Steps That Lead Down!

I went back to Daegu today in search of my elusive bookstore.

Dripping with sweat, I walked the path described by Pablo. His brief description was burned on the sountrack of my brain: "Cross the street at Outback and walk down the street a bit. You'll see steps that lead down..."

[No, I never went back this last week to ask/beg him to tell me yet again where the bookstore was. That was too humiliating. I did have it in the back of my mind that if I was thwarted yet again, I'd get my other coworker, CanadaBoy, on the phone and get Pablo's number from him. Then, when Pablo heard the edge of tears in my voice he'd come to my rescue with pinpoint directions, like the true gentleman and bookworm that he is.]

I was spared humiliation and the effort of having to generate tears. I found the bookstore! Hooray! As it turns out, Pablo's instructions were perfect...I just hadn't gone far enough either time (I thought I was running out of downtown and had overshot the place!) so I'd never gotten there.

Sigh. It's nice in there.

Unlike Kyobo, it's a lot more spread out. Also, the air conditioning was working well. In addition, the English-language books section wasn't crowded as hell. I'm barely exaggerating when I say that it wouldn't be unusual to come away from Kyobo bruised because of the cramped, crowded space in the English-language books section.

I parked myself on the floor of my new bookstore with a satisfied plop and examined books on the lower shelves. I was happy. Never mind that the Korean guy next to me was singing along to the "Greatest Hits Of Air Supply" with great feeling. That guy knew every word, every note, every subtle nuance of phrasing. To his credit however, he didn't hold that really l-o-n-g note at the very end of "I'm All Out Of Love". I was ready for it, though!

The selection at the new bookstore is similar to Kyobo's, but I did find some books that I hadn't seen before. One was an Abby Fruct novel, LIFE BEFORE DEATH. I almost bought it. It's really hard to find her stuff. This used to annoy me back in Missouri because the book reviewer at the Kansas City Star just raved about Fruct's work.

I also found a biography of Howard Hughes that looked good. Biographies are damn scarce here...I wonder why? I've seen approximately four in seven months: Howard Hughes, Eminem, Sting, and Katherine Graham.

There was also a John Updike novel called SEEK MY FACE that I haven't read yet. I don't know if it's the latest one or not. Anyway, that's the book I bought. You would think that after being denied and thwarted I would've gone hog-wild once I found the store, but I was miraculously able to hold myself in check.

Also, THE TIME TRAVELER'S WIFE is about 4,000 Won cheaper at my new bookstore than it is at Kyobo. If I decide to read this book, I'll get it there.

I left the store feeling quite triumphant and yes, even swaggering a bit. I was silently exulting "Book Goddess! Book Goddess!" in a way that would be reminiscent of "Who's Yo' Daddy?"

I had to walk back by Kyobo, and of course, I was drawn in by forces that have had possession of my bookwormy soul since even my pre-literate days, so why fight it or deny it? At Kyobo, I bought a handy-dandy little pocket-sized Korean phrasebook. It's published by Lonely Planet and looks quite user-friendly.

Thwarted!!!

Aaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhh!

That would be me, Bybee, having a a book-related hissy fit. Let me pick myself up from the floor where I've been lying face down, screaming, kicking my feet and hammering my fists, and I will explain:

Pablo told me about another bookstore in Daegu. Apparently, the prices are better, and even though the selection is smaller, some good stuff can be found there.

Problem: I can't locate this store. I've followed Pablo's directions, and I'm not seeing it! This makes twice I've failed to locate it! Obviously, I'm walking right by it every damn time, and that infuriates me! I can live with being thwarted about many things, but to have a bookstore right under my nose and not be able to get to it makes me crazy! I don't care if it's a teeny tiny hole-in-the-wall and it turns out to be chock-full of Harold Robbins and Danielle Steel! It's still a bookstore, and I really really need [insert pathetic whimper here] to have it on my beat.

After suffering this defeat again, I went back to Kyobo, my regular (and only) bookstore and bought these items:

1. A boxed set of 5 CAPTAIN UNDERPANTS books by Dav Pilkey. I told myself that they're for my students, but are they really? Ever since I visited Dav Pilkey's website, http://www.pilkey.com I've been a huge fan of his. So if these books don't really click with my students, then nuts to them. I'll read them myself!

2. SISTER CARRIE by Theodore Dreiser. Ever since finishing the James M. Cain omnibus, I've been a little bereft, wishing for more of his work. I'm hoping that a foray back into naturalism via Dreiser will fill the bill. Like Cain, Dreiser worked as a journalist and spent time hanging out with H.L. Mencken. If I had my druthers, I'd be reading Dreiser's JENNIE GERHARDT (I've wanted to since Harvey Pekar gave it a favorable review in AMERICAN SPLENDOR --both comic and movie--) but I've been unable to procure a copy.

Regarding my elusive bookstore: I can't give up. I mustn't give up. Even though it's going to hurt my pride, I have to go back to Pablo and admit that even with general but good directions, the bookstore is still out of my grasp. Ouch. It hurts to admit it to myself, my blog!

How in the hell can I possibly miss locating a bookstore? You'd think my bookwormy radar would've blinded and deafened me and turned me to stone everytime I overshot the place!

Kick-Ass Bookworming

Satisfy your need and greed to dwell in communion with a REAL bookworm, not these wormy-come-lately types who think they're all that just because they've read all of Oprah's recommendations! Visit the blog Pages Turned
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I was really sorry to hear about Anne Bancroft's death at 73 from cancer. She was an actress I liked very much. Like other fans, I was mesmerized by her performances in THE MIRACLE WORKER and THE GRADUATE, but my favorite movie of hers is 84 CHARING CROSS ROAD, in which she plays Helene Hanff, a feisty, opinionated, energetic New York booklover who has a lengthy and affectionate correspondence with a London bookstore located at the address that provides the title of the film. The film is based on a memoir by Hanff.

As I watched Bancroft-as-Hanff ordering deliciously large crates of books from England, and talking on the phone to the bookstore loudly and slightly nasally, and positively pop-eyed with book lust, I had a shock of recognition. Scenes at her books-are-taking-over-and-who-the-hell-cares? apartment made me want to just crawl into the movie and live there forever.

Sylvia's Picture

One day, a long time ago in the 1980s, I got a postcard from Manfred, Sr. For some reason, he was on a kick of scrawling out messages on those no-picture postcards that one can buy very cheaply at the post office. I scanned his message, yawned, threw the postcard down on the bed and looked at my other mail. Ah! A magazine! I happily trotted off to the bathroom. When I emerged some time later, it was time to go to work, so I left the apartment.

When I came back, it was really late. I easily and expertly threaded my way around the furniture in the dark living room. When I got to the bedroom, I flipped on the overhead light switch.

I gasped. There on the bed was a 4x6 black-and-white photo of Sylvia Plath, and she was looking right at me.

I began to shake. Was it really Sylvia Plath? Of course it was Sylvia Plath! How could I not recognize her? Wasn't I one of her most passionate fans? Hadn't I memorized practically every poem in ARIEL? How many times had I read her biography? I even knew what year that particular photo (1959, Boston) was taken.

But why was Sylvia's photo on my bed? Was I being haunted? Well, of course I was! Since I WAS being haunted, the next logical question was: Why me? Why had Sylvia picked me out of her legion of admirers? Why not some Ph.D candidate doing a dissertation on confessional poets? Didn't she know I only had a scrawny little B.A. in English? Through the fear, a sliver of pride crept in. Did she want to share a new poem from the other side? Did she want to reveal some information that her biographers hadn't managed to uncover? Or was she back to admonish me for my habit of denigrating Ted Hughes?

Frozen in the doorway of the bedroom, eyes locked on the photograph, it came to me that whatever Sylvia Plath wanted to say to me was written on the back of the picture lying on the bed. Problem: I was afraid to go over and pick it up. Squeamishness and fear rolled over me in waves. I was reminded of the time my mother ordered me to remove a dead squirrel from the driveway.

This isn't a dead squirrel, I reminded myself. This is Sylvia Plath. The message had to be revealed. I had a duty to literature.

I was still afraid to touch the picture. By now, my hands oozed icy sweat. I yanked 2 wire clothes hangers from the bedroom closet, keeping my eyes trained on Sylvia's picture all the while. About 10 other wire hangers clanged to the floor. I jumped. It felt like I had a live baby animal in my throat.

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo, as Sylvia herself famously said, I used the wire hangers to turn the picture over. It flipped up in the air and landed on the floor. I let out a little shriek which died quickly as I bent over and saw Manfred, Sr.'s familiar handwriting and a 19-cent stamp on the back of Sylvia's picture.