The town has a used book store. I'm not talking about a Half Price Books. I'm talking about a real, two story, jammed packed, dusty smelling, windy-aisled (wind as in brook or stream, not blowing air,) creaky stairway, well-nooked, up and down floored for no apparent reason, utterly lovely used book store. Last night was my first foray into the place. I had a couple of minutes between going to one place and needing to be at another place, so I thought I'd pop in.
Instantly completely lost in the wonderousness of it all. If there was an RPG section, I couldn't find it, and wasn't too unhappy. Tons of everything you'd expect from a town with more college students than horses. (And there are a lot of frigging horses in the region.)
So I'm halfway between the sci-fi section and the literature section when this very cute woman comes up to me, a embarrassed look on her face.
"Hi," she said, crinkling her brow, "Can you, um, do you happen to know who the author of the Lord of the Rings is?"
My eyes lit up. How I would regale her with my bottomless knowledge of Tolkien! Oh, how I would tell her of the many differences between the movies and books. How I would discuss the fact that there were 13 Dwarves in the Hobbit novel, and there were 13 chapters, and how that wasn't a coincidence! How I would sing to her the Song of Durin over a candlelit dinner!
She lightly smacked the center of her forehead and twisted her lips. "Lord of the Flies. Duh. I meant Lord of the Flies. Who wrote it?"
I blinked a couple of times. I had read it. I high school. Like a billion years ago. I even wrote a report on it. Uh . . .
"I don't know," I sighed, "All I remember is they killed Piggy."