Reduced
to cardboard boxes sealed with packing tape, a transformation that lends books
the inert heft of concrete blocks, one’s library suddenly appears too, too
solid and yet, enticingly disposable. Why lug around all this stuff? Except for
house and car, I own nothing else so heavy. My books by many factors
outweigh my refrigerator. Made anonymous by boxing, books might serve as
building material, weaponry or landfill fodder.
“What
am I carrying all this lumber around with me for? Into boxes, out of boxes. Why
am I breaking my back for them? Throwing away money on removalists, on shelves.
Why am I repeating patterns of ownership that have served me only fitfully in
the past?”
In
the last month, from well-intentioned acquaintances, I’ve received recent
volumes devoted to Hart Crane and William Carlos Williams, poets who mean
almost nothing to me. Both volumes are overpriced and over-freighted with
pseudo-scholarly apparatus. In general, I’m rapidly losing interest in
secondary sources. At the public library, as in English departments, critics outnumber their subjects. Off
to Half-Price Books go Hart and Bill. This is no time for sentimentality.
“How
do you explain to somebody who doesn’t understand that you don’t build a
library to read. A library is a
resource. Something you go to, for reference, as and when. But also something
you look at, because it gives you succor, answers to some idea of who you are
or, more to the point, who you would like to be, who you will be once you own every book you need to own.”
Thanks
to a review by Elberry at The Dabbler, I’m reading a collection of
columns/essays by the English novelist Howard Jacobson, Whatever It Is, I Don’t Like
It (Bloomsbury, 2012). The title comes from an exchange between Groucho and Chico in A Night at the Opera that
reminds me of this song performed by Groucho and Zeppo in Horse Feathers. The passages above are taken from a piece titled
“Human Values.” So now I’ve added another book to the heap, one I suspect I’ll
reread on occasion. Of course, as Jacobson writes in the same column:
“As always, it’s the feebleness of our language that shows the trouble we’re in. We can’t make a claim for substance without our words drifting away on the wind like the puffball of the dandelion—sugar-bobbies, as we used to call them in the north. Fine spores of sweet nothing.”
1 comment:
Might I recommend Phantoms on the Bookshelves by Jacques Bonnet? The question is considered by a man with forty thousand volumes, more or less.
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