My Life in Books

Editor's Note: This is a departure from our book club blog's usual fare. As the owner/operator of this publication, I post only summaries of our book club discussions. But having written the following for another purpose, it seemed to me that it could also have a home here.

 

Do I appreciate the way the sun streams in to the front room where I sit to have my morning coffee? And the aroma that rises from my coffee as I hold the warm cup between my hands? Yes, I do.

 

And, what about time spent in the garden, pruning, staking, weeding, making a home for beauty, vanquishing weeds and volunteer tree seedlings, and clearing a path for flowers to bloom? Most definitely.

 

But there is one thread that knits through all of the many pleasures life affords me — time spent with books.

 

Not long ago, I counted the books I own. There were 937. But that was after sending four cartons – 200 books in all – to a local thrift store. So that makes less than 1,000, which isn’t so bad, right? Bad in the sense of insane or profligate.

 

It’s not that you’d ever notice my books unless you were looking. There are two tidy bookcases in the ground floor hallway, another two on the lower level, several small bookcases that serve as end tables in bedrooms, and then various drawers that hold purpose-specific volumes. Spiritual reading goes in the drawer next to the bed, “how to paint” or draw or do calligraphy or knit or make baskets out of things that grow outside are all organized by subject in the sewing room. Gardening books are by the back door and cookbooks sit near the kitchen.

The coffee table books are a history of my various interests over time. How to survive in the wilderness, what the voyageurs ate, all of the satellites exploring the galaxy along with their pictures of Neptune, Mars and Saturn, the Jeffers petroglyphs, the basics of weather, how to build a tiny home, Russian folk tales, antique postcards from around the world, the principles of aerodynamics, the Ojibway people, the history of cheese, the contents of the Musee d’Orsay in Paris, to name a few.

 

Books on writing are up in the tower, which is where I do my writing when I feel inspired or disciplined. It’s not really a tower, but I like to call it that, having read most of Dickens and all of Jane Austen. Foreign itineraries, atlases and books on how to speak German, Italian, French, and Russian are in the guest room, the idea being that since said guests have traveled to get to me, they are most likely interested in doing more of it.

 

Novels are organized alphabetically by author, with hardbound volumes on the main floor and paperbacks in the lower-level cases. Non-fiction (not really my favorite, except for World War II) is organized in the same way. My favorite non-fiction titles are those that read like novels, which really makes the people involved come to life. Who would think one would ever be interested in John Adams, fuddy-duddy that he was, until they’ve read the David McCullough biography?

 

Then, there is the set of books that date from when I thought the apocalypse was imminent. Books on how to make soap, which wild plants are edible, how to build a log home, the preservation of food, how to make bullets, identifying mushrooms, and how to treat a festering wound with plants. That was in the 1970s, when the world seemed to be falling apart, but when has it not seemed to be?

 

I don’t even count the more than 200 books on my e-reader as they don’t seem to really exist. Which is puzzling, given the fact that I can revisit them from time to time (I do) but yet they don’t occupy space in the physical world.

 

These are the books that count, the 950 I own (not counting the 200 that are just bits and bytes but counting the new ones I’ve brought home since my last counting day). But there’s another set of volumes that belong to others. There are the books the children left behind when they grew up and moved away, boxed up and stored in their old closets. Nick’s books on aviation and the Civil War. Lindsay’s collection of Box Car kids and Sweet Valley High chapter books. Austin’s Anna McCaffrey’s and Chronicles of Narnia and science fiction books. The small set of books kindhearted friends have brought over with a recommendation that I read them, but I don’t want to because they don’t appeal. I have to admit that all of these books count, too. But they count to others.

 

I’ve come to realize my lifelong love for books springs from an insatiable desire to know. There is no greater joy in life than learning – where something is, how something works, why people are the way they are, how things change, why we exist, and on and on. These are all stories. People are stories, the world is stories, and the universe is stories, too.

 

The author Umberto Eco, who owned 50,000 books, had this to say about home libraries:

 

“It is foolish to think that you have to read all the books you buy, as it is foolish to criticize those who buy more books than they will ever be able to read. It would be like saying that you should use all the cutlery or glasses or screwdrivers or drill bits you bought before buying new ones.

 

“There are things in life that we need to always have plenty of supplies, even if we will only use a small portion.

 

“If, for example, we consider books as medicine, we understand that it is good to have many at home rather than a few: when you want to feel better, then you go to the ‘medicine closet’ and choose a book. Not a random one, but the right book for that moment. That’s why you should always have a nutrition choice!

 

“Those who buy only one book, read only that one and then get rid of it. They simply apply the consumer mentality to books, that is, they consider them a consumer product, a good. Those who love books know that a book is anything but a commodity.”

 

Umberto, I couldn’t agree more.