Marginalia.

“You just like them because they’re old,” my dad said to me, after I proudly showed him the 1943 Random House editions of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights I recently purchased from two different independent booksellers. They were originally sold as a set.

“Well yeah,” I admitted. “But also because of the art. And the smell. And the inscriptions. And the marginalia.”

The art is truly incredible.

What is most amazing about the art is that they are actually wooden engravings letter pressed from electrotypes. I don’t know how well you’ll be able to ascertain how detailed they are from the photographs, but it is impressive. The artist, Fritz Eichenberg, also produced wooden engravings for several other books: Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, and Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, among others.

One of my favorite smells in the whole world is “old book.” I love browsing through the stacks in libraries and scouring the aisles of antique bookstores. The quiet atmosphere, the smell, the organization! Heaven Being surrounded by books makes me feel safe and comfortable and just happy; especially in San Francisco. If I pass a bookstore I will step inside, if only to look around for a moment and take a few deep breaths and relax. The city can be a little overwhelming for a country girl like me

Finding a used book with a personal inscription in it is more exciting to me than finding money on the ground… or at least as exciting! Maybe as exciting as finding a one hundred dollar bill To read something so intimate and ambiguous is like peeking into a stranger’s past and becoming a silent witness at a particular moment in their lives. It is special.

My friend, “Lee”, wrote a beautiful inscription to his friend about, ironically enough, old books. (Lee and I are a lot alike. I started writing this post a few days ago, when I first got the books, but haven’t had the time to finish it. In the meantime,  Lee emailed me, and told me to read this inscription he wrote and I was surprised for about two seconds. Our thought processes intersect quite frequently, so the novelty has begun to wear away.) Anyhow, I don’t know his friend but will link you to her website so you can read his wonderful inscription. It is too good for me not to link you to it. I can only imagine how, a hundred years from now, someone will someday discover that book and read his inscription in complete awe.

I cherish all the books I own that contain inscriptions, whether they were written for me or not. I just hope that one day, when I am no longer here, someone will care for them as much as I do.

Marginalia. That’s a great word, isn’t it? Used books tend to be marked down in price if their pages contain marginalia. I find that lucky and baffling, at the same time. If I had to choose between a clean book and one with notes in the margins and highlighted passages, I’d choose the latter, every time. To me, it isn’t about getting the cheaper copy (although that is a lucky bonus!) more than it is about having a book with a little history; a book that can offer a second perspective. I love the hints and insight given by the previous owner, seeing what that person thought was important enough to highlight and note. I love having that disembodied connection with the book’s past.

But maybe my dad is right, in the end. More than anything else, I love holding something that is almost 40 years older than I am. Knowing that when something is truly special, it will endure the wear and tear and decay of time. I resent the Amazon Kindle. It may be practical, but it isn’t romantic, the way a book is. I almost feel like it is disrespectful. I never understood why some people first hated the idea of mp3s, or even CDs. I myself much prefer to download music. But because of the Kindle I now totally understand why audiophiles who cherish records and/or jewel cases resent the inevitable obsolescence of those items. They’ve become novelty.

Nothing is sacred for everyone. Not books, not records, not CDs, not art, not even god. The important thing is to figure out what is sacred to you, if you haven’t already. And respect what others find sacred. Even if you don’t.

*I recently patronized a Barnes & Noble with my mother. She was looking for a certain book; when we made our way to the register, the cashier asked if we were club members. My mother looked at me and said, “Aren’t you?”

“No,” I said and smiled at the guy, not wanting to go into detail and possibly insult him. When he started in on his spiel about how if we spend $250 in one year we end up saving a lot of money with the membership, I almost laughed. Instead I smiled again and said, “Quite honestly, I never spend that much money here. I usually shop at independent and used bookstores, but thanks anyway.”

I do sometimes feel a little guilty about the fact that I am basically working in the book publishing industry yet I refuse to shop at major book chains. It seems pretty hypocritical, right? But you see, it is because of those market-hogging giants that the industry is in such a rut right now, demanding what will sell and ultimately controlling what gets published, so eff them, really. Thousands of independent bookstores went out of business last year, and not just because the market is so shitty. I think the general consensus is that when monopolies begin to control any industry, nothing good will come from it.

To find an independent bookstore near you, visit IndieBound.*

underwater.

The wind stirs inside of me the way it swirls through leaves on trees, disturbing the peace, unsettling what is typically a settled day. I feel anxious and scattered, like I’m trying to catch my breath but I can’t because it has joined the wind, a captive stallion reunited with the wild herd. I walk against it and my eyes tear and the tears streak across my temples. I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand and shield my eyes from the wind with the other. I squint ahead and finally see the bus stop, a simple red bench, unguarded by the whipping wind, a victim to its fury. Like me. I finally reach it and sit, huddling with my knees pulled up tight, as if to minimize the beating my body is receiving. It is no longer just wind. It is a tornado, a hurricane, a monsoon minus the rain. I’ve never felt wind like this before.

The bus arrives and its hydraulic doors whoosh open. I stand and grab the railing. Hoisting myself onto the step, I crash against the side, fighting with the wind, before finally stepping fully inside, the doors whooshing closed behind me. I slide my beanie off my head and drop change into the tray, smiling politely at the driver, a very large man with a turban on his head. It’s crazy out there, eh? He says. I nod and think that I’ve never met a Canadian muslim. I turn down the aisle to find a seat. The bus is empty. I sigh, realizing I’m the only idiot out in this weather. I drop my backpack on a seat and plop down next to it. Skimming through my travel guide, I figure out that I’ll be on the bus for at least an hour. I pull out a book and my intention is to read but I can feel my eyes begin to droop in a matter of sentences.

I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep before I am rudely jolted awake. I have to grab the pole on my left just to stay on the seat. I frantically glance at the driver and his face is red and scrunched and his hands are gripping the steering wheel but I can tell they are shaking. The force of the wind is too strong for him to keep this up for much longer, I think to myself. I’m sorry miss, he says, as if he heard my thought. I think we’ll have to stop for a bit. Until this wind calms down. Whenever that will be.

I think he is about to pull over into a gravel highway inlet. I see a tunnel bridge ahead, and then the bus is hit by a wrecking ball. No, no, it isn’t a wrecking ball. Gale-force winds have just toppled the bus onto its side but it doesn’t stop, it keeps tumbling, down the embankment toward a river. My body and backpack are tumbling with the bus, slamming against the windows, the plastic seats. My vision is momentarily in line with the bus driver and I know he is unconscious, his body slumped in the stairwell of the bus, as if stuck there, and I wonder how it is that I have not been knocked out yet. I manage to grab ahold of a pole and hang on right as the bus lands in the river with a magnificent splash. It is surprisingly upright as it begins to sink. The windows have been smashed and the wind roars passed my ears and my eyes water, tears streaming down my cheeks and all I can do is cover my face with my hands and gasp in a near hyperventilating way. The bus driver has come to and lunges for the hydraulic door lever. It gurgles open and he screams for me to swim over as he exits. It is too late though and I take one more quick, frightened breath before the bus is fully submerged.

I am surprised at how peaceful it is underwater. It is soft and slow and cushiony. I am calm because I realize how easily I’ll be able to swim out of the doors or windows to the surface. The river isn’t very deep because the light in the water is still bright enough for me to make out blurry shapes. So I float there, hanging onto the pole, knowing that as soon as I resurface, I’ll be hit by the wind.

I wonder how long I can wait.

Pocket Change

I could never understand how anyone could just throw loose change, or drop and not pick up, even if it was only pennies, on the street or sidewalk.
Tonight their shiny heads and tails caught my attention as I walked past, leaving my class, heading towards my car in the vast parking lot. I turned around, glancing down. They littered the cement, each coin flashing for a moment, as I walked back the way I came, reflecting the dim light high above the campus walkway. I stood for a moment, squinting in the dark as I recognized a handful of pennies; a nickel, a dime. I bent down, resting comfortably on the two-inch heels of my espresso-brown pumps and picked each coin up off the cold concrete, cupping them in the palm of my hand. Not before, however, I had glanced around to make sure that no one was watching.
I quickly stood, pocketing my prize and followed the path towards the parking lot, pondering how anybody could drop a handful of change (six pennies, one nickel, and one dime to be exact) and not pick any of it up.
I paused momentarily at the edge of the parking lot, grateful that it was after ten p.m. and nearly empty. I never, ever remember to remember where I parked my car, as easily as it may seem to be to glance up and remember a sign that reads F12. If it had been three in the afternoon, I most certainly would be lost in a sea of colorful cars, the ocean floor, black asphalt spotted with gum, old and new alike. Thankfully, even in the poorly lit lot, spotting my car was easy. Maybe it also helped that I was lucky enough to find a close space.
When I got home I emptied the contents of my pocket onto my desk and examined my findings. I sat slowly in my desk chair, wondering exactly when it was that I had become my mother.