/lit/ - Literature

>>16168385
It seems to me that the pseuds are accumulating at the gates, demanding we stop reading and discussing Uncle Theodore. Well, what I say to that is...
no, thanks.

>staying with my grandma over the summer
>she lives in miniscule town in Oregon
>asks me if I’d like to stop by the festival flea market uptown
>everyone brings their crafts and collectibles to the town square to buy and sell over the weekend; basically a glorified garage sale
>boundtobeshit
>first table is a little old lady selling flower arrangements
>colour scheme is a disaster. No theme or flow.
>she's chatting with my grandma when I interrupt
>“Interesting choice using daisies AND chamomile in the same arrangement. Don't want to be too bright, I see. Btw, the great depression's over, dear.”
>Old lady gasps. My grandma tries to apologize. I saunter to the next table.
>A little kid made some paintings. One’s a galloping horse. The other's a crude sketch of a man fishing. The frames are made of popsicle sticks. Truly pathetic.
>“Hey Mister, wanna buy a painting? They’re only three dollars.”
>*eyeroll*
>“Tell me something, kid. Have you heard of Brueghel?”
>“Nuh-uh.”
>"How about Robert Bateman?”
>“Yeah, yeah! He paints animals just like me!”
>“Let me paint you a little picture: Imagine Robert Bateman was given a Brueghel painting, chewed it up, swallowed it, digested it, and shat it into a can. Now imagine he used his foot to smear the contents into a smiley face…It would come out better than your paintings.”
>kid immediately starts crying. I move on.
>At the end of the row is an old man selling books. He’s been watching me, puffing on a pipe. Apparently he’s the town mayor.
>sign says $2 each. I’m sure it's all pocket westerns and pulp fiction but decide to check it out.
>“Hey there, fella. You like books?”
>"Do the Greeks like Byron?"
>Look through his books. “I see you’ve read some Dickens. Mandatory reading…in the sixth grade. Not even hardcover.”
>The man puffs on his pipe. “Keep lookin. Might find something more your speed.”
>“Gee, let’s see, Penguin edition of Heart of Darkness. I remember my first book report.”
>“Look a little deeper kid.”
>Come across early edition of Call of the Wild.
>“Hmm, I guess there’s bound to be a pearl amongst the swine.” Look inside. Signed by London! Hold on to it.
>Next book is a first-edition of Huckleberry Finn. Holy shit! Signed as well.
>The man keeps puffing on his pipe.
>Grab the last book in the pile: Emerson’s Essays: First Series. First Edition. Pencil signature inside the cover that reads, ‘Dear Albert, May these words bring you joy and reflection. Yours, R.W.E.’
>“I’ll take these!”
>“Which ones did you find?” he asks, reaching for the books. I hand them to him.
>He looks at them for a second. “Oh, these? Not for sale." He smirks and tucks the books away.
>“Nor is this photograph of me and a couple friends.” He holds up a black and white photo. It’s him standing with Faulkner and Fitzgerald in Hollywood in the 1930s.
>He blows a puff of smoke in my face: “Now get the fuck out of my flea market.”