The other day, I came across a first edition of Evan S. Connell’s Mrs. Bridge (1959) in the mud room. “I didn’t know we had this!” I exclaimed.

The ’50s cover art is whimsical: the old-fashioned black phone on a white table, dwarfed by a large pink mass (Mrs. Bridge’s knitting? A hat?), and white gloves and a white scarf tucked beneath the pink. The white paper cut-outs are juxtaposed and contrasted with the black table legs.

“I adored this when I read it, ” I said. Back then I related to Mrs. Bridge, a housewife in Kansas City, who has ups and downs. and becomes less conventional as the year pass. I have nothing in common with Mrs. Bridge, but that’s the wonderful thing about fiction: sometimes we become the characters as we read.

I found a handwritten receipt tucked inside the cover.  I bought the book on Jan. 12, 1991, at an antiquarian bookshop. I suppose it closed long ago.

And the price of the book was $9.

“You got robbed,”   said the captain.   “This isn’t in good condition.”

 I didn’t think about condition when I bought used books back then. 

I wonder what I would think about Mrs. Bridge now.  I reread it some years back in a paperback and was less enthusiastic.  At different stages of life, we read things differently.

But I am inspired by the old-fashioned jacket copy.  This writer says, “Mrs. Bridge is a totally delightful reading experience.  It brings in turn the wry smile, the outright laugh, and shows the pang of a deep and willing sympathy.”

That’s a book I want to read.