Along with Nabokov's, I'd buy a book of Luc Sante interviews:
When I lived on St. John’s Place I ran out of coffee on a Sunday morning, so I went to the corner bodega and asked–in English–for a bag of El Pico. The clerk looked at me blankly, then disappeared into the back. He returned with a large jar, from which he proceeded to extract an enormous half-sour pickle.
—Luc Sante: Walloon for the Hell of It, Who Walk in Brooklyn
Labels: Luc Sante