Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 10/2

Harlen Coben has written 20 novels in the mystery genre. They have been translated into 40 languages and sold 50 million worldwide. His last four have debuted at number one on the New York Times Best Sellers list. He has won the Edgar, the Shamus and the Anthony awards - the first to win all three. So I looked forward to reading The Woods. I was not disappointed. It is superior to all the mysteries I've sampled save one, Tami Hoag's A Thin Dark Line. It is what's called a stand-alone novel, one that does not involve his usual main character. The protagonist is a lead prosecutor working out of Newark, where Coben grew up. I was hooked immediately and was not disappointed at the resolution. The book also offers deeper insight into humans than most in the genre. The French recognized Coben's ability, adapting Tell No One (2006), an excellent thriller, to the silver screen. I added it to my list at Netflix for a re-watch. On a scale of five, I rate The Woods three-and-three-quarters.
Unless one suffers some sort of deep psychological trauma, one's personality doesn't change much over the course of a lifetime. I've changed in one way. I used to be a sports fanatic. I'd watch way too much. These days, if a game is not at night, there is almost zero chance I'll watch. I'd rather be selling books or online. Last night there were two excellent college football match-ups airing simultaneously. While both were in commercial, I stumbled into Ingmar Bergman's Shame (1968), running on the City College station. As bleak as it was, I preferred it to the games. It was time well spent, as the games became blow-outs. And they seem to go on forever these days. I miss the crisp two hour forty-five minute event that used to be college football. I guess there's a lot more money to be made in a three-and-a-half to four hour broadcast. I just don't have the patience for it any more. A lot of my old friends would be shocked at this.
Thanks to the kind folks who purchased books today on Bay Parkway. One, a 20-year-old who had an Ayn Rand novel poking out of a pocket of his hoodie, brought a smile to my face when he bought Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travels and a Cervantes reader.
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