There are days I do searches on eBay for book lots. I don’t know why, I never buy them, but I like looking at them. “Ooooh I can get 107 books for 25 bucks right now. All old SF/F paperbacks. Faaaaaancy.”
Except it isn’t fancy it’s just sad. Look at the picture – those books generally aren’t the best books around and I might want to read maybe 50 of them and have 50 that are just clutter and then I’d need time to read 50 “new to me” books and well this is suddenly a horrible idea.
I like to window shop for book lots.
But then there are those book lots full of just one author. All the Anne McCaffrey stuff, or lots of Zelazny and Piers Anthony and so on. Those hit me oddly.
Now I do realize, intellectually, that these are book lots being sold by people who inherited them. The collector/reader/fan died and now their grand daughter is stuck selling off the books no one wants. I get it. I do.
Except in my head I don’t see it like that. No matter how much I know this isn’t the case, every time I see a big book lot of a single author I feel like that seller was a huge fan, a super fan, who just woke up one day and had a crisis of faith.
“Fuck Pern!” he said as he sat up in bed, covers falling to his waist. “Fuck Pern and Fuck every fucking thing those fucking dragons ever fucking did!” He got up, made coffee and grabbed his camera. eBay. eBay would solve his “fucking Pern” problem, and it would be someone else’s – some fool’s – issue from then on.
That is, in my head, how the listing for every decent sized book lot of a single author goes.
“Zelazny? That fucking hack-a-doodle-doo? Fuck him right up his Amber, and all nine Princes, to boot! I’m selling these whack-a-mole novels toot suite!” And there goes the Zelazny off to be sold.
Yeah. That’s how I use eBay. To make up stories about people cursing out authors.