Umberto Eco writes in his book of essays, How to Travel with a Salmon, about justifying a personal library, and Jeanette Winterson writes on the obsession of book collecting in Art Objects. How do I know this? Because I have collected these books and countless others. I’ve read a few as well.
I have been collecting for years, long before I left my mother’s home, long after I left school, long after I quit working for a bookseller. It has been an obsession, but when I consider the book collectors I know—people who have been doing this for longer than I have been alive—my library seems paltry. It is, really. I estimate that I have around 2000 books, not all different titles but different editions. Again, this is nothing. I need to double the number, at least. Maybe when I have 4000 books I will feel as though I have enough to call my collection a personal library.
Moving, as I often do (too often), is never easy. I have to box the books, packing them with care, making sure none of them will shift, tape the boxes and find a way to transport them. The last move was pretty bad. I drove back and forth from each of the apartments, loading my car with as many boxes as space would allow. Then it was a walk up three floors, a box at a time. Even after a few of these trips, I still had more for the professional moves to haul. One man, a short gentleman with an ex-con’s muscles, carried four of these boxes on his back all the way up the stairs. I tipped him well.
I once thought of moving to a different state. I had several boxes shipped to North Carolina, only to decide that Chicago was my home. I had to get the books back to Chi-town. Money was tight, so I put as many as would fit in one oversized box, had it shipped, and transported the rest in giant sports bags on a series of Greyhound buses. Transferring from one bus to another—in Knoxville, Tennessee, in Kentucky, in Cincinnati, Ohio, in Indianapolis—was no small task.
Why would I do all of this? Because I have no choice.
Working for the Aspidistra Bookshop certainly helped triple my library. Hitting resale shops and used bookstores in Chicago has since become part of my regular routine. It is the only shopping I enjoy. Walking into Sears, Marshall Fields, Nordstrom’s, Nike Town or any other store that does not stock books is a miserable experience. Borders, on the other hand, is a very nice place to whittle away a few hours.
Strange as it seems to many people, I do not care for public libraries. People see these giant rooms filled with books and assume I will fell quite at home within. I don’t. I usually find them dull before very long. This should not seem confusing. After all, those books are not for sale.
This brings me to one of the more interesting aspects of my hobby. Collecting books should not be confused with actually reading them. Clearly I am never going to read every book in my library. Even if I find the money to retire tomorrow I’ll never get through them all. I am not even interested in reading every book I own. I have two copies of James Joyce’s Ulysses, a book I have often said I do not care for. I have a nice hardback copy of Faulkner’s A Fable, a notoriously bad novel, which I have no plans to read. It took him ten years to write and I won’t give it ten minutes. But I love Faulkner, so I have this book. I don’t love Joyce, but I understand and respect the importance of his major novel, thus I have it included in my collection. Not having it would be like not having a tooth in an otherwise flawless smile.
Many of the books that seem interesting, ones that I would very much like to read, I have not picked up. God knows when I’ll get around to Jose Lezema Lima’s Paradiso or Infante’s Inferno. Someday, I hope, but first I should re-familiarize myself with Dante. And Jesus, there’s school to deal with. And work and what little social life I wish to pursue. I know that I’ll never read them all, especially if I keep collecting them at such a rate. This is something anyone who collects books understands and it bothers them not a whit. It is always more important to have books than to have read them all. I love books for so many reasons, one of which is their ability to communicate stories and ideas. I also love they way they look, feel and smell. Books have the ability to entice more than one sense. They are multifaceted and miraculous that way. There is no reason I should experience them on one level only.
People see my collection and inevitably ask, “Have you read all of these?” They want me to say “no” more than they want me to say “yes”, as perhaps that will make them feel less guilty about not having read very much. I certainly feel as though I have read very little, but this is based on the vast amount of material there is to read. Walking into a shop stuffed with books will humble anyone. That is the feeling I am trying to create at home. Well, that and awe, inspiration and respect for the books. I love reading, but I love books more.
All things considered, there are worse habits I could cultivate. I have many. Overeating, smoking, Jack Daniels. Compared to these vices, book collecting, though it costs considerable sums and eats even more space, is far better for me. It is also far better and more fun than blogging.
Goodbye.
I have been collecting for years, long before I left my mother’s home, long after I left school, long after I quit working for a bookseller. It has been an obsession, but when I consider the book collectors I know—people who have been doing this for longer than I have been alive—my library seems paltry. It is, really. I estimate that I have around 2000 books, not all different titles but different editions. Again, this is nothing. I need to double the number, at least. Maybe when I have 4000 books I will feel as though I have enough to call my collection a personal library.
Moving, as I often do (too often), is never easy. I have to box the books, packing them with care, making sure none of them will shift, tape the boxes and find a way to transport them. The last move was pretty bad. I drove back and forth from each of the apartments, loading my car with as many boxes as space would allow. Then it was a walk up three floors, a box at a time. Even after a few of these trips, I still had more for the professional moves to haul. One man, a short gentleman with an ex-con’s muscles, carried four of these boxes on his back all the way up the stairs. I tipped him well.
I once thought of moving to a different state. I had several boxes shipped to North Carolina, only to decide that Chicago was my home. I had to get the books back to Chi-town. Money was tight, so I put as many as would fit in one oversized box, had it shipped, and transported the rest in giant sports bags on a series of Greyhound buses. Transferring from one bus to another—in Knoxville, Tennessee, in Kentucky, in Cincinnati, Ohio, in Indianapolis—was no small task.
Why would I do all of this? Because I have no choice.
Working for the Aspidistra Bookshop certainly helped triple my library. Hitting resale shops and used bookstores in Chicago has since become part of my regular routine. It is the only shopping I enjoy. Walking into Sears, Marshall Fields, Nordstrom’s, Nike Town or any other store that does not stock books is a miserable experience. Borders, on the other hand, is a very nice place to whittle away a few hours.
Strange as it seems to many people, I do not care for public libraries. People see these giant rooms filled with books and assume I will fell quite at home within. I don’t. I usually find them dull before very long. This should not seem confusing. After all, those books are not for sale.
This brings me to one of the more interesting aspects of my hobby. Collecting books should not be confused with actually reading them. Clearly I am never going to read every book in my library. Even if I find the money to retire tomorrow I’ll never get through them all. I am not even interested in reading every book I own. I have two copies of James Joyce’s Ulysses, a book I have often said I do not care for. I have a nice hardback copy of Faulkner’s A Fable, a notoriously bad novel, which I have no plans to read. It took him ten years to write and I won’t give it ten minutes. But I love Faulkner, so I have this book. I don’t love Joyce, but I understand and respect the importance of his major novel, thus I have it included in my collection. Not having it would be like not having a tooth in an otherwise flawless smile.
Many of the books that seem interesting, ones that I would very much like to read, I have not picked up. God knows when I’ll get around to Jose Lezema Lima’s Paradiso or Infante’s Inferno. Someday, I hope, but first I should re-familiarize myself with Dante. And Jesus, there’s school to deal with. And work and what little social life I wish to pursue. I know that I’ll never read them all, especially if I keep collecting them at such a rate. This is something anyone who collects books understands and it bothers them not a whit. It is always more important to have books than to have read them all. I love books for so many reasons, one of which is their ability to communicate stories and ideas. I also love they way they look, feel and smell. Books have the ability to entice more than one sense. They are multifaceted and miraculous that way. There is no reason I should experience them on one level only.
People see my collection and inevitably ask, “Have you read all of these?” They want me to say “no” more than they want me to say “yes”, as perhaps that will make them feel less guilty about not having read very much. I certainly feel as though I have read very little, but this is based on the vast amount of material there is to read. Walking into a shop stuffed with books will humble anyone. That is the feeling I am trying to create at home. Well, that and awe, inspiration and respect for the books. I love reading, but I love books more.
All things considered, there are worse habits I could cultivate. I have many. Overeating, smoking, Jack Daniels. Compared to these vices, book collecting, though it costs considerable sums and eats even more space, is far better for me. It is also far better and more fun than blogging.
Goodbye.
posted by ZombieDante at 2:39 PM
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