One of the things that I am fervently anticipating about our upcoming move is the chance to free the rest of my book collection from the storage bin, where it has unhappily resided for the past 18 months. As most of you probably know, I own a lot of books. Though my collection is not as vast as my heart would dictate if it had free reign over my pocketbook, it is still large enough to make a small-town pubic library envious. Pondered in this light, purchasing another volume is probably not the most necessary action that I could take. However, for us feverish-reader types, there are certain books that speak to us at such a high, insistent pitch that they cannot, for long, be ignored. On such occasions, a benign browsing-trip to the book-store can turn into a pleading session between your heart and your wallet. This afternoon, the former trounced the latter; this is how I came to have Anthony Slide's 'Silent Players' in my possession.
I have a mania for Pre-1930's cinema. Anthony Slide was lucky enough to befriend many of the performers of that era while they were in their twilight years; he is also a fantastic film historian, with many wonderful, insightful genre books to his credit. Although I am a critical reader, I will never be a jaded one; thus, I am nearly crazy with delight over the thought of delving into this volume. There are books that you purposely seek out, and those that you casually happen upon. (It is a toss-up as to which anticipation is more acute.) This one fell into my lap, as I was idly time-killing at Half-Price Books with The Chef. Although I will likely rush through it, I am going to try my best to slowly savor this particular word-sensory experience. However it plays out, I promise to write about it here, in one form or another. Reading may be a solo practice but its impact is ultimately collective; the best books are meant to be shared.
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