I just realized that I got ahead of myself in my last blog (see Snake on a Plane). Before I leave the Midwest (metaphorically, of course), I’d like to offer up an ode to used bookstores. Because of my job, I often forget what a luxury a book is. On days like today especially, as publishers bomb the Bookroom with package after package of big fall galleys, books seem to have it out for me. No joke: I’ve often dreamed of suffocating under a heap of health and medicine titles.

That sentiment seemed a lifetime away when I visited Huntington Books in Mandan, ND (sorry, they don’t have a web site). While munching on a maple cream from the candy shop a few doors down, I came across cherry hardbacks of Alex Haley’s Roots and a Flannery O’Conner short story collection, both with dust jackets in tact. My sister called my attention to a 1960s travel guide to New York City with dining advice that’s still relevant. These books did not symbolize “work,” but art. They’re human artifacts, infused with dirt, must, oil, and gratitude from their former owners. I like to think when I buy a used book, I’m promised a more intense reading experience, that whatever previous readers learned will be passed on to me through osmosis. The sad part is that not all books even make it to used bookstores—some are destined for landfills and return warehouses. The trick during this fall downpour is to convince myself that there are books worthy of second and third lives. And, of course, there are. Wait until you read our annual Editors’ Picks feature in the Sept. 1 issue.