My Library - First Dispatch

The arrival of November chill and the immanent arrival of holiday guests compelled me to do some draught-proofing in the library/guest room. Specifically, I decided to replace an old, ciold and ugly window with something more sensible. By Grace, the local Habitat for Humanity ReStore had exactly what I needed: a fine double-glazed, double-hung casement that fit the frame perfectly. With the help of my Dad and my friend Debbie, we installed the new window successfully and it was one of the most satisfying home-improvement projects I've ever undertaken.

What this has to do with books: the walls of the room are lined with bookshelves and some of them had to be unloaded and moved to do the installation. The process reminded me of the Libraries of My Life, their varied configurations, contents and how each collection and arrangement has been a reflection of different periods of my life. What kind of books are transient, and which volumes do I hang on to and move around with (some have been overseas and back with me) and why? My relationship with my books is complex and dynamic, so characteristic of all enduring love affairs.

The beginning of my affair began before I can remember. As a kid, I recall specific titles in my Dad's library, Profiles in Courage comes to mind immediately, as well as several very exotic and delightful Japanese books, written in English for the purpose of introducing Japanese culture, bound in the Japanese stab-binding style, and wrapped in silk-covered slipcases fastened with clever loop and bone toggles.

My grandfather had a small, but exceeding interesting personal library of theosophical literature alongside his Reader's Digests. He gave me a copy of Ocean of Theosophy before I was ten, and I especially loved to read A.P. Sinnett's details of Mme. Blavatsky's seances with mysterious Ascended Masters Somewhere in the Himalyas, as well as her adventures trekking in exotic lands. He gave me much of his library while he was still alive, and I treasure it today. My sister and I were given books as gifts, especially from our "Aunt Zoe" - a friend of our parents' who adopted us as her family and bestowed lavish, interesting and always educational presents at Christmas. From her I received my first dictionary, Webster's Seventh, and a Columbia Encyclopedia, and several wonderfully illustrated fairy tale books, all of which I still have.

The Library of My Youth was completed and in a way, my fate sealed, at the age of twelve, with the arrival of a box of books from Mrs. C, our urbane neighbor and fellow book lover. There was a lot of good stuff in that crate - Mrs. C belonged to the Book of the Month Club and had all the Classics of Western European Literature in cheap, but attractive cloth covers. There was a big, shiny dust jacket titled The Fan Club which was withdrawn from the box at the final moment, having been deemed inappropriate for my tender years. The Decameron of Boccaccio remained, as it does to this day, simply clad in innocent navy boards. I was intrigued by its device, delighted by its humor and I recognize now that my adolescence was deeply impressed by the influence of its humanity.