There is a section in the library for new releases.  When I have not remembered to bring my New York Times Book Review section –on which I have meticulously taken notes, underlined previous books by the authors of books I want to read, ripped out the really important reviews, and put it all on the table near the door where I won’t forget to take it to the library —  well, when I don’t remember to take that, I go and sit on the bench there in the new releases section and browse the new books.

I put a lot of stock in book covers. I absolutely judge a book by its cover: publishers pay a lot of money to artists and designers of book covers and I wouldn’t want them to feel it was wasted. I believe in the artwork on book covers, although I often wonder about the stuff written on the book jacket. I try not to read the whole thing, although they are never as bad as the Netflix descriptions. Talk about spoiler alert.

Anyhow, I’m there and this woman is standing next to me holding a book I had recently read.  I forget the name now, but it’s about a lawyer who decides to defend an 11- or 12-year-old boy who murdered a 6-year-old girl, and the whole town turns against him and his family, and, well, I don’t want to ruin it for you if you decide to read it, but I’ll have to remember the name of it first.

I told the woman that she was going to love that book, and she asked me if I had any other suggestions for good books, so I asked her if she had read the one about the Olympic athlete who was a Japanese prisoner of war in WWII.

“No,no,” she said.  “What’s the name of it?”

I had no idea. “I dunno,” I said, “but it was written by the same author who wrote the one about the horse.”

She nodded. “Right,” she said. “The horse.”

“A woman.”

“Right. A woman wrote it.”

“A race horse.”

“Right.  I loved that book.”

“Anyhow, it was written by her.”  I thought for a minute.  “I also liked the one about the girl who was losing her house to foreclosure and an Indian family bought it, but she and her cop boyfriend were working on getting them evicted, and …”

The woman brightened up. “I saw the movie!” she exclaimed. “I loved the old guy, that actor.”

“He was magnificent.  What’s-his name.  Very noble.  But if you saw the movie, you probably don’t want to read the book.”

The woman looked up at the ceiling. “Didn’t that end badly?”

I was thinking that the old guy and his wife both die, but I didn’t want to tell her that.  I nodded at the book in her hand again.  “You’re going to love that book,” I reminded her.

“Well, thanks for your help.  It’s great meeting another real reader.”  She told me her name, which I promptly forgot, but about ten minutes later, I said out loud, “Seabiscuit.”