Why, in this digital age, is it so painful to part with books? Old friends, the ones I've read more than once, are the hardest to part with. Such fond memories. And the marginalia! I feel like Proust in Swann's Way. Bring me some madeleines and bring me some wine as I sort books, using the Dewy Decimal System, but it's all written in Morse code. I make impromptu parings of books like fine wine and cheese. Ah, but the sharp scent of old books, part dust, part mold, burnt paper and still redolent of printer's ink. (Probably all that lead...) There’s a word for the odor of old books in the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows (thx. Randy McAtee): vellichor.
And then there are my notes and marginalia. I am always pleasantly surprised by my minute observations. (Perpetually thinking I'm dumb, and was even dumber yet when I was young)...dyslexia's hardbound gift.)And then I read the marginalia, and realize my perceptions were dumb, not me.
Yeah, parting with all my poetry books will be the hardest of all. I was thinking of giving them to SFSU Poetry Center. So many are signed. some are even first editions. One from Maxine Hong Kingston which I treasure, Has anyone ever had any luck selling their collections? I've some rare books—poetry, Celtic studies (medieval history), and folklore to retome as well.
My Celtic books could go to UC Berkeley's Brendan O'Hehir Library. But my literary books. And what about the not-so-literary ones...William Least Heat Moon, Madeline L'Engle, W.P. Kinsella, Isabel Allende, Harriet Doerr (Stones for Ibarra), Paul Theroux. All books I loved. And it's hard to let go of them but I am overrun by my love of books and all things shiny.
(For what it’s worth, I took a fabulous collection of books down to the Oakland library, and they welcome them with open arms, which made me feel somewhat better.)
(Some of this morphed into two blog posts, one on my grandmother’s houses and another on Alexander McCall Smith.)
No comments:
Post a Comment