On the Economy of Books
I’ve been worrying about money. Moving house is expensive and there are many little things (and not so little things) which suddenly rear up and demand money.
It therefore makes no sense that I should swing into a used bookstore and collect and armful of books in twenty minutes flat. But I love books. I love to buy books, read books, borrow books, appropriate books. (If you lend me a book, better make sure I really really understand that you expect it back. I grow attached to books the same way that ivy grows attached to buildings.) But I also love to lend books, give books, impose books on people. Read this! You will like it!
In fact, part of the armful I collected at the bookstore were various books I thought other people would like — this would be just right for Miranda. Oh, I bet that Richard would want this. Ed must have this, he’s been working so hard. Kate needs this. Then I surveyed the large stack of books I had acquired. The bookstore I was in was not a cheap place and some of these books clearly fell into their more expensive “vintage” category, which means dusty, crumbly hardbacks of uncertain age. I couldn’t possibly drop fifty dollars on books on a whim. Sadly, I divested myself of Andrew Marvell’s poems, of The Moorchild, of Captain Underpants’ Extra Crunch Book o’Fun 2 (hey! we’re an eclectic bunch!), of a couple of plays, of a hardcover copy of Good Omens, of Galileo’s Daughter. I held onto a collection of Carl Sandburg for Ed (who has been working hard) and a couple of small books for the children. And for me, a book by L.M. Montgomery (who wrote Anne of Green Gables) that I had never heard of: The Story Girl. About a girl who tells stories and lives in Carlisle.
Someone came to look at our house and asked if we were leaving the bookshelves. Well, we mused. Sure, if you would like them. Oh no, she said. We couldn’t possibly fill up all those shelves. And as I walked home with my much reduced stash of new used books, I thought of all the boxes of books I have just packed and hidden down the cellar and at my parents’ house, just to make the house look less ramshackle and untidy. And I thought about how I’m worried about money. And I wondered where we would be able to put these few books since there is now not a shred of shelf space left. But then I arrived home and Helena curled up on the couch and had her new book read to her four times and Daniel disappeared to his room for an hour with his book and Ed read poems and admitted that he had never known how much he needed Carl Sandburg until now and the sleet poured down and the furnace hummed and I felt richer than Midas. Richer than Conrad Black. And twice as lucky.
Um, Stunt Mom? That would be “richer than Croesus”. Creosote is a dark brown oil that’s a sooty residue left over from burning wood.
Crap. Midas then. I can spell that.
I hope the person who buys your house will fall in love with the bookshelves.
John yells at me for buying too many books. It’s the ONLY thing I can’t resist. I guess if you just have to have something, you could do worse than buy a book (or 12).
The first Carl Sandburg poem I read seems most apposite:
FELLOW CITIZENS
I DRANK musty ale at the Illinois Athletic Club with
the millionaire manufacturer of Green River butter
one night
And his face had the shining light of an old-time Quaker,
he spoke of a beautiful daughter, and I knew he had
a peace and a happiness up his sleeve somewhere.
Then I heard Jim Kirch make a speech to the Advertising
Association on the trade resources of South America.
And the way he lighted a three-for-a-nickel stogie and
cocked it at an angle regardless of the manners of
our best people,
I knew he had a clutch on a real happiness even though
some of the reporters on his newspaper say he is
the living double of Jack London’s Sea Wolf.
In the mayor’s office the mayor himself told me he was
happy though it is a hard job to satisfy all the office-
seekers and eat all the dinners he is asked to eat.
Down in Gilpin Place, near Hull House, was a man with
his jaw wrapped for a bad toothache,
And he had it all over the butter millionaire, Jim Kirch
and the mayor when it came to happiness.
He is a maker of accordions and guitars and not only
makes them from start to finish, but plays them
after he makes them.
And he had a guitar of mahogany with a walnut bottom
he offered for seven dollars and a half if I wanted it,
And another just like it, only smaller, for six dollars,
though he never mentioned the price till I asked him,
And he stated the price in a sorry way, as though the
music and the make of an instrument count for a
million times more than the price in money.
I thought he had a real soul and knew a lot about God.
There was light in his eyes of one who has conquered
sorrow in so far as sorrow is conquerable or worth
conquering.
Anyway he is the only Chicago citizen I was jealous of
that day.
He played a dance they play in some parts of Italy
when the harvest of grapes is over and the wine
presses are ready for work.
Be interested to hear what you thinnk of the Storygirl. I really love LM Montgomery but not so much with that book.
Thank you, Stuntparents both, for that beautiful poem.
i loved this post.
Bookstores and fabric shops are my two greatest weaknesses. I understand …
me too gk girl.
me too krista and gkgirl
i love my books and buy them even when i’m worried about money and when i really love them, i hug them close to me and i have shelves in ever room of our house filled and pouring over with books, beautiful paper filled dreams …
(Oh, daisies was here! Hi daisies!)
Just found your blog through Poetry Thursday and of course I can identify with this post! Books, yes… books. They’re like friends and I couldn’t imagine parting with most of them, while some of my friends… Well, that’s another story.
Great blog!
I know this pain all to well, I kept myself from getting a grown up job by working in a bookstore for 6 years.
I only worked there for the discount.