As cruel fate would have it, I’ve never had enough room for books. When I lived with my parents in Ohio, I was a mad collector of dust: my bookshelves were filled with, yes, books, and model horses, and knicknacks of every stripe. Under the bed, I had boxes of bones: owl pellets, scavenged rodent jaws, a whole and entire deer skull. Crammed in my closet were scrapbooks full of clippings, stamps, bottlecaps. If it could be held, captured, or scavenged, I found a way to collect it. And if it had pages that could be turned, I wanted to read it, own it, hoard it.
Book hoarding, along with stamp and model horse collecting, became my means of escape. Growing up in a neighborhood without children my own age, I spent hours in my room reading, daydreaming, or writing. I was preternaturally precocious, wanting to know the name of every flower and the habits of every bird. Even when I myself was a child, I never got along well with children; my mind was filled with adult thoughts and concerns, my interests lying on the shelves of the grown-up section of the library. I read Lolita before I was old enough to be one of Humbert Humbert’s nymphets, and I read Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf not long after most of my classmates had moved past the Big Bad Wolf. In a word, I was a wildly weird child, and books were one expression of that weirdness. When other pubescent girls were panting after the latest teen heart-throb, I was fretting over which avian field guide was the best.
I’ve recently been sorting through my books. When Chris and I sold our house in Hillsborough and moved to Keene a little more than a year ago, my library went through a massive downsizing. Previously, my books filled two full-size (floor to ceiling) bookshelves along with a shorter chest-high shelf; I had extra books tucked above, behind, and before the ones that fit on shelves. By the time we packed to move, I’d sold over half of my books, some online, others in a massive garage sale in which we nearly gave away possessions. Although I’d resigned myself to the relinquishment involved in consciously downsizing from a 3-bedroom house to a 2-bedroom apartment, there were two garage-sale transactions that broke my heart: the sale of the overstuffed chair where the dog and I would curl up to read, and the sale (to a used book dealer) of the complete set of Thomas Merton’s journals. “Try to keep them together,” I pleaded. “Other folks have wanted to buy a single volume or two, and asked which one was the best,” I explained. “But journals should be read from beginning to end, and I never had the time…” The used book dealer nodded, sympathetic, as if we were discussing a litter of kittens looking for a good home, but we both knew the truth: good homes for esoteric books are hard to find anywhere, and Thomas Merton might struggle to find a home here in New Hampshire.
When we moved to Keene, Chris and I shared a single bookshelf, with some of my books spilling over into a living room curio cabinet and others being stashed in my office at school. Slowly, though, the collecting bug crept in again: one innocent purchase there, another here. Although I’ve acquired with practice the discipline of checking the library for a book before I buy it, there’s always the allure of ownership: if it’s mine, I can keep it, and write in it, and always refer to it. If I own it, I can have it at hand at any hour when I need it or want to refer to it or need to cite it: a scholar’s occupational hazard.
Even more difficult than downsizing a library, though, is the seemingly simple act of splitting one: there’s something heartbreaking about sorting previously shared books into stacks labeled “his” and “hers,” each destined to their own separate place. When Chris and I married, we’d both recently graduated with Bachelor’s degrees in English; having taken many of the same classes, we owned many of the same books. Back then we decided whose book to keep based upon the notes therein: my copy of the Walt Whitman Handbook stayed as did his copy of the Riverside Shakespeare. Now nearly 13 years later, we’ve gone through the same process in reverse: having continued to study American Literature first as an avocation and now as a career, I got custody of our jointly-purchased first edition Leaves of Grass facsimile whereas Chris claimed the copy of the Blue Cliff Record he’d bought for me some years back. Many of the books we split are filled with notes from happier, more innocent days, but these notes don’t necessarily correspond with who got what: my copy of the Gospel Parallels contains Chris’s neo-pagan scrawl whereas his copy of the Diamond Sutra has margins crammed with my scribblings.
One book that both Chris and I had owned before we married is The Cloud of Unknowing, a primer on prayer by an anonymous fourteenth-century English monk. It seemed obvious that I’d end up with this book: over the years Chris and I have danced on every conceivable side of the Christian/Buddhist divide, but I always naturally found myself on Christian ground, my longing for a personal God leading me smack-dab back into the arms of Christ crucified. So the other day when I checked to see whose copy of The Cloud I’d inherited in the split, it was like reuniting with an old friend to discover my maiden name signed inside its cover, my multicolored notes and underlinings covering its oft-read pages. (Click here for an enlarged view.) Who was it, I wonder, who wrote these notes: who was this 13-years-younger version of myself? I’ve had this book so long, its cracked spine lightly gives up its yellowed pages, a book I literally read to pieces. So who was that Lorianne DiSabato who thought she knew a thing or two about prayer and the God those prayers are directed to? What Cloud of Unknowing did she labor under when she thought “’til death do us part” was an attainable task?
Whoever Miss DiSabato thought she was, Dr. Schaub now tries to carry on, rearranging remaining books on lightened shelves and retrieving those that hid out for a year in an office at Keene State. Whether we have enough places for our books, they presumably have places for us, holding in their leaves old hopes crushed like dried flowers. Opening an old book, who hasn’t been surprised to find an old photograph, note, or dollar bill long forgotten, a bookmark from a long-ago, hurried moment? The books we choose to own also often choose to own us, preserving in their pages a snapshot of days gone by, the youthful dreams of selves we’d forgotten, shelved.
This post in my contribution to the Ecotone biweekly topic, Places for Books. And after you’ve perused the other postings to this topic, be sure to click on over to The Coffee Sutras to wish Kurt a happy birthday. Kurt is one of the bloggers I read before I myself started blogging, so in one sense “Hoarded Ordinaries” would not exist without “The Coffee Sutras.” So even though I’m a committed tea-drinker myself, Kurt, here’s wishing you many caffeinated refills.
Sep 15, 2004 at 9:51 pm
So – that’s the “official” announcement, huh? Dividing up the library. It’s only an emblem of how tough the path is.
What is spooky, looking at your images, is how many of the same books we have. I mean, Rural Hours??
There are two kinds of people in the world, I think: those who write in books and those who don’t. I, too, am a writer-in-books. If the author didn’t mean to engage you in conversation, they wouldn’t have left that white space all around the text. It’s like a pre-blog comments box.
You know you’ve given us lots of clues before today’s post that you were a weird weird child. There are worse things.
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Sep 16, 2004 at 6:18 am
An official announcement? Nah, that’s too obvious…I’m all about implication and subtlety. If you can’t read between the lines, you don’t know me well enough to hear my secrets. 😉
So, you’ve read *Rural Hours*? How wonderful! I figure if a book is good enough for Thoreau to read, it’s good enough for me, too.
I’m loving this notion of marginalia as being like blog comments…hmmm, I’m going to have to think about that. But yes, I’m bad about writing in books…I’ve even occasionally written (in pencil, lightly) in library books: shhh, don’t tell! 😉
btw, I tried to take a shot of the shelf where *Curlew: Home* is hanging out with *Uncle Tom’s Cabin*, *Zen & Art of Motorcycle Maintenance*, and an anthology of 19th century women’s “local color” sketches, but that picture didn’t turn out. So you’ll just have to believe me when I say your book is running with a curious crowd! 🙂
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Sep 16, 2004 at 10:00 am
Lorianna, sorry if this adds another darn book to the collection, but have you read ‘Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader’ by Anne Fadiman? Mentions a merger of two household libraries, too.
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Sep 16, 2004 at 10:29 am
Wonderful post, Lorianne.. I get the feeling Chris and Becky could profitably start a support group for Spouses of Non-Recovering Book Addicts.
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Sep 17, 2004 at 11:03 am
You can’t get rid of the Library of America books! No!
Really, those things can be addictive:P
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Sep 17, 2004 at 7:28 pm
Ouch. Well, you can’t keep a good woman down… Best of luck.
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Sep 17, 2004 at 9:22 pm
This was both exhilirating and deeply saddening. It was a bit like peeking into your underwear drawer (who would have guessed you had such slinky and provocative things caressing your most private parts?). It also quietly asked to be contemplated for the pain amidst the pages, although I must openly admit I was hungry for your notations. I especially appreciated your colorful distinctions, as well as your healthy question marks.
Life is about questions, and yours are fervent with the quest of knowing. Dr Schaub has become a force to be reckoned with, even as she huddles ‘neath the covers of her books.
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Sep 17, 2004 at 10:54 pm
I just got back to Windsor Ontario from two days in Dayton. Along the interstate, somewhere in Ohio, I saw some books, were they yours? 😉
It’s so hard to give our dears away.
thrive!,
O
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Sep 19, 2004 at 12:04 am
Lorianne, you are most kind to wish me a happy birthday and to encourage others to do the same. When you started blogging, I knew immediately that you would be a force to be reckoned with.
My garage is becoming increasingly hard to move around in. Why? Because I’d rather buy books than bookcases. So there are boxes and boxes of them out there doing no one any good. Still, it’s hard to part with them.
When my ex and I split up, we had to figure out what to do with the CDs. Book ownership, due to differing tastes, was pretty straightforward. And since I was the only one with a turntable, I kept all the LPs, regardless.
Still, some days I’d like to invite the public in and just tell them to take whatever they want of it all. One becomes tired of the burden of book, CD, or what-have-you ownership. They represent not just the ideas of the author but the identities of our own past. From time to time, one wishes it would all just go away.
Never that simple, however, is it?
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Sep 20, 2004 at 2:07 am
Lorianne-
Once again, I am awestruck by the power of the words you write…and even more so by the words you don’t write.
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Sep 20, 2004 at 6:49 pm
No announcement, just the presence of splitting the library, reading the margin notes of someone who had no idea what changes were just around the corner. Very good entry.
Wild, weird reading children. When my family switched houses, it was because our library literally pushed us out of our home. Our ranch house in East Providence gave up every one of its walls and its basement to bookshelves, and when those had all been double-stacked, we moved to a Victorian house six blocks away.
So it might not be a big surprise, although it was to my teacher, to find me reading John Irving’s early novels when I was a sixth-grader.
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Sep 22, 2004 at 1:18 pm
Lorianne, thanks for such a wonderful posting. There was so much in there that I could identify with. Always an enjoyable read.
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Sep 22, 2004 at 3:38 pm
Oh, and another thing… did you use a RULER to underline passages or is your hand really that steady? 🙂
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Oct 4, 2004 at 7:10 pm
Hey, everyone: apologies for the delay in responding!
Ivy, no, I’ve not read Fadiman’s *Ex Libris*, but it sounds great! I wish there were a book equivalent of Netflix, where you could add books to your queue and then have someone ship the next title to you whenever you were ready for a new read… In any case, I’ll add it to my mental list! 🙂
You’re right, Chris…book hoarding is no less of an addiction than other predilections requiring a 12-step program. Can you imagine a household with *two* book addicts? It defies imagination! 😉
John, I’m keeping my Library of America books…although my Thoreau volume is a bit battered (and well notated!) from my dissertation days. But hardbacks in general are the last of my books to go, and then only under dire circumstances!
Thanks, Sylvia, for the encouraging words: it’s helpful to know people are rooting for me! 🙂
ntexas, you always seem to find the slinky implications between the lines: a woman after my own heart! 😉 Even as I child, I was always the one who asked “troublesome” questions, and I guess I’ve never grown out of it. Someone has to ask the tough questions…might as well be me if no one else has the courage.
O, if you saw book in Ohio, *surely* they were mine! 😉 My mother, actually, still has some of my college (undergrad) textbooks, and she bugs me to take them with me (or sell them!) each time I’m home. So maybe one of these days you’ll see *those* books by the side of the road!
Kurt, as much as it pained me to practically give away so many books, it also was a great freeing experience. Thoreau was right when he said that our possessions possess us. It would have felt better, I think, to have given my books to friends who would have cherished them…but in leiu of that, selling books (cheaply) to strangers is also cathartic.
Shane, thanks for the kind words. I tend to be wordy, so it’s good to hear that *someone* thinks I occasionally leave something unsaid! 🙂
Mumun, it doesn’t surprise me that you come from a reading/book-hoarding family. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
John, good to hear that you enjoyed the post. And yes, I used a *ruler* to do that underlining: just like the kid in *Dead Poet’s Society*! 😉
Thanks, everyone, for the supportive comments: I’m feeling very warm & fuzzy now!
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