many years ago, I went through a nineteenth century novel phase, but someone, George Eliot’s oeuvre had escaped my attention (partly because I was a boy, so was much attracted to Dumas’ tales of derring do and partly because I was a moody boy, so also much attracted to Dostoyevsky’s architectural novels of philosophy leavened with hearty helpings of despair and Christian proto-existentialism).

And a funny little story about Anais Nin. My first introduction to her actual writing (I knew of her as person because of her association with Henry Miller) was from MTV. Yes. MTV.

In the early nineties, they used have actors and actresses read brief segments of famous novels and very alluring literary environments. Sherilyn Fenn read a brief segment from Nin’s Delta of Venus and I also remember Aidan Quinn reading from The Metamorphosis. Back when it seemed like MTV might actually be something cool and occasionally constructive. Sigh. Not anymore. Or maybe I’m just growing old.