preserved thoughts

When this book is mould,
And a book of many
Waiting to be sold
For a casual penny,
In a little open case,
In a street unclean and cluttered,
Where a heavy mud is spattered
From the passing drays,

Stranger, pause and look;
From the dust of ages
Lift this little book,
Turn the tattered pages,
Read me, do not let me die!
Search the fading letters, finding
Steadfast in the broken binding
All that once was I!

From "The Poet and His Book"
Edna St. Vincent Millay

This poem I found in a book that was actually falling apart with tattered pages and a broken binding. I salvaged the tiny poetry volume in a pile of free books outside the Reg. As expected the selection there was poor but I was a first year and did not yet know that. But the search yielded me a couple of quaint books that I honestly took only because they were pretty, not too heavy and written by a poet I wanted to read.

After years of neglect, I picked up the two volumes again. I Read the book of sonnets first because it was shorter. And now this tiny blue book of lyrics have become a close friend. It's almost too scary to read the book though. It was a cheap volume even back when it was published: a 50 cent volume in the 50s for the masses. The paper is beyond yellow, the beginning few pages have already broken off, and the little pieces of papers from the cover peels off into my hands every time I read the book. I am not particularly kind to books. I like to "break them in" as to make them unique. But this time I've been careful. I don't even carry it around with me anymore on the buses and trains with my metrocard and things. but still, the book feels like it's disintegrating in my hands and that reminds me I unfortunately cannot do what the poet asks me forever: Read me, do not let me die!

Yes, I am reading it now, but I can't commit to its preservation. The poems that touch my young idealistic and naive soul may be repulsive in a few years. and even if I let this book, salvaged for less than a penny, be my companion for life, I will die. And if I can't prevent my own death, how can I prevent hers?

It brings me joy to own books. I like books... the paper, the font, the smell, and how it feels on my hands. But am I secretly enjoying keeping a cemetery of ideas? Because after all, writing is a way of preserving a thought, a way of mummifying an idea in the hopes that the product of the moment will outlive the creator.

So I am a memory keeper and my job is to let the writers live.

But I am not the first. Some books I buy from a bookstore and I am their first parent. But I tend to also inherit books because the previous owners who can no longer do the job. I have inherited books from strangers and friends, from people alive and dead.

The burden of a bookowner is a onerous and grave: keep ephemeral thoughts alive and bound. So I wonder, who will inherit my books? Will my granddaughter knit a pair of gloves from my knitting book and think how old fashioned and cool the designs are? If some young person inherits my books, is the memory of a college course a book and I took together, and the memory of our despair as a book and I comforted each other going to live beyond me?

If I want to not die, must I write or own books?

For now, I will continue to stare at my bookshelves, a display of no longer existing thoughts. Last weekend, I was out by the sea with my dad and saw the many stars. Though the sparkles came from long ago, perhaps from stars no longer alive, they were present fascinations for me. So the thoughts that occurred in virginia woolf decades ago, or a poem bought but not yet read are waiting to be discovered by me, the stargazer. Having those potential discoveries is what it means to be alive.

the world of woolf

Ah.. it seems there is another book out about Virginia Woolf--this one about her relationship with her maids:

Mrs. Woolf and the Servants by Alison Light

Virginia Woolf's turbulent relationships with Nellie and other servants were hinted to me by the movie, The Hours, and The Writer's Diary, a diary of Virginia Woolf edited by Leonard. So I guess it was common knowledge that Virginia Woolf was awkward with her servants. And to find out more, I want so very much want to read this new book.

But alas, it's 30 dollars. So I will wait for the trade paperback edition.

Ah, but the biography of Leonard Woolf by Victoria Glendinning is now on paperback:

Leonard Woolf: a Biography

so perhaps I should go and get the book. I have a great interest in reading up on the husband because I shall not marry until I find my Leonard.

Oh but before getting more deep into the life of my favorite writer, I feel I should first finish the Quentin Bell biography of Virginia Woolf*:

Virginia Woolf: a biography

But it's such a long book... but yes, I vow to read the Bell biography first then the Leonard book then the one about v. woolf and her servants. Ah, by the time I get to "Mrs. Woolf and her Servants," it may be out in paperback!

How it all works out. But so many books to read!

*If anybody is actually reading this blog, you might be interested to know that the Quentin Bell biography of Virginia Woolf was a book I bought from the cool philosophy grad student! It's a really pretty book too!

The Little Prince

I saw one of my students reading "The Little Prince" and I got disproportionately emotional. I was so excited for her. The journey she is about to take is so wonderful. What I would give to go back to read "The Little Prince" for the first time again.

I undoubtedly spooked her out with my enthusiasm... or maybe she's used to her slightly odd teacher by now. But in any case, she consented to me telling her my story which goes like this:

The first time I read "The Little Prince" was back in kindergarten. It was back in the day when my mom would take me to the bookstore and we'd spend the afternoon there. She had only one rule: pick ONE book to buy. And it was a great rule. I would spend what to a child seems like forever picking out the book that I'd REALLY want, a book I had already fallen in love with. And I would devour that book and my mom would take me back to the bookstore for another book. I am sure my mom nudged me in certain directions while narrowing down the choice because I read everything from science fiction to poetry and I am sure I wasn't that interdisciplinary as a child.

Anyway, I think what I picked "The Little Prince" because it was such a pretty book with interesting and intriguing pictures. And I loved reading it. I remember it impressed the adults too. For me though it was a fantastic adventure story and with the little prince as my companion, I flew through the galaxy. It was a happy and exciting book... funny too with its tiny star and the gigantic baobobs.

I then read it again at the suggestion of a junior high friend in the seventh grade. And this time, the book had transformed itself. No longer was it an adventure story. I think I didn't even notice that I was traveling from one star to another. What interested me this time were the characters. And it made me ponder about the different adults in the world and if I wanted to be like any of them. It made me wonder about the different lives people lead and why we do nonsensical things. The little prince this time introduced me to myriad of people and gave me a lot to consider as I started my adolescence.

The third time I read the book was about a year ago. I missed my little companion and so I picked up the copy at the Strand. Finally, I saw that this was a sad book. The book was about, above all else, love and relationships. The love between the prince and the rose, the friendship between the prince and the pilot, and the asymmetrical, perhaps therapeutic, relationship between the prince and the fox. Attaching to someone, or "taming" as they say in the book, leads inevitably to pain because all relationships are transient. But when we are finally consoled, because as is told in the book we are all eventually consoled, we will be glad to have had the intimacy. A love profoundly changes you and your relationship to the world.

So my student heard me go on like this. And I hope I motivated her to read easy and hard books because the books have a lot to offer us independent of our capacity for understanding. I wonder what she will get from the book having grown up in different surroundings, and having different heartbreaks and challenges than me.

being young and buying a book

when I buy a book at the age of 25, I think about spending decades with it. It's exciting this marriage, beginning of a relationship. maybe i'll carry it with me when i travel. maybe i'll snuggle up with it when i am in despair. but what will i think when i am 65? is that why there are so many old people at the library: because they can't bear to buy a book knowing there isn't a lifetime together?

Reading log

I have just finished reading through "Stitch 'N Bitch: The Knitter's Handbook." And without thinking too much about it, I added it to my list of books read. I have been keeping a list like this religiously and voluntarily since the seventh grade. My list of books read has been on a piece of looseleaf, back of a planner, and in a separate notebook designated for the purpose of keeping a list of books read. I have finally organized my disparate lists into a nice notebook laura got me years back so now I have a (note)book for the list of books read.

I had lists that had just the author and the title to book reviews, but now I just list the date finished, title, author, publisher, isbn, and a star rating (from 1 star to 5 starts).

I realize of course that this is just another one of my obsessive lists that is of no interest to anybody other than me... but it's a very important list to me nonetheless. The book sits prominently on my desk and just as much as I enjoy starring at my bookshelves, I enjoy flipping through this neat and organized list of books I read. This is my personal history; my literary photo album. I reminisce about a book, about the transient love-affair, and about the disappointments and the heartbreak. I reminisce about what I was thinking about and what I was doing when I read certain books because every book I read is inevitably tied to a point in personal development.

When I read a book, I feel a great desire to finish it so that I can add it to my book. I constantly think about how many stars the book deserves and when I can't make up my mind, I feel distressed. But I always take for granted that I will add the book to the list, no matter how short, and how disappointing.

My recent introduction to knitting books, however, presented me with a very disturbing issue: can I add knitting books to my list of books read? For that matter, what about any instruction books, work books, or picture books?

I have long since known that books don't exist just to be read. They were my toys, my unhealthy obsession, and, for some people, art. Yet why is it so distressing to think that there are books sitting on my bookshelf, books I spent time with that may not belong in my list of books read? I have long ago decided that workbooks don't count as books read (although I have a tendency to hoard them and love them in my own way). And I guess I subconsciously decided not to include knitting pattern books because I haven't so far. But with the stitch and bitch book, I have added it without thinking too much about it... which makes me wonder if I should add my other knitting books.

Well, the difference between the stitch n bitch book and my other knitting books is that there is substantial amount of writing in the s and b book. But then the second half of that book is patterns and photos and I certainly didn't read through them! And what about "Fitted Knits," a book I "read" even though there isn't a lot of writing and spent way more time with while struggling through its sweater patterns?

I guess I need a way to define a book read. Is it defined by how much time I spent with it, what percentage of the book is writing, or what I learned from it? All three of those criteria are flowed in some ways... so I am going a bit crazy.

Of course I can start a new list of knitting books "read," but then I know I'll resort to that solution too many times and will end up with another set of disparate lists. I am into simplifying now, organizing my life, and cutting down on the number of ongoing notebooks. Besides, I want to have a LOOOOONG list of books read... but I would feel uneasy if the list had books that weren't really read. I'd feel like a fraud.

So no answers. No resolutions. what to do?? well, until a better solution comes along, I guess I'll add only the books I feel have been read into my notebook, and pattern books only in my online list of books. I suppose that will work.

Getting rid of books? Impossible!

Maybe a little creepy without meaning to be, I sometimes think about this philosophy grad student who sold me a few of his books. The circumstances were: I was finishing up my second year in the college and it being finals week, I procrastinated by going online and checking out what the other students were selling online. That's when I found this guy's posting. He was selling A LOT of his books. I went through the spreadsheet listing the books being sold and was amazed at the similarities in our taste in books. I already owned a lot of the books on his list but I also took down a list of books I wanted. I called him up and went over right away to purchase the books because after all, I had nothing better to do than to prepare for my finals.

I was on a high with my new books; I got the books I had always wanted really cheap. I found the grad student dude really cool, but couldn't stop wondering why he was parting ways with his books. Who does that? Isn't everyone's life goal to have a personal library filled with all the books they love? Isn't the library a visual collage of one's personal history? and therefore, aren't you really ridding yourself of your past, the essence of who you are, and all that if you are selling your books? And even if you are willing to sell your history, how can you put a price on that?

So I did ask him. I could've been very polite, of course, but me being me, I said something like: "Are you nuts? Why are you selling your books?" He explained that he was graduating that quarter, planned on traveling the world, and couldn't bring his books along with him... I let it go at that, but all these years, when I look at my bookshelf and think about that cool grad student who helped me add to it, I still wonder why he did something I can't ever fathom doing. The answer he gave was surely not enough. He could've stored them at a friend's house, a parent's house, a paid for storage place, etc etc. He would want them back eventually, and maybe this very day, he's regretting selling his "Being and Nothingness." Yes, I know he can buy another copy... but will he really replace every book he sold? Well, maybe he will... and maybe that's why he kept such a meticulous inventory with a spreadsheet and all... but even if you repurchase every single book, they are not the ones he went to grad school with and thus less valuable.

Admittedly it's been awhile since I obsessed over why someone who obviously loves books would sell them. But a few months ago, I thought of him again. I was moving and I had to pack my books. And it was hard. The books are insanely hard to pack. There is no not standard size... and because they are rectangular prism-y and rigid, you can only fit so many into a box while having all this left over space. And and and, they are HEAVY! I guess not carrying more than a few books at a time, I didn't realize that they have a formidable combined strength. I ran out of boxes, then I ran out of my bags, then then... I just wanted to throw them away. I reasoned with myself, 'forget personal history. It's not that great anyway. Start anew moo, start anew.'

Yes, that was it! I was going to buy myself brand new books, get rid of the books I secretly hate (such as 'the elementary forms of religious life'), and this time, I'll be smart about committing to a book. I'll buy only the books I'll truly love and will love me back. No math or marx books ever. no lame books...

But I couldn't do it. Just couldn't. Even the books from way back that I don't particularly feel sad about saying good bye to. I don't know why. Some books I truly love too much, some books too pricey, and I couldn't bear the thought of going down in the number of books I own. So somehow (I don't know how) I dragged them all to my new place. The first thing I unpacked, of course, were my books. I put them into the shelves and felt complete. Since then I have reorganized my shelves and now I feel complete and organized.

Wow, what a close call! Now I understand the grad student dude and his impulse to unburden himself, but I also know that he regrets selling me his books. If he finds me, I'll give his books back... no wait, I can't. It's already mine. My personal history I can't part with.

knitting books

My summer knitting is sweater knitting. I would start a cardigan, discard the project for awhile, and return to it. There would be a hat or a scarf here and there but I eased myself into unhurried and meditative knitting.

Now that it's fall, my knitting is beginning to reflect the anxiety I feel about my life and adulthood. It's time for neurotic knitting of the gloves, scarves, and hats so that I can wear it right away and feel like a productive human being. Well, I am not really complaining. I do love the fall despite the anxieties. One of the permanent remnants of my schoolgirl days is that fall feels like a beginning with so many possibilities.

So I never find myself missing the summer (except for the beach). I am neurotic at heart and prefer the cold to the heat. As for knitting, I am definitely not a sweater knitter and glad to be done with that for now.

My favorites are gloves and mittens. Since I know very little about yarns, and cannot buy skeins of cashmere yarn, I like to just buy myself a craft store quality skein of wool and be able to finish a project with it. Gloves let me do that and they are pretty and complex without being too difficult.

I envision my life being filled with hundreds of knitted gloves... some funky, some practical. And since I now consider myself an intermediate knitter, I want a bit of a challenge too. And after a bit of fretting and searching, I found the perfect book:

Knitting New Mittens and Gloves: Warm and Adorn your Hand in 28 Innovative Ways

The patterns there seem fun, the pictures are gorgeous, and the finished products actually seem wearable. And and and.... the paper is shiny, the cover is pretty, the font nice, and the book smells really good.

I didn't know when I started to knit, that this craft would open up a whole new section of the bookstore to me. I guess I should have known when I went searching for a knitting instruction book and saw an overwhelming selection of pretty books. I honestly thought then that I would teach myself to knit from one book and then get all my patterns elsewhere. But how to resist knitting books esp when they are pretty art books for people who can't afford 100 dollar Matisse books?

So before I know it, I realized, in my last reconfiguration of the bookshelves, that I have a tiny but a growing selection of knitting book. So along with a virginia woolf section and an ethnography section, I have a knitting section. And for me, one way to define education is: opening up new sections in the bookstore, and creating more distinct sections in one's own library.