My estate, such as it is, will probably remain a modest affair. Assets outweigh liabilities, but so long as my idea of financial planning is putting the bills in my wallet in order by denomination, no one will mistake me for a shrewd investor. The possessions I value most, my books, would hardly pay the cost of shipping if my survivors put them on the auction block at eBay. They could never mean as much to another, even if he or she were a seasoned, dedicated reader, as they do to me. They constitute my ad hoc autobiography, a history of my consciousness, transparent to me and forever opaque to others.
I found a stray volume of poems, It’s Her Voice That Haunts Me Now, drawn from the first 10 years of Literary Review, a journal published in London and formerly edited by the late Auberon Waugh. All the poems are traditional in form and often in sentiment, and I’m afraid many are not very good. Two of them, however, address the theme of books as legacy, as the summing-up gift of a lifetime – one from the giver’s perspective, the other from a hopeful recipient. The first, the better of the two, is “To My Daughter, My Books,” by Maureen Jeffs:
“When I have vanished like a dream
And sleep beneath some Fenland sod,
Don’t bring me wreaths of evergreen
Or weep and wail and blaspheme God.
I leave you treasure that was mine,
The culture of each bygone age,
Laid down in books like vintage wine,
Pouring out from every page.
Books were my life’s delight and led
To riches far beyond my dreams:
Not earthly wealth, but fountainheads
Of philosophic thought, bright seams
Of wisdom, voices of the past
Which lit my way, sometimes amused
Or caused a tear to fall. A vast
Miscellany. Take them and use
Them well, each one has been a friend,
And may the truths you find console.
In these, and in the books I’ve penned,
You’ll find the substance of my soul.”
Yes, “life’s delight.” It’s yet another symptom of the vanity of my human wishes, but I want my kids to read my Montaigne, my Shakespeare, my Thoreau. How silly, and embarrassing to admit. But is it vain to provide children with a proven source of consolation, a sparse commodity in so many lives? I like Jeffs’ notion of bequeathing books as friends. The other poem, by Angela Greenhill, is “December Legacy”:
“Leave me your books: like you the year is dying,
The jasmine flowers but I am desolate –
Black dawns, black days and sorrow at the gate,
Eyes all puffed up and red from too much crying.
“Leave me your books, my loneliness forestalling;
So brave they stand, like soldiers on their mark
To chase the paper tigers of the dark
And see off Death himself if he comes calling.
Leave me your books: you’ll live between their covers
Now and for ever: what is time, indeed?
You will be always with me as I read.
Leave me your books, last legacy of lovers,
“So I may find, as grief plays out his part,
The winter jasmine flowering in my heart.”
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
"A book lying idle on a shelf is wasted ammunition. Like money, books must be kept in constant circulation. Lend and borrow to the maximum--of both books and money! But especially books, for books represent infinitely more than money. A book is not only a friend, it makes friends for you. When you have possessed a book with mind and spirit, you are enriched. But when you pass it on you are enriched threefold."
-Henry Miller
Shelby Foote and Walker Percy were lifelong friends and much of their correspondence was on books they loved to read ,and music they loved to hear. Foote said his love of books was owed to Walker's uncle.
They both agreed that they would leave the other their prized book collection upon death. Shelby would leave Walker his Shakespeare and Walker would leave Shelby his Henry James. Shelby had the James displayed prominently in his study.
When Foote was asked by Brian Lamb if he had read his entire Shakespeare collection, Foote replied in his courtly southern manner that yes, indeed he has and many times but because of the beauty of Shakespeare's language , sometimes he has to pause while reading and put the book down.
My daughter who was visiting last Saturday - she likes to be fed mother's cooking periodically - googled my name. What excitement when she discoered that you had come across and read my poem 'To My Daughter, My Books ...'; written for her several years ago. Your comments were uplifting. Haven't had much time to go into your blog in depth but picked up that, like me, you are an admirer of Howlin' Wolf and Daniel Woodrell. I only came across the latter a week ago; BBC Radio 4 broadcast 'Winter's Bone' between Monday and Friday at 22.45 until 2300 as their Book at Bedtime. From the first episode I was hooked, smitten by his beautiful and sharp use of language, and made sure I kept awake and listened. Now I must seek out some of his books and read them. Your comments are my second literary connection with the USA; a couple of years ago a magazine in San Diego, California, asked permission to print one of my poems in their magazine. Kindest regards from me at Ashton-under-Lyne, six miles from the centre of Manchester and thanks again. Maureen (Jeffs)
Post a Comment