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Shepherds ye beware
Monday, February 9th, 2009 08:11 amred sky at morning, shepherd's warning ...
Monday, February 9th, 2009
A message from Christmas 1950
Monday, February 9th, 2009 08:27 pmJust over seven years ago, in November 2001, I went through my father's library dividing the books into three piles: the books he'd want with him as soon as he moved to the nursing home, the books he probably wouldn't miss, and the books he was likely to ask for when he was better.
'Better', of course, never happened.
I collected five boxes of books from my sister's cellar in early January, and today (feeling melancholy anyway, so no good mood to break) I decided to sort them out.
They smell of home. Old home: the damp, smoky, mouldy cottage in Essex, which my father left in 1987. There are cobwebs clinging to the pages, dead spiders, dust. Some books contain the oddest bookmarks: when he came to visit me for the Boat Show in 1995, he was reading Woodes Rogers, Life Aboard A British Privateer, and using a Travelcard from Balham as a bookmark; there's a till receipt from 1994, halfway through a Dudley Pope novel, "Whiskas, Chocolate Mousse, Mushrooms, Bakery".
Some of the books might be worth something. (If I sell everything I've listed on Amazon today, I'll make over £100.) There's a proof copy of a nautical memoir, dated 1960. (My Informed Source tells me there is not much demand for this sort of thing, in this sort of genre.)
Some of them are only worth something to me, like the battered copy of Slocum's Sailing Alone Around the World ("duplicate work in your catalogue!" LibraryThing observes): dedication shown above. That was ten years before he met my mother. I vaguely recall him talking of Shirley, but who was Valerie?
Some of them are the furniture of my childhood: I'm still sure that if I only concentrate hard enough, I'll be able to recall the exact sequence of my mother's Nevil Shute novels (now mine) on the bookshelf next to the fireplace. I picked up Requiem for a Wren and started reading. That's nothing I ever did at home.
I've sorted all the boxes, ~260 books. My hands, my clothes, were filthy by the time I'd finished. About 180 are going to the nearest charity shop (they can discard what they can't use). A few were so badly damaged that they're being ... well, used for Art. Some -- those in better condition, rare or hard to find, obscure, old -- are up for sale on Amazon, though frankly I'll be surprised if many sell. And some I'll keep, not for their content but for their significance to me as objects.
When I die, I don't want my books to moulder in a cellar. I want them to be loved by somebody else. I want them to be read.
'Better', of course, never happened.
I collected five boxes of books from my sister's cellar in early January, and today (feeling melancholy anyway, so no good mood to break) I decided to sort them out.
They smell of home. Old home: the damp, smoky, mouldy cottage in Essex, which my father left in 1987. There are cobwebs clinging to the pages, dead spiders, dust. Some books contain the oddest bookmarks: when he came to visit me for the Boat Show in 1995, he was reading Woodes Rogers, Life Aboard A British Privateer, and using a Travelcard from Balham as a bookmark; there's a till receipt from 1994, halfway through a Dudley Pope novel, "Whiskas, Chocolate Mousse, Mushrooms, Bakery".
Some of the books might be worth something. (If I sell everything I've listed on Amazon today, I'll make over £100.) There's a proof copy of a nautical memoir, dated 1960. (My Informed Source tells me there is not much demand for this sort of thing, in this sort of genre.)
Some of them are only worth something to me, like the battered copy of Slocum's Sailing Alone Around the World ("duplicate work in your catalogue!" LibraryThing observes): dedication shown above. That was ten years before he met my mother. I vaguely recall him talking of Shirley, but who was Valerie?
Some of them are the furniture of my childhood: I'm still sure that if I only concentrate hard enough, I'll be able to recall the exact sequence of my mother's Nevil Shute novels (now mine) on the bookshelf next to the fireplace. I picked up Requiem for a Wren and started reading. That's nothing I ever did at home.
I've sorted all the boxes, ~260 books. My hands, my clothes, were filthy by the time I'd finished. About 180 are going to the nearest charity shop (they can discard what they can't use). A few were so badly damaged that they're being ... well, used for Art. Some -- those in better condition, rare or hard to find, obscure, old -- are up for sale on Amazon, though frankly I'll be surprised if many sell. And some I'll keep, not for their content but for their significance to me as objects.
When I die, I don't want my books to moulder in a cellar. I want them to be loved by somebody else. I want them to be read.
