On the curious idea that reading books about "people like myself" would entice me to read more books: when I read Beckett and Dostoevsky as a student, I did see myself, and that was quite enough of that, thank you.
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Never quite sure what to do with a copy of perennial bestseller The Art of Seduction (AKA "How to Be an Online Creep") when it comes into the shop: throw it in the trash, mark it down for a quick sale, or put a premium price on it because someone will gladly pay it?
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I used to work at a tourist-destination bookshop that would attract an unusually high number of creepy young men AND creepy old men who'd come there to hang around, hitting on women. The staff went out of their way to make these guys feel unwelcome, and they never seemed to understand why. Is there anything sadder than a grown man who doesn't realize that he's turned into Pepé Le Pew?
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I recently thought about the man who seduced me when I was just coming out, and I suddenly remembered that there wasn't a single book in his tastefully decorated San Francisco apartment. Not that I noticed at the time.
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Separate the art from the artist -- easier said than done. Fascist mouthpiece and wartime traitor Ezra Pound still wrote excellent poetry in a U.S. Army prison; British fascist Henry Williamson still gave us the indelible nature novel Tarka the Otter. Yet I can't bring myself to re-read any of Woody Allen's prose or re-watch any of his movies. That's just asking too much, too soon.