Being frugal in many pleasures (okay, not when it comes to buying  clothes…), I tend to haunt my public library for books, except when traveling. When I browse my local chain megabookstore, I tend to gravitate towards the bargain bins. A good read for $2.00? Why not?

 It is perhaps surprising to see popular writers there. Royalties on books, I understand, are modest at best, and how much can these writers earn off remaindered copies?  I recently saw Whitley Strieber, Stuart Woods, John LeCarre, even Philip Roth, perhaps, with the death of John Updike, now unrivalled as the greatest living American novelist, all with books on clearance racks. Sure, Exit Ghost and Everyman are lesser later works, pale reflections of past glory, but at $7.99 or less, they are great buys, and might lead new readers into Roth’s rich glories – to discover just what is Portnoy’s Complaint, The Human Stain, to visit Sabbath’s Theater, uncover The Plot Against America – such a range of exploration of sex, psyche, politics, religion, humanity in all of its rich folly.

 So, no tears for Roth.

 However, in preparation for my recent Toronto excursion, I bought two books – Richard Florida’s  The Flight of the Creative Class, because the future of cities is a fascinating topic germane to my community building activities, and William Brandt’s The Book of the Film of the Story of My Life. I had read Florida before, but the Brandt book I bought hoping that I could judge the book by the cover, in spite of the two markdown stickers reducing the price to $2. It looked like whimsical easy comedy to balance the seriousness of urban economics and of workity work – a pleasant diversion, perhaps.. It promised to tell the story of a struggling movie producer, his unfaithful wife, and love- for the price, a modest risk.

 Brandt does not rate a Wikipedia entry, but the book’s back cover tells us, “...studied acting…has appeared in television productions…He lives with his wife and children in Auckland, New Zealand.”

 Inside the front flap, we learn he previously published a collection of short fiction, Alpha Male, which Amazon informs is out of print. Amazon also suggests I may have overpaid for my copy of  The Book of… since used copies start at one cent – yes, a single penny! Order a few hundred books at that cost, Amazon might throw in free shipping, I suppose.

I really enjoyed The Book of…  It is a rollickingly funny story of lust, love, sex, and the human folly. Perhaps Brandt will never rival Roth, but he creates compelling characters, weaves wicked narratives, and manages to please and surprise with a modest twist at the end.

 So I was sad for William Brandt. I hope his wife has well paid employment and is happy to support his writing, because at this rate, he won't make a living as a novelist. I would love to read more, though how I will find more is a good question – if the internet kills publishing, the inefficiencies of distribution will frustrate further.

 Lately, I have been indulging a bit more in buying books, loving that tangible feel of holding something I own (though it seems extravagant to let them gather dust once read).  I am sad each time since that I visit the megabookstore, though I am also thrilled by the hunt for the next great bargain.