The Books in the Bookcase
August 17, 2008

My new (filled) bookcase is a simple one of straight edges, made of pine, painted white and standing about seven feet tall, It is somewhat unusual in that its shelves are a mere seven inches in depth. That limits the books that can be stored on it because I don’t want any of them sticking out beyond the edges. There are no coffee table books or books that are wider than they are taller. They guy who made it is a handyman, not a furniture maker. He did a fine job, but one oddity is that the bottom shelf is shorter than the rest. To the point where I can fit only my audio books on there. Because of their light weight those would normally be near the top. It doesn’t matter, though. Because I live in earthquake country, the bookcase has been firmly anchored to the wall so the heavier weight books  being on top is no problem. 

I stripped to the buff before beginning the pleasurable work of filling it, not only because of the weather but because the books have been stored in boxes, one uncovered, for about a year. It had picked up ash from two recent fires that had gotten onto a number of the books. There was also a copious amount of dust. I knew I would get dirty, and I did.

It is thrilling to look at across the room, though. Where there had once been an empty wall there are now rows of books. The top shelf houses my growing Persephone Books collection along with some of my favorite novels—Anna Karenina, Vanity Fair, War and Peace, several Steinbecks, and my father's large print edition of Two Years Before the Mast, all of them older editions that may not have value as collectibles but that are important to me. The second shelf from the top hosts a collection of Balzac (1901) from the Avil Publishing Company. I found these eighteen volumes at a thrift store for less than $25 and brought them home. The exteriors are in good to poor condition, with about half of them are missing the outer leather of their spines. But the interiors are gorgeous. The illustrations are as clean and bright as the day they were printed, and the tissue papers that protect them still perfect. The pages are crisp. And inside are some long-forgotten treasures including the folded bit of newspaper I found tucked between pages 32 and 33 of “The Quest of the Absolute.” It comes from an American newspaper, The Daily ___________ (the rest of the name was cut off), and is dated either January or February 14,1910. The article is headlined “Gallic World Serious” (France As It Really Is) and contains this gem:

French fiction is taken more seriously than English, because the French novelist takes himself more seriously than the English. Even when  his only object is to amuse he is diligent in amusing; and he is careful not to destroy his own illusion. Dickens was a very great writer, yet he never seems to have taken his art so seriously as many lesser French novelists, and no one would ever call “Oliver Twist” a realistic novel. If Zola had written it it would not have been nearly so good to read; yet it might have been taken for a realistic representation of life among the French poor, and perhaps theories of the decadence of France would have been founded upon it.

No doubt the reason these books were so inexpensive is that they are not pretty in the conventional sense. But they have a special beauty that comes from their survival and rescue from near-oblivion. So they sit proudly on my shelves bookended by a slipcased two-volume set of Maugham’s short stories and the Limited Editions Club version of The Complete Tales of Edgar Allan Poe.

Though I am cooking less and less, especially during the summer, I love my collection of culinaria—cookbooks plus books on food culture and history. The third shelf holds part of that collection (the relatively undersized part of it). It makes sense since the wall against which the bookcase stands is between the dining/living room and kitchen. On it you’ll find, among other things, two specialized cookbooks, one for hot chocolate and one for grilled cheese , two books on the history of vanilla, two Ruth Reichl’s, two on the history of candy, a 1940s memoir of a French chef-cook for an American family in France, two collections of food writing, and my very first book in this genre, the Fun to Cook Book. (Mine doesn’t look much like this; half the spiral binding is missing, and there are food stains on several pages.) Issued by the Carnation company to promote its products, it was nevertheless fun to use. I was around age five or six when I made my first things from it: scrambled eggs, meatloaf, fudge sauce. I credit this book with my continuing interest in all things culinaria.

The two shelves under that, third and fourth up from the bottom, contain a general mix of fiction and nonfiction. I initially thought about trying to categorize them, but I rather like the eclectic feel. It reflects back to me how I read and how I make connections among my reading when I see Halberstam’s brilliantly rendered narrative The Best and the Brightest next to the The Girl on the Via Flaminia, the sensitive, disturbing story that explores the theme of occupier vs. occupied. The story of Anthony Comstock’s fanatical mission to “protect” children in Imperiled Innocents sits, appropriately, next to the coming book, Obsession: A History (“To be obsessive is to be American; to be obsessive is to be modern.”). The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (as yet unread) resides next Erich Maria Remarque’s unhappy Heaven Has No Favorites. Just below those, The Art of Poetry, a teaching text of sorts that gently guides a newcomer into a genuine appreciation of poetry, rests regally next to Sputnik, the story of the first human satellite that sent America into a frenetic educational revolution to avoid falling behind the Soviets. A couple of travel books  also reside side-by-side: The Road to Damascus: An American traveling alone meets smugglers, mystics, revolutionaries, Bedouins, wise men, secret police—and other ordinary Syrians meets 100 Years on the Road: The Traveling Salesman in American Culture. They seem particularly apropos shelf partners.

None of these placements were deliberate either. By the time I got to these shelves I was sweating, dirty and anxious to be done. The books went on as I grabbed two handfuls from the boxes. Good placement on some of them, though. I think I’ll keep it the way it is.

One shelf up from the bottom audio one is where Jane Austen resides. In fact, her twelve volumes, copy no. 279 of the Chawton edition (out of a total of 1,250 copies), published by Frank S. Holby in 1906, dominate this shelf. The burgundy and gold bindings are in better shape than the Balzac’s, but some spines are peeling away. The interior pages are unusually thick and rich, the illustrations finely drawn and colored, the tissue paper protecting them imprinted with the line from the text to which the illustration refers. What is particularly interesting about this collection is how virgin this set was before I bought it about fifteen years ago at a used book sale. Only one of the books, Pride and Prejudice, had been read, and that less than half-way through. How do I know? Because all the remaining pages in that volume were un-slit as well all the pages of the other volumes. They’ve been in my possession for about ten years now, and only a few remain that way. The ones I have (re)read I slit myself. The ones remaining will be slit when I pick them up to read them.

This bookcase was a birthday gift to me (my birthday is in February, but I did not get around to having the case built until this month), and I have to say it pleases me enormously. Sure, I’d love to have highly polished, elegantly carved pieces that dominate the room, but that is unlikely any time soon. And  given that the books rather than the furniture are the focal point I’m not sure it matters. I look at my shelves and I see books. fiction. Nonfiction. New. Old. Used. Rare (a couple). Loved (all). Last night, after my shower and on my way to bed, I stood before the newly filled bookcase feeling a strong sense of satisfaction. I took one down, got into bed and began reading.
   
This Week. . .
If you are enamored by typewriters keys but not by memories of working on the machines, you might be interested in mytypewriter.com, which offers gorgeous bracelets made of original typewriter keys. There are quite a few companies selling this type of jewelry, but not all of them use keys; beads are now made to look like the keys. This company uses the keys inserted in sterling silver. The design is yours: you choose the letters, symbols and numbers (even making up a special phrase). The work is beautiful, making these bracelets a perfect gift for you or someone else.  

Until next week, read well, read often and read on!

Lauren