In recent days I have been reminded
about extended travels to non-US destinations; people living in foreign
countries for an extended period of time and who are roughly my age. I am tad bit envious for a moment, usually
because it is a place I want to visit, but then I pull my head up from the
computer screen and look around my room.
I can see my wealth around me, the money I have put into my vast and
diverse mini library. It would probably
fill about six bookcases if I had money enough to display them all. I love my collection; I love being able to
walk five steps and physically touch and smell the information of visionaries
past.
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| My favorite pen drawing of Dr. Frankenstein by Bernie Wrightson from his illustrated version of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. |
It is a
diverse collection, comprised of classical fiction, some modern pieces that are
worth keeping, obscure Russian literature and collections through other
countries I have yet to become obsessed about.
On the top shelves there, you can see the historical fiction series I am
unwilling to break up or put in alphabetical order. Just below it is the small amalgamation of
plays, prose and poetry. Over there are
the philosophies, social and national histories; genealogy, diseases and
migration, ArcGIS and mapping, astronomy, chemistry, physics and Sherlock
Holmes. The anthropology, skeletons and
archaeology take up nearly half a case in and of themselves. And don’t forget about the growing knitting
and sewing sections…oh, and the math and statistics, quite delightful once you get
to know them. My most recent book
fetish though has been for mid-century or earlier language books. I love the illustrations and scenes of life I
will never get to experience unless I meet The Doctor. It would probably behoove me to learn some of
these languages before I turn forty. Or have a child for each of the languages I want to learn and live vicariously through them. Ehh gads! That is ten children...better double up on the language to kid ratio.
If I truly
wanted to, I might be able to pare down to those books I could not live without, but
that is just the thing: these are the
books that keep me from feeling lost in a digital desert. If the internet crashed tomorrow I could
still feel connected to other distant worlds and people because I have some of
their stories around me. I can still
explore the world even at my poorest depths or stuck in a small town with
little diversity.
I could and
have lived without all my books for a time.
It felt weird; that same strangeness when you haven’t seen a good friend
in a while and you are not sure when you will.
Then I imagine that these people who are able to pack up and move to a new
country have a place they can come back to.
That all the objects and mementos their parents have kept all these
years are safely stored there and which will continue to collect dust for at
least another couple of decades before they will have to deal with them. I wish I had that security.
Maybe it is
the hording gene that prohibits me from taking the other path - those who have not felt a secure home as a
youngster become a rolling stone themselves, moving on when the moss begins to
grow. They see objects and tools of the
home as things which can be easily borrowed, bought and sold; that nothing is
truly sacred and being attached to objects may limit the amount of experiences
one can have. I can see their
point. I can also see that a stone free
of moss could lose a sense of belonging, a place where you feel you at home.
Then again,
if you felt home within yourself, shouldn't you be able to call the place where
you are home?
Perhaps this is a circular argument I will never be able to
convince myself wholly of one way or the other…may haps I should not even try.
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