Monday, October 22, 2007

bookherding

When people ask me, “Do you collect books?” I always say, “No, books collect me.”—Nicholas Barker

[No one can be] an orthodox collector or a true bibliophile who had not at one time committed a great and foolish extravagance.—Daniel M. Tredwell

Wear the old coat and buy the new book.—Austin Phelps

Growing up, I didn’t think that there was any other way to live, than to be surrounded by books. Doesn’t everyone have books overflowing from shelves in every room of the house? Didn’t everyone grow up running their fingers along the countless spines of books in the basement? Books on psychology and math and history, novels and poems and essays?

I’ve always loved them, always felt more comfortable in libraries and bookstores than in rooms without books. Even now, in my bedroom, there are two tall bookcases as well as a short one, and all are past full—I’ve had to put most of the books sideways to fit. In fact, it looks like one bookcase stands accidentally on end, because nearly all the books in it are horizontal.

But it’s not enough. There are also piles on the floor—one of them over two feet tall. Stacks on my dresser, my desk, my nightstand. They are my flock of books, my herd, and I can barely keep them together. They move on their own, it seems, falling out of order, wandering down the hall, or coming to my room from the rest of the house. (We have twenty bookcases. No kidding.)

The books seem to cluster around my bed, particularly, since I read from about seven or eight of them before falling asleep, shoving along various plots or enjoying yet another essay from a collection. Right now, I’m midway through a handful: What Are the Seven Wonders of the World?, Consider the Oyster, Beowulf, The Poisonwood Bible, and Pride and Prejudice. I never seem to be able to read just one at a time. (And to be honest, I’ve never really minded.)

One late night I felt a reading binge coming on, so I crept down the hall to where many of our books live. I couldn’t decide what to read, so I browsed for awhile, and came back to my room with a few selections. Well, I thought they were only a few. When I counted them, I saw I had eighteen books. Eighteen! Is it possible that this is a disease? I had an armful of everything, from travelogues to young adult fiction to quaint British stories to memoirs to Vanity Fair.

Even when I’d pack for a semester at Calvin, books began to sneak toward me the longer I stood by my bookshelves. No, I would never read Ivanhoe or Dante’s Divine Comedy “in my spare time” (which was the lie I recited), but I felt better just having them along. And I knew that without them, I might have a mid-month fit at the library (or, more expensively, at the bookstore) and bring home a crowd of novels to devour over a particularly stressful week.

And I wasn’t alone! (One of the many beauties of college: you can find people just like you.) A good friend called me one afternoon, sounding terrible—absolutely exhausted. When I asked what was wrong, she croaked:
    “I pulled an all-nighter.”
    “That rough physics test?”
    “No…” A long, somewhat guilty silence. “Did you know that The Scarlet Pimpernel has a sequel? I finished it as the sun came up…”

There’s just something about keeping company with books—especially novels. They’re the one thing I can’t imagine having enough of… But I’ll have to take my book herd into consideration when I’m looking for an apartment, especially since my collection may double by then. “Everything looks fine, but I’m afraid there isn’t enough room for my books.” They may need a whole bedroom or two for themselves. They’re certainly taking over mine…—jl

Posted by Jenn Langefeld on 10/22 at 08:04 PM
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