@#$%&!

I am an avid reader. Just ask any of my friends or any member of my family. There are, in my opinion, very few things which measure up the value of books and the knowledge which can be attained from them. I doubt that I shall ever forget the look of astonishment of the face of one of my favorite college professors when he glanced over the rough draft of my bibliography for his final paper and realized that all of my listed resources were books.

When I am unable to locate a specific book at any of the retailers located within a fifty mile radius of my apartment I turn to a trusty internet resource to order them from (we’ll just refer to it as “A”) and have the title in question delivered to my front door. No fuss, no muss, no worries. Usually.

Several months ago I decided that I would like to read this book:

The Forsyte Saga is John Galsworthy's monumental chronicle of the lives of the moneyed Forsytes, a family whose values are constantly at war with its passions. The story of Soames Forsyte's marriage to the beautiful and rebellious Irene, and its effects upon the whole Forsyte clan, The Forsyte Saga is a brilliant social satire of the acquisitive sensibilities of a comfort-bound class in its final glory. Galsworthy spares none of his characters, revealing their weaknesses and shortcomings as clearly as he does the tenacity and perseverance that define the strongest members of the Forsyte family.

Being unable to attain it locally I turned to “A.” Alas, it was out of stock but there were many reassurances that once it became available it would be sent to me post haste. Having no shortage of available reading material at hand I felt that a five to seven week wait wouldn’t bother me overly much and ordered the book. (Let me pause here for a moment and explain that the edition of the book I ordered was to contain the ENTIRE saga, meaning all five of Galsworthy’s stories.)

Last week the book finally arrived. Imagine my dismay when the book was unpacked and not only was it merely the ‘first volume’ (containing only three of the novels) but it looked as if the book had been thrown around the warehouse before shipping. The cover was bent and scratched, the pages were twisted and worn and considering that I had expected this book to be in ‘brand new’ condition I was justifiably horrified…because you just don’t treat books like that! (Yeah…Madame Pinch, the Hogwarts Librarian has nothing on me… (check that out, a Harry Potter reference right in the middle of the post…I’m such a dork but I embrace it so I guess that’s healthy)). So I promptly contacted “A” via email and received a very nice reply. I could simply pack the book up and return it at their expense for a full refund, which I did.

But this story doesn’t end here…oh no! Having been let down for the first time ever by “A” I turned to “B” another online book retailer. Not only was the book in stock but they promised that I would only be waiting three business days for its arrival. Excitement overwhelmed me (…okay, okay, I might be abusing sarcasm at this point…). The book was ordered, the package was tracked and three days later a small box lay upon the doorstep. A box that looked a little too small to contain a book of nearly 900 pages. The box was opened and inside was a brand new copy of:

As I Lay Dying: the harrowing, darkly comic tale of the Bundren family's trek across Mississippi to bury Addie, their wife and mother, in the town of her choice. Faulkner lets each family member--including Addie--and others along the way tell their private responses to Addie's life.

Oh [phenomenally monumental amounts of obscenities deleted in order to maintain the G rating of this blog] dear.

However, one phone call to the customer service line for “B” and a short chat with “Jeff” later (which included much exasperated expounding upon the details of exactly how a novel about a wealthy family set in Victorian England had NOTHING in common with a depression era story set in the American south) the book was reordered and I was to be sent a return form. These arrived on Tuesday. This time the book was correct, and Faulkner was packed up and shipped out, never to darken my door again.