I recently lent a book to a married couple who are close friends of mine and my wife’s. I did so with hesitancy, being at best a reluctant lender, at worst a miser of all possessions: books, CDs, clothes. It’s not that I don’t want to share things–I especially enjoy the sharing of ideas, which I recognize as a byproduct of lending–but an evil, neatnik tendency makes me fear for the life of the object in question.
This book was nothing special, a paperback of Nick Hornby’s “High Fidelity.” Though I loved the tale of the insecure, obsessive record-shop owner, it seemed more a thing of the moment than a work for the ages. I’d read it long ago, and our friends had meant to read it but hadn’t gotten around to it. I was unlikely to read it again, and yet I treasured it upon the shelf, made somewhat more special by being an English edition sent by London friends who knew I’d enjoy it by nature of my own obsessive record collecting. To point out the irony joining the book’s theme and my lending conundrum would be condescending to you, the reader.
So I lent them the book, and they both read it–they being the types who really consume books–and, as I’d foreseen, it came back somewhat dogeared, its white cover smudged gray, the pages no longer tight, and the spine creased. I have a sense of humor about this, and I will not blush if you tease me, but I am the sort who reads a paperback at about 120 degrees open, rather than a flat-out 180. I wash my hands before I pick up any book other than a mass market paperback that I am merely toying with. And, as I am sure my grade-school librarians, Mrs. DeMers and Mrs. Hjelmseth, would be delighted to learn, I have never forgotten to carefully break in a new book. Gently, I ease open the covers and run my index finger to the spine every 20 pages or so until the spine relaxes a bit and the book opens of its own volition. A part-time toiler in a bookstore, too, I wince when an eager customer cracks–literally–open a new book.
This behavior is extreme, but I am not alone. Bibliophiles, besides being a group that would make for a truly eccentric cocktail party, are nothing less than obsessive. We are a minority, but a dogged one. We encase dust jackets in mylar, we refuse to rid ourselves of books unless they can be placed in good homes; in short, we treat them as nothing less than sacraments.
And still, I must confess: I secretly envy those who dogear their books. Who use ballpoints to ink exclamation points into the margins or to write phone numbers on the front free endpaper. Who dare to leave a Cheetoed thumbprint right on the text, or draft a breakup note inside the back cover. Though the ardent bibliophile might argue that these are people who are not fully present in the act of reading, these are people who really live with their books. Far from being focused on the physical preservation of the vessel, they immerse themselves in the ideas and world of the text.
After all, how many books (my beloved reference collection aside) do I really consult again and again? And how likely is a cocked spine or a coffee-stained cover to hurt my revisitation of the book anyway? Resale value isn’t even a consideration; if you’ve tried to sell books to a dealer you’ll know what I mean. There isn’t room enough for 10 percent of all the unwanted books. So, isn’t a book, when it has been read and its ideas gleaned, ready to be retired from service or simply passed along to a friend?
Yes and no. In my small experience working in bookstores, I’ve become more and more aware of the fragility of books, and I suspect that is what drives my mini-preservation crusade. For every John Grisham lawyerfest that is impossible to avoid, there’s a book whose first printing of 5,000 represents the sum total public dissemination the author’s toil will ever attain. As paper, cloth and cardboard age, those numbers dwindle rapidly, and despite recent advances in Internet commerce that make it increasingly easier to find hard-to-find books, the number can only spiral ever downward. Even books thought to be safe on a store shelf end up damaged or destroyed by browsers and improper care.
I remain, like a remaindered paperback whose cover will be returned to the publisher for a refund, torn. I got over my mild chagrin at my friends and was able to be grown up enough to let my pleasure at their reading enjoyment win over my inherent fastidiousness. But I will continue to care for all my books as is my custom, with what my friends call anal retentiveness. (They say this, I hope, good-naturedly.) For while I realize that the material world is at best transient, and that faith in possessions is foolhardy, I nurture the hope that, someday, after I am gone, a book lover (no doubt a dinosaur in her day) will pick up my copy of Richard Cahan’s “They All Fall Down,” its pages yellowed but its spine still tight, its pages crisp and readable, its dust jacket rubbed but not ripped, and carry it to the counter and pay the attendant (no doubt using a chip implanted in her arm). And she will take the book to a comfortable chair, and read the same words that so moved me, and for a time, be my fellow traveler.
