Inspiration often shows up in the written word; enclosed in an envelope or in a sturdy, well taped box.
Sometimes it’s a line in a letter, sometimes whole books worth of ideas, or, as this time, a small, florescent pink heart with a couple of tightly written quotes.
A friend had just made two visits (“we could only carry so much at once”) to a New York bookstore and come away with a haul that included a tiny pocket book, New York’s 50 Best Bookstores for Book Lovers. Good thing I’m a continent away — the Mulberry has already taken over at least a third of my floor space.
But back to the little pink heart and its astute wisdoms. Said Henry Ward Beecher, “Where is human nature so weak as in a book shop?”
All those with constantly shrinking shelf space can but sheepishly agree that this is probably a cardinal assumption in the literary world.
Go into any book shop for one specific book you’ve ordered or seen promoted, and unless you’re wearing your ultra shades or blinkers, chances are you’ll be lured from the counter to a shelf … and another shelf … and come out with no less than two books to add to your hoard.
I’m speaking from experience, here, and I long ago learned that in this, as well as other respects, I am far from unique.
A few years ago the arrival of one of those sturdy, well taped boxes included a huge book entitled, A Gentle Madness; Bibliophiles, Bibliomanes, and the Eternal Passion for Books.
This tome, besides justifying my addiction, has the most beautiful dust jacket — heavy, gold-embossed patterns surrounding ancient woodcuts of people absorbed in books.
Guess that makes me a bibliophile — “one who loves or admires books especially for their style of binding, printing, etc.”
The inside flap of this elegant dust jacket assures us print-raised dinosaurs that “the passion to posses books has never been more widespread than it is today.”
And that’s where the bibliomanes come in — people with a craze for collecting books.
The passion for books, apparently, is the only hobby known to have a disease named after it.
The same sender once included in her sturdy box a whole book on the subject of Biblioholism – The Literary Addiction: the habitual longing to purchase, read, store, admire and consume books in excess.
The name for this unusual malady came into being in 1809 when the Reverend Thomas Frognall Dibdin published his lighthearted book, “he Bibliomania; or, Book-Madness; containing some account of the History, Symptoms, and Cure of the This Fatal Disease. Dibdin claims that what makes this ailment so formidable is that “it rages in all seasons of the year, and at all periods of human existence.”
This same disease can manifest itself whether one is ashore or at sea.
At loose ends one day between Horseshoe and Departure bays, I was trolled into the sea-going bookstore and landed by Alberto Manguel’s A History of Reading. Promises Margaret Visser in its cover blurb, “Anyone who reads will be hooked right away… It is, after all a history of ourselves, and a celebration of our favourite occupation.”
Back in the fifteenth century, however, not all of us were encouraged in the pursuit of reading. Mediavel moralists debated the benefits of education for girls unless they wished to become nuns, because if they reached a literate maturity they might “write or receive amorous missives.”
Another observation crowded onto the little pink heart, this one by John Updike, makes, I think, the supreme case for books.
He says, “I like books physically: they travel easily, you don’t have to go to New York to see them, you don’t have to tune into them at a precise time.”
And, I might add, they have a comforting feel, most of them carry fragrances of newness or nostalgia, and they don’t need batteries, cords or electrical outlets.
A weighty coffee table book, At Home with Books, claims that “[books] link us with the past, the present, and the future in a way that is portable, affordable, and aesthetically pleasurable.” It goes on to instruct us on starting a collection, even illustrating ways to make books an intrinsic part of our home décor.
And because books themselves don’t make a true bibliophile, with any serious collection of books it takes a scattering of handy bookmarks, a magnifying glass, and perhaps a book stand to truly deserve the title.
So, from a little dedication to bookstore personnel entitled Oracular Wisdom, here is the job description: “They must be able to field judiciously and without malice even the most imprecise query, like ‘I want something three hundred pages long with fully-clothed people on the cover and lots of action but no violence, sex, or vulgarity for my friend who lives in a Trappist monastery’.”
Take a book to the beach — you don’t want sand in your Kindle!
— Nancy Whelan is a regular News columnist. She lives in Qualicum Beach.
