A Bookish Survey

This A-Z survey apparently began life on The Perpetual Page-Turner, but I first saw it on Pretty Books. I thought it looked fun, though a couple of the questions are difficult for me to answer, as I don't read series, except in juvenile literature.


Author you've read the most books from: Probably Barbara Pym at 13. Close second, Emily Kimbrough at 11.
Best sequel ever: John Galsworthy's tryptich A Modern Comedy, which is the sequel to his tryptich The Forsyte Saga.
Currently reading: If the truth be known, I'm celebrating the imminent start of the school year by re-reading some Trixie Belden and Sue Barton books.
Drink of choice while reading: Iced water. After that, my "cocktail"—half ginger ale, half sparkling cherry-flavored water.
E-books or physical books: Do you even have to ask?
Fictional character you would have wanted to date in school: Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility. (Fictional character you would have actually dated: Probably Willoughby. I had a fondness for rakes.)
Glad you gave this book a chance: Hm. I'd have to say Little Women. I first tried it in 6th or 7th grade, thought it was boring, chucked it after a couple of chapters; then in 8th grade, my brother gave me the beautiful Tasha Tudor illustrated edition for Christmas, so I gave it another chance and wound up absolutely loving it.
Hidden gem book: Seventy-five percent of the books I read are "hidden" gems.
Important moment in your reading life: The very first complete sentence I remember being able to read—I was around five, I think—was from a Dana Girls mystery: "Louise Dana, a pretty, dark-haired girl of seventeen, paused in the doorway with an armful of paper novelties." I still remember the sentence, because your first is not easily forgotten.
Just finished: Trixie Belden and The Mysterious Visitor.
Kind of books you won't read: Well, I recently wrote a whole post about that. Sci-fi, adult mystery, crime, thriller, anything to do with vampires, and, as a general rule, best sellers.
Longest book you've read: Hmm, that would probably be Gone With the Wind. But Henry Handel Richardson's Maurice Guest was pretty long, too.
Major book hangover (lingers longest in the mind): Persuasion.
Number of bookcases you own: Can't really say, because most of my shelves are twelve-by-twelve- inch units that I've pushed together along one wall to form one longer unit. And I have miscellaneous shelves scattered round the house as well as actual cases.
One book you've read multiple times: Only one??? Seriously? There are about 100 or more books I read multiple times. And I really mean multiple.
Preferred place to read: At the dining table. That way I can have everything to hand that I need: drink, snack, Kleenex, a place to put my regular specs while I use my reading specs, a pencil just in case, my lap desk with the beanbag underside that I use to prop my book up higher so I won't get neck ache, my book weight to hold the pages open as it lies on the lap desk (this way, my hands are free to reach for drink or snack or pencil or Kleenex or whatever). I use a lot of accoutrements when I read.
Quote: I'm not sure if this means book-related quote or actual quote from a book. In any case, I can't think of one right now, and I'm too lazy to look one up.
Reading regret: At this very moment, my regret would be reading the blog where I saw this survey.

—You'll notice that as I get near the end of the alphabet, I tend to get a bit loopy.—

Series you started and need to finish: Well, I haven't read every Nancy Drew book ever written, and I probably never will. I generally only read the ones written pre-1960s.
Three all-time favorite books: Three??? Seriously? Take a look at my "Novels I Love" list at left.
Unapologetic fan of: That would be the aforesaid Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, Dana Girls, and Sue Barton books. They are my not-so-guilty pleasure.
Very excited for this release: Since I tend not to read newly published books, I will leave this unanswered.
Worst bookish habit: Trying to read too many things at once and not finishing any of them.
X marks the spot—start at the top left of a shelf and pick the 27th book: A Small Place in Italy by Eric Newby.
Your latest book purchase: Modern Saints, 2 vols., by Ann Ball
ZZZ-snatcher book (one that keeps you up at all hours): The last book I stayed up till the wee hours to finish was, I think, An Imaginary Experience by Mary Wesley. But that was years ago. Nowadays, if I read in bed, I fall asleep after fifteen minutes.

Done, done, and done! You know, it occurred to me that most of these could apply to a film survey .... No, don't go there.

Authors Readers Expect Me to Have Read that I Haven't Read

     Aaaand—that's the longest post title ever!

     The inspiration for this post came from The Broke and the Bookish, a blog that on Tuesdays posts a "Top Ten" list dealing with some bookish aspect or other.

     But anyway, here's my partial list of "classic" authors that are considered sort of de rigeur by the well-read set, but which I have never read. I may read a few of these in future, but some I don't really want to read at all because they're just not my "thing."

George Eliot
Leo Tolstoy
Fyodor Dostoevsky
Charles Dickens
Henry James
Harper Lee
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Ernest Hemingway
John Steinbeck
James Joyce
Mark Twain
Thomas Hardy
D. H. Lawrence
Nathaniel Hawthorne
William Thackeray
Henry Fielding
Gustave Flaubert

     Shocking, isn't it? Looking at this list, you may be wondering which authors I indeed have read! Suffice it to say, I've read many authors, but I tend to champion those less known or downright neglected (some of them are listed in my "Novels I Love" list at left). Which is why I love imprints such as Persephone and Virago, who reissue these forgotten treasures. If you aren't familiar with them, and you have a particular fondness for women authors of British persuasion, you really should check them out. Their books can easily be found on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Top Ten Words That Make Me NOT Pick Up a Book

Over at the popular book blog, The Broke and the Bookish, they do a Top Ten Tuesday series. I only just today discovered it through another blog; can't remember which. They encourage other bloggers to do these lists, so I thought I'd take them up on this one, and a couple of others in future.

Top Ten Words that Make Me Not Pick Up a Book

• Sci-fi: Just ain't into it.
• Horror: Ditto. Why on earth would I want to scare the bejeebuz out of myself?
• Crime: Get enough of it on the news, thank you. Oh—"crime" also includes mysteries. The only mysteries I'll read are of the Nancy Drew, The Dana Girls, and Trixie Belden ilk.
• Erotic/Erotica/Sex etc.: I admit, I used to be a huge fan of the TV series Sex and the City. But lately, I've just gotten genuinely fed up with the glamorization of casual sex, which has done nothing but objectify women (and men, for that matter), and the increasingly flippant attitude toward what is meant to be an act of love.
• Chick Lit: Maybe it's just that I'm not altogether sure what that term means. And maybe I just don't care enough to find out.
• Holocaust: Too sad, too horrible.
• Vampire: Just don't get it, and don't want to.
• Political: Again, I get enough of it on the news.
• Journey: In the psychological or biographical sense. A popular "buzz word" that has worn out its welcome at my door.
• Best-seller: Call me ornery, but if a book is on a best-seller list, I'm automatically turned off! I know, I know, I'm weird.  

Recommended Reading - a Meme

This meme has been making the round of bookblogs lately. I don't know where it originated, so unfortunately I can't give proper credit. However, I think it began as a "books I've read this year" meme. I've chosen to use it more as a general "reading I recommend," and not just novels, but I've also included three plays and one non-fiction title. Makes it easier! Also, instead of the usual list form, I've put it into paragraph form.

     I began the day by Lying Awake before breakfasting with Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont and admiring [her] Room with a View. On my way to work, I saw Emma and walked by The Priory to avoid Crossing Delancey, but I made sure to stop at 84, Charing Cross Road.
     In the office, my boss said, "Faster! Faster!" and sent me to research An Academic Question. At lunch with The Rector's Daughter, I noticed The New House in Mansfield Park. Then on the journey home, I contemplated Six Dance Lessons in Six Weeks because I have an Invitation to the Waltz and am drawn to Dancing at Lughnasa. (Then again, I also contemplated A Month in the Country, because I have Urgent Longings and am drawn To the North.)
     Settling down for the evening in The Echoing Grove, I studied a Letter from New York by The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street before saying goodnight to The Tortoise and the Hare.

Lying Awake  - Mark Salzman
Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont  - Elizabeth Taylor
A Room with a View  - E. M. Forster
Emma  - Jane Austen
The Priory  - Dorothy Whipple
Crossing Delancey  - Susan Sandler
84, Charing Cross Road  - Helene Hanff
Faster! Faster!  - E. M. Delafield
An Academic Question  - Barbara Pym
The Rector's Daughter  - F. M. Mayor
The New House  - Lettice Cooper
Mansfield Park  - Jane Austen
Six Dance Lessons in Six Weeks  - Richard Alfieri
Invitation to the Waltz  - Rosamond Lehmann
Dancing at Lughnasa  - Brian Friel
A Month in the Country  - J. L. Carr
Urgent Longings  - Thomas J. Tyrrell
To the North  - Elizabeth Bowen
The Echoing Grove  - Rosamond Lehmann
Letter from New York  - Helene Hanff
The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street  - Helene Hanff
The Tortoise and the Hare  - Elizabeth Jenkins

The Short Story Reconsidered

     First of all, let me say that this is not a book blog, nor am I in any shape or form a literary critic. Everyone who knows me knows that I love reading as an educational activity and as sheer entertainment as well as companionship, and also that I love the physical book, period. Most of all, I read for love of language.

     However, since this is a blog about my different perspectives on life, and since reading has formed and continues to form many of those perspectives, I do feel obliged to write about books from time to time, including my personal opinions of, and reactions to, same.

     The novel has always been my favorite literary form. Years ago, I bought a volume of short stories by Laurie Colwin, a writer whose novels I rather liked at the time, in an attempt to widen my horizons; however, I didn't really "take" to the form, so naturally assumed afterward that I never would. I should have known that tasting only one writer's stories does not form a good basis for judgment, but in my defense, I felt there were certainly enough novels to keep me happily occupied for the rest of my life, so who needs short stories, anyway?

     I have loved the novels of Elizabeth Taylor for many years now, ever since Virago first began reissuing them, so when Nicola Beauman's biography of Taylor came out a few years ago, I immediately bought and read it. Beauman praises Taylor's short stories highly, as do many other critics and authors, proclaiming her a master of the form. According to Beauman, Taylor likened the short story to the lyric poem in arc and movement. Since I am a poet, this comparison struck a loud chord in me and prompted me to give short stories another chance—and whose stories but Taylor's would serve me better in that capacity?

     I recently finished reading her collection The Blush and absolutely loved all the stories in it. I now have a genuine appreciation for the difficulty of writing what are essentially, to me anyway, novels in miniature, of cramming so much information and impact in so few pages. And to do so with as much grace, humor, perception, and seeming ease as did Elizabeth Taylor is nothing short of astonishing; that she is able, with just one little tale, to elicit so many varying reactions from me—amusement, sympathy, indignation, surprise—is enough to erase forever my former indifference toward the form. I feel I am now ready to sample another author—another Elizabeth, perhaps? Elizabeth Bowen?

Sometimes the Tortoise, Sometimes the Hare

     'Tis a paradox. Or, as the King would say in The King and I, "Is a puzzlement!"

     When I lived my incredibly busy life in Houston, I really had precious little time to read. True, on paper a typical work day at the opera was six hours, but "on paper" didn't include practice time, study, score work, or listening, all of which came with the job. Factor in meals and sleep, and I really did have precious little time to read. Factor in, as well, that I am not the world's fastest reader; I like to savor as I go along, linger over particularly striking passages. Yet I managed to read, on average, a book a week during production periods; outside production, I averaged two a week.

     If my life in Houston was allegro, my life now is andante tranquillo. Other than doctor's appointments (both mine and my mother's), twice-monthly grocery shopping, once-monthly mother/daughters lunches, weekly family gatherings, visits to the library every three weeks, and daily chores, I'm pretty much free to read as much and as often as I like. Yet I only manage to read, on average, one or two books a month. Some months, not even that.

     I do find myself turning to things that lend themselves to "dipping"—every day, I dip into literary essays (lots of those lately), writings of the Church fathers, scripture commentary, correspondence, poetry. Or I'll pick up a play, always a fast but engaging read. When I do read a novel, biography, or other extended work, I take my sweet time, and don't care that two weeks go by and I'm barely halfway through. In fact, I consider it the mark of a good writer if the book can sustain my interest that long.

     Every once in while, however, if for no other reason than change of pace, I can and will race through a book. I recently raced through Henry Handel Richardson's Maurice Guest, for instance; no mean feat, as it's about 567 pages of very tiny font; never mind that when I got to the end I was so pissed off I wanted to hurl the book across the room.

     Almost every day in Houston, I fervently longed for a quieter life in which I could read (and write, for that matter) to my heart's content. Now I have it. But instead of devouring one book after another as I thought I would, I find the tempo of my reading has matched the tempo of my life—as it did also in Houston. I find, too, that I now remember more of what I read, whereas in Houston, a book went in one eye and out the other before I could make more than a nodding acquaintance with it. I can remember from that period of my life which books I loved and which I merely liked, but I couldn't describe the plot of any of them. Sad thing, that. Fortunately, I always kept a record in my journal of the books I read, so I'll just have to re-read all of them. I have the time now.

Emily Who?

     I love travel writing and I love well-written humor. I found both in the books of Emily Kimbrough.

      Emily (I can't call her Ms Kimbrough; she's been one of my "kinsmen of the shelf" -- to quote another Emily -- for far too long) was born in Muncie, Indiana in 1899 and died in Manhattan in 1989. She is perhaps best known in the book lovers' world as having co-authored, with actress Cornelia Otis Skinner, the delightful 1942 memoir Our Hearts were Young and Gay, which recounts their misadventures as young women on their first trip abroad in the early '20s. I emitted many a guffaw when I first read it, and subsequent readings have been just as pleasurable. This popular book inspired a film (1944) starring Gail Russell and Diana Lynn, the screenplay of which Emily and Cornelia collaborated on with Sheridan Gibney. Emily also wrote the book's amusing sequel, We Followed Our Hearts to Hollywood, relating Cornelia's and her experiences working on the film.

     It wasn't Our Hearts were Young and Gay, however, that introduced me to Emily; it was one of her later books, Pleasure by the Busload, which I stumbled upon during my very first visit to the legendary Powell's Books in Portland, Oregon. The book's dustjacket blurb described it as a humorous account of a Volkswagen van trip in Greece that Emily took with some friends, among whom was the renowned Greek concert pianist Gina Bachauer. Being a great fan of Bachauer, I was naturally intrigued and bought the book on the spot. It's been twelve years since I read it, and I only read it once; my memory being the rusty sieve it is, I can't recall details, but I do recall having loved it and being eager to find more of Emily's books, all of which are memoirs. You can imagine how pleased I was to find several of them together on the bottom shelf of the dimly lit back room of a dusty antiquarian bookshop in San Antonio. All the books were in good shape and still had their dustjackets. Some other titles I purchased online.

     Aside from the fact that I love travel writing, especially about Europe, the main appeal of Emily's books is Emily herself. Here is a middle-aged, very proper woman, portrayed in the books' cartoon-like line drawings with hair in a demure bun, taking these seemingly carefee trips with her friends but finding herself in one comical situation after another, and writing about them with such a winning combination of wit, wryness, self-deprecation, and obvious intelligence. Her writing style brings to mind a grammatically mindful school marm who unknowingly has a large portion of slip showing from beneath her skirt.

     Unfortunately, the only one of Emily's books in print today is Our Hearts were Young and Gay. However, most of them, because they were so widely read in their day, can easily be found through the internet. My favorite online source for buying used books is AddAll. It searches Abebooks, Alibris, Amazon, etc. and many independents (including Powell's), 24 in all.

Here is a list of Emily Kimbrough's titles:

Our Hearts were Young and Gay (with Cornelia Otis Skinner)
Forty Plus and Fancy Free - Italy and England, including Queen Elizabeth's coronation
Floating Island - a barge trip on the canals in France
So Near and Yet So Far - New Orleans
We Followed Our Hearts to Hollywood
How Dear to My Heart
Now and Then
Time Enough - a barge trip on the river Shannon
Forever Old, Forever New
It Gives Me Great Pleasure - her experiences as a public speaker
Water, Water Everywhere - Aegean Islands, Yugoslavia, Paris, London
Pleasure by the Busload
The Innocents from Indiana
Through Charley's Door - her first job, at the original Marshall Field's
Better than Oceans
And a Right Good Crew - a barge trip on England's canals

Holding History in Your Hand

     One of the oldest books I own is a 1785 Dublin edition of Oliver Goldsmith's Poems and Plays. I bought it during my period of collecting for collecting's sake; that is, the period when I bought books simply to own and drool over, not necessarily to read. (I'm long done with that phase, thank goodness.) This particular tome really isn't much to look at, though  -- small, thin, bound in unadorned dark brown calf that over the centuries has been rubbed at the corners down to the paper boards; the front hinge is badly cracked from the top to halfway down; there are an enthusiastic child's black crayon markings on the back cover, and the gilt of the spine's bands and title is completely gone, leaving only the barely discernable indentations of the title's letters. The leaves (that's "pages" to the layman) are almost as soft as cloth, have a good deal of foxing (the reddish-brown discoloration common in old books), and are a bit too fragile for safe reading. One or two pages are torn clean across to the spine, but still attached to it. The book is really a rather pitiful physical speciman.

     So what prompted me to buy it? you may ask. When, many years ago, I opened its front cover in a local bookshop, I beheld, at the top right corner of the title page, the name "Samuel Avery" written in beautiful script -- with a quill pen, surely; the metal nib wasn't patented till 1803. (Of course, Samuel Avery could have been a later owner of the book, but I prefer to stick with my quill theory; it's much more romantic.) The letters are as perfectly even and uniform as copper plate, the capital "A" looks exactly like Jane Austen's, and the loop of the "y" is voluptuously plump, its tail curling out a good quarter inch beyond the rest of the signature. What's more, this Samuel Avery obviously didn't bother to take the time to blot after writing, because the mirror image of his name had bled onto the facing page. (Was he in a hurry, shutting the book immediately after putting his name to it? Or was he simply careless? Is that extravagant "y," that appears almost defiant in the face of its carefully formed fellow letters, a telling sign of the writer's inner fire beneath a cool exterior?) Also on the facing page, below the mirror image, is written in pencil "John Humphrey Avery" -- not quite as beautifully precise, but the formation of the letters is identical to that of the Samuel Avery signature. As pencil lead was not invented until the 1790's, I assume this signature was written after the one in ink (also assuming that my quill theory is correct). Was John Humphrey Samuel's son? Did his father write his name for him, and why not in ink? Was it to try out that newfangled thing called the pencil? And why wasn't it written on the title page? Furthermore, were those black crayon marks on the back cover scribbled there by the young John (yes, artist's crayon had already been invented long before then), and was Papa Avery very upset with Johnny over the defacement of his (then) fine book?

     I have lately found the answers to some of these questions. I do have a vague idea, thanks to the internet, as to who Samuel and John Humphrey Avery were (the Samuel of the signature was either John's grandfather or great-grandfather, both of whom were named Samuel), and that they probably lived in Connecticut. I also know that they must have been at least pretty well off financially, as books were costly in those days, and having them bound in leather even more so. The dark brown calf of this particular book was probably a favorite material of Mr Avery's, so he would have had many more of his books bound the same way. Perhaps all of his Oliver Goldsmiths were so clad. As to how the book made its way to that dusty little antiquarian bookshop and into my own shelves -- well, I should have asked the bookshop owner. Too late now, sadly; he died many years ago.

     The thing is, I don't care so much about knowing as I am about speculating. To me, old books are more than their text, more than their binding. Just seeing a name, an inscription, even random crayon scribbles, sets my imagination on fire; being able to rub the tip of my finger over the imprint of a gilt-less title, to feel the rough texture of the rag paper, is a pleasure only true bibliophiles understand. Though I now only buy books to read, not just to fondle, my interest in their provenance (previous ownership) is avid as ever. Still to be able, in this age of the e-book, to hold in one's hand a piece of literary history, however worn and modest, is a privilege to be cherished.

To Cleave or to Clean: That Is the Question

     Boundaries are good. They shape our morals, our emotional responses, our diet. They force us to use our inner resources, our intellect, our logic. They even test and ultimately strengthen our faith. And, for those of us who tend to collect and hoard things, physical boundaries can be our salvation.

     In one of my earliest posts, "On Possessing and Being Possessed," I wrote about how I had to purge myself of nearly all my personal belongings before entering the monastery, and about the multiple benefits, both environmental and spiritual, of such a purging. Had I known how freeing it was to get rid of excess, I wouldn't have waited for God to prod me to it with a monastic calling.

     Now that I'm back living in my mother's house, the very fact of it being hers creates boundaries around me that didn't exist in my old apartments in Houston: no longer can I let shelves overflow with books, or towers of tomes build up against the walls. Here, I have X amount of space and I must be disciplined. It's much easier for me to be disciplined about clothing; having lived for nearly two and a half years wearing one habit with one other in the closet, plus a "work" habit, two aprons, two nightgowns, a wool shawl, one pair of sandals, one pair of shoes, a few pairs of socks, and only the necessary amount of underclothing, I'm way past caring about accumulating a vast wardrobe. My days of haunting consignment shops and snapping up Houston society mavens' designer discards are long gone.

     However, when it comes to my books ... well, almost any true booklover will tell you how difficult it is to part with any of his/her collection. It's no good telling me that what really matters are the texts, which can be gotten through an e-reader or borrowed from the library; the actual, physical book doesn't really matter. Oh, yes it does! I could write an entire post on the tactile merits of a finely-crafted book -- or even a not-so-finely-crafted one, for that matter -- but perhaps at another time.

     Having these current boundaries forces me to pick and choose which books I want (need) to keep, and which I can dispose of without feeling as if I'd lost a limb. I very much need to rely on my monastic training in this matter, to remind myself that it's no good cleaving to things, as you can't take them with you to the grave, anyway. Rather, clean, don't cleave!  Do I really need two copies of Wuthering Heights, or The Diary of a Provincial Lady ? Do I really need to have the Collins leatherette-bound Pride and Prejudice in every color ever issued? Do I have to have both the Tasha Tudor illustrated Little Women and the Orchard House edition? If I lived in my own house, maybe my answer to all those questions would be yes, despite my monastic training, just because I'm weak-willed and book-hungry.

     But, no ....This is not my house, alas. Even as I write this, there are shelves of books waiting to be weeded. My mother is tolerant of my addiction, but I have to respect her space and the boundaries it imposes on my literary extravagance. Maybe someday I'll acquire the same detachment toward books as I have toward clothes. But, somehow, I doubt it.

Kindred Spirits, Unlikely Friendships

     When I lived in Houston, one of my favorite places to go on my weekly day off was an antiquarian book shop called Detering Book Gallery. In those days it occupied an old two-story house on the corner of Bissonett and Greenbriar, and was the kind of cozy refuge, with its dark wood and worn oriental rugs, that provided just the right sort of comfort, whether on a cold rainy day or a searingly hot and humid one. I loved wandering through the various rooms on the ground floor, the children's section tucked underneath the back staircase, and the rare book room upstairs which was presided over by an affable, mustachioed gentleman named Oscar. I almost always came away from Detering with some hard-to-find treasure or other, usually a novel by one of the neglected British women authors for whom I have a predilection, or an old play whose film adaptation I loved.

     After a while, I began to notice that many of my purchases had something in common: the name "Mildred Robertson" on the flyleaf, or Mildred's bookplate on the front pastedown. This Mildred and I seemed to share the same taste in books; more particularly, a love for English women authors of the mid-twentieth century, as well as theater. The books themselves were of earlier printings, some first editions, all in wonderful condition. Best of all, dear Mildred had the delightfully meticulous habit of placing inside them clippings of pertinent articles and reviews from various newspapers and literary journals. Inside my copy of Elizabeth Bowen's A World of Love, for example, I found a wonderful review of the novel, along with a retrospective of Bowen's work from the London Times Literary Supplement. In my 1929 edition of Philip Barry's play Holiday are reviews of a 1987 West End production starring Mary Steenburgen and Malcolm Macdowell. Bless Mildred's archivist heart!

     One of the clerks at Detering told me they acquired Mildred's library after her death in Galveston, but he couldn't tell me anything more about her. I Googled her, but didn't find out much beyond her being a longtime resident of Galveston. No matter. I have a kinship with her through the books we both loved. I feel privileged to own a part of the library she had discriminatingly acquired over so many years. Her books still grace my shelves, and whenever I take one down to read again, I feel as if Mildred and I are settling down to hold our own private book club meeting for two, over a nice hot pot of tea and a plate of buttery scones—in Texas. We both know very well the power words have to transport one to places one longs to be. And I know that Mildred would thank, as do I, Detering Book Gallery and all those wonderful antiquarian bookstores—that sadly dying breed—for bringing about unlikely and enduring friendships such as ours.

Since posting this, my sister Celia found more information regarding Mildred Robertson and what became of her papers and correspondence. Thanks, Cel! 

A History of Reading

     If I had to characterize my family with one word, it would be "readers." We are all of us passionate about the written word, and not a family meal or gathering goes by without some discussion about literature and heated opinions on film adaptations of our favorite books. Although our individual tastes in authors and genres differ somewhat, they find a solid common ground in the works of Jane Austen, a taste which was cultivated long before Colin Firth's Darcy, Emma Thompson's Elinor, and the Jane Mania which those now beloved portrayals ignited.
     One of my earliest memories is of a book my sister Celia made for me before I began school -- it was an alphabet book with drawings of various things that began with each of the letters. With that simple tool, she taught me to read. I remember one particular day not long after, when I opened one of her "Dana Girls" mysteries and found to my delight that I could read it! I was so excited, I ran to her, flourishing the book and panting: "Listen, listen! -- 'Louise Dana, a pretty, dark-haired girl of seventeen, paused in the doorway with an armful of paper novelties.'" (Have any of us voracious readers ever forgotten the first real sentence we were able to read?) From that day, a whole world of adventure, romance, humor, and sorrow opened up before my eager eyes. It was somewhat of a damper when I did begin going to school and found that I had to revert to "See Tip run. Run, Tip, run."
     If the school year was spent reading the chronicles of such fascinating personages as Dick and Jane and their little dog Tip, my parents provided more than a compromise. Every Sunday after church during our summer vacations, they took my siblings and me to the library on post (we were living in Ft. Sam Houston). We were each allowed to check out five books for the week, of any genre and author that appealed to us, and we were encouraged to read them all before the next Sunday. Admittedly, I didn't always manage to finish my five, but I gave it a good shot, and zipped through the "B is for Betsy" series, Beezus and Romona, the "Little House" books, and other juvenile fiction including one of my very favorites, They Loved to Laugh by Katherine Worth. After starting piano lessons, I broadened my reading list with lives of the composers.
     While Celia was the one who taught me to read, it was my brother George who sparked my interest in the actual physicality of books -- the quality of the binding, the art of illustration, fine editions. Every Christmas he gave me a treasure. One was Alice's Adventures under Ground in a facsimile edition of Carroll's handwritten manuscript; others were first issues of the famous and beloved Tasha Tudor-illustrated editions of The Secret Garden and Little Women; he also gave me my first Jane Austen -- Pride and Prejudice -- in the Collins dark blue leatherette binding, which is my favorite edition of Jane's books. These trophies grace my shelves to this day, though I have since purchased other editions of the same titles. (I have never believed in having just one copy of any favorite!)
     I am forever grateful that I come from a family that places such importance on reading, which I truly believe is the bedrock of education. Before you place a child in front of a computer, put a real book in his hands. You will have given him one of the greatest gifts ever to be had in life.
    

On Possessing and Being Possessed

     I come from a family of pack-rats and collectors. My mother's house is filled with gifts from her friends—candles, little angel statues, etc.—and so reluctant is she to offend a friend, she hardly ever gets rid of anything. If a gift isn't useful or aesthetically pleasing to her, she simply stows it in a closet or drawer. Whatever display space is not occupied by friends' gifts gets filled up with family photographs and tchotchkes of her own choosing.
     My sisters collect things—Depression glass, Firestone dishware, teapots, oil lamps—and I myself have been blessed/cursed with the collecting gene; loving the written word as much as I do, I'm prone to furnish my surroundings more with books than with furniture. My apartment in Houston looked like a used book store: every inch of shelf space stuffed, coffee table and nightstand strewn, mini-towers of tomes stacked against walls. Where there weren't books, there were films, because if my spare time wasn't occupied by reading, it was spent watching my favorite movies over and over again. Moreover, like any other healthy, normal female, my closet was fairly choked with clothes and shoes, most of which I wouldn't wear for months or even years at a time.
     Every so often I would look around at the semi-organized wreckage that was my apartment and, momentarily contrite and not a little disgusted, I would vow to throw out every garment and pair of shoes I hadn't worn in two years, every film I wasn't that crazy about, and every book I had already read. And, indeed, I would gather a few articles and give them to the Salvation Army or Half-Price Books, feeling virtuous—then I'd realize I had hardly made a dent in my plethora of possessions, and I was still buying books and clothes to replace the ones I had given away. So, naturally, I would rationalize (at least as far as the books were concerned): "Most of my books are out of print and really, really  hard to find. I just can't  get rid of them; I know I'll read them again. I mean, would I throw out a cat  no one else wanted?"
     Eventually, and quite literally, Divine Intervention saved me from being drowned in my clutter. As I wrote in an earlier post, I felt a call to enter religious life. When I got accepted into a contemplative monastery, I of course had to get rid of all my earthly possessions except for the most basic and necessary—personal things that can't be used in common, such as toothbrush, underwear, etc.—and in order to make the process less wrenching, I adopted a mantra: Ruthless. I must be ruthless.  As I sealed each boxfull of precious books and labeled it "Salvation Army" I would mutter, "Ruthless!" Purses crafted of Italian leather, triumphantly snatched up for a song at my neighborhood T. J. Maxx, were handed over to eager friends with, "Use them in good health (ruthless )!" Jewelry from QVC, CDs collected with care over the course of my career, all perused and appropriated by friends and co-workers (ruthless, be ruthless ).
     At the end of my despoilment, I surveyed the relative starkness of my apartment and thought, why on earth didn't I do this earlier? Why did it take a religious vocation to spur me into action and unburden myself from the tyranny of possession? For suddenly I felt lightened and enlightened. I was free! I really didn't need all those things !
     Some weeks later, in the monastery, I surveyed the starkness of my cell: there was a bed, the simplest kind; a small writing table and wooden chair, a narrow closet for my three habits, enough drawers and cabinets for my underclothes and basic toiletries, and a small sink. What more did I need? Even if I had remained "in the world," would I really need much more than that?
     Now that I am indeed back "in the world," my answer to that question is still "no," but a slightly qualified "no." Yes, I am determined not to have more clothes and shoes than I actually need. I no longer buy jewelry. My one sturdy, basic leather purse serves me just fine at all times of the year, with any outfit. I was never a huge cosmetics consumer, and even less of one now—I keep my face clean and my hair short. However ....
     I have  rebuilt—not to their former extent, but to a considerable one—my library and my film collection. Some things are just so much harder to do without.