touring resorts

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The wealth of the literary market is too much to take in.

Today, I browsed the new book ads in the “Spring Books” special issue of the New York Review of Books. I’m a subscriber for decades, now having six unwandered back issues.

I’ll catch up now by one a day. (Also, I have six back issues of the London Revew of Books to wander.)

I’m nearly overwhelmed by the diversity of scholarly books which evidently have a market? How can so much specialist non-fiction (and fiction) find enough audience to be feasible for the publishers?

Maybe specialist publishing is basically about furthering university libraries’ standing orders for some far-future usefulness. So, current scholars are writing to the Great Archive for future archaeologies of texted loves?

Anyway, nearly overwhelming is the scale of inquirial engagement (or fictional novelty) that attests Our venturesome humanity, only barely appreciable by any one witness of such wealth.

And the “Independent Press”: the range of sensibilities! Each title somehow gains a market, I guess—or not: Publishers must be gamblers, prospecting wilds as if they’re needy gardens.

Though I’ve accumulated thousands of books over my decades, I’m a tiny selectivity—like any of us—of available transformers.

Readers, writers, lovers of text—we’re all little flowers in the awesome landscape of texted being—and sobering finitude of time to give oneself chances for high transportation.