Archetype [noun]: a very typical example of a certain person or thing. Example: The book is a perfect archetype of the genre.

In their book Archetypes: Social Animals in Our Midst, Mireille Silcoff and Kagan McLeod have taken on the admirable task of re-classifying people. That whole Jungian schtick was getting old - the wise old man, the hero with the tragic flaw, the virgin/mother/whore thing - so last century.

The local chapter of Amnesty International is celebrating International Human Rights Day with their annual Write-a-Thon.

Their goal is to write 300 letters (working towards a national total of more than 20,000) in support of individuals around the world who are immediately at risk - the spate of concerned letters to presidents, ambassadors, and other political figures in the country in question as well as here at home draws attention rapidly to severe situations (often for persons unjustly imprisoned), and letters of support offer comfort to those being persecuted.

So take time on your Saturday (the 9th) between 11-3 and head down to 14 Dundonald St. Have coffee and a cookie and make the world a better place.

(Or find another way to Take Action. If you can't donate, there are letter-writing campaigns year-round. A stamp isn't a lot, but it can make a big difference).

This week's book is The Secret Mitzvah of Lucio Burke - author Steven Hayward may live in Ohio, but the book is enmeshed in 1930s Toronto.

Romance, baseball, religion, family strife, saving the world - what more could you want?

And just in time for the holidays, too.

So, email me (katherine at blogto dot com) with the name of Hayward's first book (which incidentally won the Upper Canada Writers' Craft Award) first, and voila, a book for you!

Scarlett Thomas is one of my new favourite people (check out her website, aside from being a sharp author, she's really damn interesting). Her book The End of Mr. Y is defiantly non-genre (although it takes cues from mystery and sci-fi), and uses fiction to explore ideas - philosophy, science, the nature of reality - in a highly entertaining, thought -provoking, I-want-everyone-to-read-it-so-we-can-talk-about-it way.

The End of Mr. Y is about Ariel Manto, our heroine, who's doing a phD on mysterious author Thomas Lumas, whose book, The End of Mr. Y, seems to kill those who read it (including Lumas himself), under the tutelage of the only other person in the world remotely interested in Lumas, Saul Burlem.

The action begins shortly after Burlem disappears. Ariel stumbles across the (extremely rare) book at a local used book shop, which of course she reads, and suddenly it's down the rabbit hole.

It's sad to see, but bookstores are a-closin'
- Annex Books (Bathurst), Abelard (Queen) - I hardly knew ye (which is my own fault, they've been around for ages). But I just moved to the annex, pratically next door to Annex Books, and I won't have much of a chance to visit. Alas.

Why? Rent. The profit margin for shops that actually sell books (rather than 'lifestyle items', ahem, toys, bath salts, and other, um, literary accoutrement) is quite small. Bigger bookstores can reap in huge profits from remaindered titles, get bigger discounts from publishers because they buy larger quantities, and keep customers with the lower prices (paid for by the margin on the aforementioned tchotchkes).

Expenses go up, profits stay level, even at this time of year. This is where I make some comment about the good old days, right?

There's something about the marketing deluge of the xmas shopping season that I find strangely hypnotic. The ads and the sharpie-wielders' response to them fascinate me, especially when I find myself succumbing.

I don't watch a lot of TV, I try to ignore billboards as much as possible, and have learned to overlook the hundreds of ads in print media (unless they mention something specific that I've been considering anyway, like the yoga studio ads in eye and Now).

But over the past couple of weeks - I find myself craving things whose actual value escapes me. I blame my metro pass and the wallpaper of giant ads on the TTC - there's nothing else to read.