Some of us
never learn. After a lifetime of hunting and gathering, the hopped-up sense of
anticipation remains strong, less a symptom of greed than wonder. The Houston
Public Library’s book sale on Saturday was held in the “multipurpose room”
(gymnasium) of my youngest son’s middle school. Arranged in row after row with
strict impunity, tables and shelving carts parodied Melvil Dewey’s famed
system. Marcus Aurelius in Self-Help?
Much of the
stock consisted of library discards, always a sad sight. A pristine copy (but
for the library sticker and plastic cover) of Flann O’Brien’s Complete Novels, published in 2007? An untouched Brideshead Revisited, also in the Everyman’s Library edition? Most
of the rest was wood-pulp-to-be, recycled thrillers and biographies of actors
and politicians. Still, people managed to fill shopping bags and knapsacks,
though the books weren’t cheap: hardcovers, three dollars; paperbacks, two
dollars.
I was
relieved to find an Everyman’s Library edition of Defoe’s A Journal of the Plague Year. I love it almost as much as Robinson Crusoe, and it was a favorite
of the Joe’s, Liebling and Mitchell. The pages are browning but the spine is
intact. The only mark I find in the book, printed in 1931, is a single word on
the front free endpaper: “Neuhaus.” The prior owner had exquisite penmanship. Here
is a sample of Defoe’s clear and precise prose:
“As the
desolation was greater during those terrible times, so the amazement of the
people increased, and a thousand unaccountable things they would do in the
violence of their fright, as others did the same in the agonies of their
distemper, and this part was very affecting. Some went roaring and crying and
wringing their hands along the street; some would go praying and lifting up
their hands to heaven, calling upon God for mercy.”
I found a sturdy
paperback copy of a novel I’ve lately had a hankering to read again, Nostromo. There was a time when we
turned to fiction, in part, to learn how to live our lives. We expected moral
education and some of us still do. Conrad is a reliable teacher:
“The fault
of this country is the want of measure in political life. Flat acquiescence in
illegality, followed by sanguinary reaction—that, señores, is not the way to a stable and prosperous future.”
3 comments:
Marcus Aurelius in Self-Help? Why not? Or the spiritual writings of Samuel Johnson, the poems of George Herbert, the Syndicated News Articles of Eric Hoffer?
Thanks for the prompt, for this excellent read.
In the midst of all the suffering and woes, the Story of the Piper stood out. (page 89, Penguin edition)
He'd fallen asleep, and was picked up and thrown on a Death-cart. ("Bring out your dead.")
He awoke, and said "But I an't dead tho', am I?"
This was in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
Cleese was trying to throw his father on the cart. ("But I'm not dead yet." "Oh, don't be such a baby.")
Then the cart man clubbed the old man, and he was tossed on the cart.
The public library probably depends very heavily on both the sales of these materials, and also on the statistics that show that its collection is indeed circulating, not just sitting there being library wallpaper. It is indeed sad that so many hidden gems go undiscovered on library shelves--but the book sale is simply setting them off on their second life in the private sector, to be matched up with an owner looking specifically for them.
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