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Oct. 3rd, 2004 02:59 pmTime to talk about books. Yay!
Or not.
Ahem.
When my family moved from California to Texas, I took the necessities for University with me (they moved a few months after I'd started) and left the rest in boxes, which my mum put in storage. When I finally got my own place, Junior year, all my stuff was moved from a California storage room to my flat. Let me reiterate: All my earthly goods were in my flat; nothing was left at home, nothing was in storage.
I knew that I would be dirt poor when I moved, no matter where I decided to move to after undergrad, so I started cleaning out my possessions. I pride myself that I live basically with what's necessary, plus keepsakes and things, but I don't have a lot of extraneous "stuff" in my life.
One of the things I started getting rid of when I began to unpack the boxes that had been in storage for several years were books. Old books, mostly, from the tweenie years, YA novels that I didn't like, science fiction that I had outgrown, old textbooks, that kind of thing. I sold them at a secondhand bookstore downtown, and what didn't sell there I took to another secondhand bookstore that didn't pay cash but gave me good trade on nearly anything. At one point I had $120 in trade racked up. I bought the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam for myself and gave everyone books for Christmas that year.
Anyway, when I did move I had to ship freight, and that meant that my entire life had to weigh five hundred pounds or less. I spent nearly two months packing by weight, selling my furniture, and giving away heavy things that I didn't figure I could get much cash for. I got rid of a lot of books.
The other day I was talking with someone, I don't recall who, who was horrified at the idea of getting rid of books. It reminded me that not everyone sees books quite as I do. That's okay -- I don't care, really, but I thought I would talk about my philosophy of literature and see if it makes any sense.
My books are, for the most part, tattery, dogeared things with underlining and notes in the margins. Books to me are like clothes; they're meant to be worn, and eventually they may wear out. If they don't fit anymore, I pass them on or sell them so that I can buy books that do fit. I do have a couple of "nice" books, because everyone has fancy clothes; I try not to get these dirty or dogear in them or crack the spines. I do rarely crack the spine of a book, if only because then it starts falling apart in a serious manner.
But here's the thing: Books are to be respected for what's inside them, not what they're made of. By all means treat the knowledge as holy, pristine, beautiful; don't mistake the being for the knowing. If a book doesn't entertain you or educate you, why do you have it? To have books? It's like collecting vintage cars and not driving them. They're there to be used.
I guess my point is that losing most of my library has taught me the real importance of books, because there was no room for books that were not important. And you find out what books are important, and you cling to them, in any form -- no, ebooks don't have paper that you can touch and smell, covers that you can cling to, but they have the words, and if the words count for less than the paper with a person, that person does not understand books.
Already I know that I'm going to have to start selling books again because I'm moving again, and already I'm eyeing my bookshelf for what I can sacrifice; probably some textbooks are going to go, and perhaps I'll pass on my Tao of Pooh and Te of Piglet. Some of my Latin books might go, as well, and perhaps a couple of novels -- one can always find a $2 copy of Steinbeck's East of Eden, and I do have to pass on that Iain Banks book that Nny passed on to me.
What I will keep are the books that have been given to me, the books that I still read, and the books that I feel perhaps I am not yet finished reading. The Empty Space by Peter Brook; Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino; the book of short plays Mike gave me and the handful of cookbooks Mum gave me. The Nick Bantock books, because I spent too bloody much to get rid of them now; The Aeneid, because it never stops being beautiful. I'll keep the Pratchetts that survived the last purge, because they're all hardbacks I love or have autographed.
Books are not meant to be kept because they are books, but because they are small, handy entrances into other worlds and other points of view. Some stay and some fall away. That, for me, is the natural order of things.
Or not.
Ahem.
When my family moved from California to Texas, I took the necessities for University with me (they moved a few months after I'd started) and left the rest in boxes, which my mum put in storage. When I finally got my own place, Junior year, all my stuff was moved from a California storage room to my flat. Let me reiterate: All my earthly goods were in my flat; nothing was left at home, nothing was in storage.
I knew that I would be dirt poor when I moved, no matter where I decided to move to after undergrad, so I started cleaning out my possessions. I pride myself that I live basically with what's necessary, plus keepsakes and things, but I don't have a lot of extraneous "stuff" in my life.
One of the things I started getting rid of when I began to unpack the boxes that had been in storage for several years were books. Old books, mostly, from the tweenie years, YA novels that I didn't like, science fiction that I had outgrown, old textbooks, that kind of thing. I sold them at a secondhand bookstore downtown, and what didn't sell there I took to another secondhand bookstore that didn't pay cash but gave me good trade on nearly anything. At one point I had $120 in trade racked up. I bought the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam for myself and gave everyone books for Christmas that year.
Anyway, when I did move I had to ship freight, and that meant that my entire life had to weigh five hundred pounds or less. I spent nearly two months packing by weight, selling my furniture, and giving away heavy things that I didn't figure I could get much cash for. I got rid of a lot of books.
The other day I was talking with someone, I don't recall who, who was horrified at the idea of getting rid of books. It reminded me that not everyone sees books quite as I do. That's okay -- I don't care, really, but I thought I would talk about my philosophy of literature and see if it makes any sense.
My books are, for the most part, tattery, dogeared things with underlining and notes in the margins. Books to me are like clothes; they're meant to be worn, and eventually they may wear out. If they don't fit anymore, I pass them on or sell them so that I can buy books that do fit. I do have a couple of "nice" books, because everyone has fancy clothes; I try not to get these dirty or dogear in them or crack the spines. I do rarely crack the spine of a book, if only because then it starts falling apart in a serious manner.
But here's the thing: Books are to be respected for what's inside them, not what they're made of. By all means treat the knowledge as holy, pristine, beautiful; don't mistake the being for the knowing. If a book doesn't entertain you or educate you, why do you have it? To have books? It's like collecting vintage cars and not driving them. They're there to be used.
I guess my point is that losing most of my library has taught me the real importance of books, because there was no room for books that were not important. And you find out what books are important, and you cling to them, in any form -- no, ebooks don't have paper that you can touch and smell, covers that you can cling to, but they have the words, and if the words count for less than the paper with a person, that person does not understand books.
Already I know that I'm going to have to start selling books again because I'm moving again, and already I'm eyeing my bookshelf for what I can sacrifice; probably some textbooks are going to go, and perhaps I'll pass on my Tao of Pooh and Te of Piglet. Some of my Latin books might go, as well, and perhaps a couple of novels -- one can always find a $2 copy of Steinbeck's East of Eden, and I do have to pass on that Iain Banks book that Nny passed on to me.
What I will keep are the books that have been given to me, the books that I still read, and the books that I feel perhaps I am not yet finished reading. The Empty Space by Peter Brook; Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino; the book of short plays Mike gave me and the handful of cookbooks Mum gave me. The Nick Bantock books, because I spent too bloody much to get rid of them now; The Aeneid, because it never stops being beautiful. I'll keep the Pratchetts that survived the last purge, because they're all hardbacks I love or have autographed.
Books are not meant to be kept because they are books, but because they are small, handy entrances into other worlds and other points of view. Some stay and some fall away. That, for me, is the natural order of things.
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