the man with bad Steins

He collected Steins because she said she was a genius. He repeated himself in action as she repeated herself in words. But he grew tired of her repetitions of brilliance and her near surface existence, and one day realized all the books he had of her were defective and not great. The condition of the books reflected the condition of his thoughts of her. He did not think of her brilliance or her genius, but of the lack of money he would ever make from the bad copies of her books he now had.

Shortly afterwards he began to feel better about himself and his own otherwise repetitions of book buying and selling, once, that is, that he left the stack of bad Steins in the alleyway three streets over in the middle of a night when he was "out for a stroll". He donated them to the world, and the world accepted the donation because the world is round and that was the only title by Stein which ever did anything for him.

ghost in an old paperback

I don't remember where I first learned of Alfred Bester, but somewhere along the line, I did. I found The Stars My Destination about the same time I was reading another of his better known books, The Demolished Man. Unappreciated, but there is a strong percentage of the books that I read which are by unknown or unappreciated. Under appreciated. Under read.

My copy of The Stars My Destination is a 1957 first. But it's now much beaten, brown-pages, falling apart as I read it. When I finish it, I will be purging it. There won't be anything left. If a book has a piece of the soul of its author in it, am I killing him by recycling his book?