Books - Larry McMurtry

Here I am, thirty-four chapters into a book that I hope will interest the general or common reader --and yet why should these readers be interested in the fact that in 1958 or so I paid Ted Brown $7.50 for a nice copy of The Anatomy of Melancholy? How many are going to care that I visited the great Seven Gables Bookshop, or dealt with the wily L.A. dealer Max Hunley, who little store at the corner of Rodeo Drive and Little Santa Monica in Beverly Hills is now a yogurt shop....A fair answer would be that few readers are engaged by this kind of stuff, unless the writer can somehow tap deeper sentiments.

Unfortunately, McMurtry fails in his efforts to engage the reader with this so-called memoir. By the time you finish the 98 chapters, many only a half-page long, you feel like a bored listener to stories with no emotional or intellectual impact. If you happen to have a deep-seated interest in the buying and selling of rare books, you may find the book interesting.

The book starts out like a typical memoir with reminiscences of the lack of books in his childhood. The book quickly moves to the writer's adult life with dozens of unconnected tales of books that were bought or sold often for amounts too small or too large. Even the ending comes off as disjointed where it seems that after 95 chapters the writer simply decides to hurry up and end it. McMurtry is a fine writer and this the only saving grace of this book. Very disappointing.