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.