Used book finds

While on my way to the pet store yesterday to buy the expensive litter that's our only line of defense against Claudius having accidents outside the box, I took an out-of-the-way detour and wound up at the used book store.

Incredibly enough, I had not been there in eight months. Even more incredibly, the unfriendly store cat was happy to see me and insisted that I make over him instead of glaring that I ought to keep my distance if I knew what was good for me.

So after our mutual schmooze session, I sneezed and snuffled along the fiction shelves and came away with:

Breakfast of Champions. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. I have no idea where my original copy has wound up, but this one looks just like that long-lost friend. Ah, nostalgia. . .

Hideous Kinky. Esther Freud. I'd been on the lookout for this for awhile.

The Decameron. Giovanni Boccaccio. I think this is going to be my long-term project once I've completed Ulysses.

The Ballad of Trenchmouth Taggart. M. Glenn Taylor. A National Book Critics Circle Award finalist, according to the cover, which sports an impressive-looking snake.

Still Alice. Lisa Genova. Alzheimer's disease. I'll have to work up some courage to read it.

Our Sometime Sister. Norah Labiner. With this purchase I now own all Labiner's novels. I suppose that's a sign I should stop collecting her work and get around to reading it.