“The
bookcase of early childhood is a man’s companion for life.”
How
I wish this were true. Who wouldn’t want to claim a prodigy’s gift, reading
Dante in diapers? But I wasn’t born into that kind of house, or with that sort
of gift, and in early childhood I read comic books and Mad magazine (the latter first published in the month I was born). Perhaps
Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938) is being fanciful, optimistic or nostalgic in Chap.
4, “The Bookcase,” in The Noise of Time
(trans. Clarence Brown, p. 77, The Prose of Osip Mandelstam, 1965):
“The
arrangement of its shelves, the choice of books, the colors of the spines are
for him the color, height, and arrangement of world literature itself. And as
for books which were not included in that first bookcase— they were never to
force their way into the universe of world literature. Every book in the first
bookcase is, willy-nilly, a classic, and
not one of them can ever be expelled.”
Again,
flamboyantly hopeful, but Mandelstam seems to be reclaiming a past, his own and
that of all Russians Jews, or all Jews everywhere. The lower shelf of the
family bookcase, he says, was “chaotic”: “This was the Judaic chaos thrown into
the dust. This was the level to which my Hebrew primer, which I never mastered,
quickly fell.” Mandelstam is an archeologist. On the next higher shelf, “above
these Jewish ruins,” are the German volumes – more orderly, of course. Next,
his mother’s Russian books – Pushkin, Lermontov, Turgenev, Dostoevsky and a
lesser name, less familiar in the West: Semyon Yakovlevich Nadson (1862–1887). Mandelstam
calls the Nadson volume “the key to the epoch, the book that had become positively
white-hot from handling, the book that would not under any circumstances agree
to die, that lay like someone alive in the narrow coffin of the 1890s.” Nadson
was a Jew, and his poetry was popular to a degree unprecedented among Russian
readers.
I
remembered Mandelstam’s bookcase chapter – a free-standing essay, really – while
reading a book by Vasily Grossman (1905-1964). The Road (trans. Robert and Elizabeth Chandler, and Olga
Mukovnikova, New York Review Books, 2010) is a collection of stories, journalism,
essays and letters by the author of Life
and Fate. Recurrent themes are books as refuge and their centrality to a
civilized life. In a 1943 story, “The Old Teacher,” the title character is
Boris Isaakovich Rosenthal: On warm days, when the old man goes outdoors, “He
did not take philosophy books with him: the noise of children, and the women’s
laughter and cursing, were entertainment enough.” He sits reading Chekhov.
Grossman writes:
“He
loved books—and books were not a barrier between him and life. His God was
Life. And he learned about this God—a living, earthy, sinful God—by reading
historians and philosophers, by reading the works of both greater and lesser
writers. All of them, as best they could, celebrated, justified, blamed, and
cursed Man on this splendid earth.”
As
a reporter for the Red Star, Grossman
accompanied the Soviet troops liberating the camps at Treblinka and Majdanek. In
his 1944 report “The Hell of Treblinka,” Grossman depicts the anti-Rosenthals,
those with contempt for books and everything civilized, among the camp
guards:
“The
SS and the Wachmänner did not see the newly arrived transport as being made up
of living human beings, and they could not help smiling at the sight of
manifestations of embarrassment, love, fear, and concern for the safety of
loved ones or possessions. It amused them to see mothers straightening their
children’s jackets or scolding them for running a few yards away, to see men
wiping their brows with a handkerchief and then lighting a cigarette, to see
young girls tidying their hair, looking in pocket mirrors, and anxiously
holding down their skirts if there was a gust of wind. They thought it funny
that the old men should try to squat down on their little suitcases, that some
should be carrying books under their arms, that the sick should moan and groan
and have scarves tied around their necks.”
In
1938, Mandelstam died in a Siberian transit camp. Grossman died of stomach cancer
in 1964, sixteen years before Life and
Fate was published. His great novel was photographed by Andrei Sakharov and
smuggled out of the Soviet Union, where it was not published until 1988.
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