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.

Seamus McGhee

An extremely awkward, nerdy kid comes up with an elaborate scheme to become popular in high school. Please include mention of an autographed picture of Shakira and the Bible.

Seamus McGhee shuffled down the empty hallway, dragging his feet, and staring at the dirty white tile. It was scuffed and worn through to black underneath in some spots, from decades of middle school stampedes. The bell had rung ten minutes ago, but Seamus always waited for the halls to empty before leaving the classroom at the end of the day. He noticed his right shoe was untied. He stopped walking and turned to face the row of lockers. Clutching a Bible to his chest he looked quickly to his left, and to his right, through his rimless glasses to make sure no one was around. Then he stretched his arms straight out, and dropped his bible purposefully. It made a loud noise that echoed off the walls and he smiled.
Seamus made sure no one was around one more time before kneeling to tie his shoe. He knew better than to attempt shoe tying in front of anyone. Too often had that resulted in being kicked over by Bobby Cressant, the relentless bully Seamus had the displeasure of sharing every class with since the fourth grade. The latest Bobby-incident involved chocolate ice cream in the cafeteria. When he got home from school later that day, he told his mom he had accidently dropped it on his white shirt. She wondered to herself why he had smeared it everywhere. Bobby wasn’t the only one at school who picked on him for being a nerd, but he was certainly the worst.
Seamus was humming the score to Harry Potter. It had been stuck in his head since the movie had been released, about five years ago. He grabbed his copy of the Bible, wiped the cover with his sleeve and stood up, brushing his black hair out of his eyes.
He had taken the Bible from a hotel from a few years ago when his parents took him and his younger brother Shannon to Disneyland. Never having gone to church, he was curious and a little bemused as to why people held so much faith in the Bible. He liked to watch televangelists preaching every Sunday with such animation, and thought that if he were as entertaining as the preacher he might have more friends. Or at least a friend. That preacher had thousands of people listening to him. Seamus just wanted one.
A teacher, Mrs. Blaire, was the only friend he had at Wayne Jr. High. He stayed after school every Friday with her and she recited poetry aloud or played music as she graded papers and he organized her bookshelves. She was the most popular literature teacher in school, spoke four languages, had long straight brown hair that curled at the ends and bright green eyes, almost turquoise. When she smiled or laughed, her eyes would crinkle.
Seamus continued down the hall, through the heavy steel double doors, and across the main courtyard to her classroom.
“Hello Seamus.” Mrs. Blaire smiled warmly at him as he entered. She explained that she had received a few boxes of books to be donated to the town library and needed his help to catalogue them.
As Seamus sorted through the books and hummed, a song came on the radio and Mrs. Blaire sang along, softly, in a language he didn’t understand. He watched her until she noticed him staring.
“Shakira.” Mrs. Blaire called out to Seamus over the music.
“Sha-whata?” He replied inquisitively and Mrs. Blair laughed.
“She is a singer from Colombia, one of my favorites. The song is in Spanish. She is a very popular singer, she sings in both English and Spanish. Are you taking Spanish this trimester, Seamus?”
“No, I’m taking band instead of a foreign language.”
“Oh? What instrument do you play?”
“The cymbals.” Seamus could feel his cheeks flush. Mrs. Blaire smiled and nodded. “The eighth graders get to play the drums, so I have to do the cymbals and bells and stuff.”
“Ah, so you’ll get to play drums next year?” Mrs. Blaire asked. Seamus nodded and went back to sorting books.
The song ended and an annoying announcer with a high-pitched voice came on the air. Mrs. Blaire stood and told Seamus that she would be right back, and to hold down the fort. He blushed again as she smiled at him before walking out the door.
The announcer on the radio started to talk about Shakira, and Seamus listened. The competition was called Shakira’s Escuela de Musica. The tenth caller would be entered into a drawing to have a private concert at the school of his or her choice and today was the last day for the raffle. As they broadcast the number Seamus raced to the phone and dialed. His heart was pounding as he thought about how happy Mrs. Blaire would be to see Shakira, and if she was as popular as Mrs. Blaire said, then everyone in school would be so excited and it would be all because of him. He would be the most popular kid in school! He was grinning as he listened to the phone ring. Someone answered.
“Hello! 91.1 The One! What is your name?” A woman spoke so quickly Seamus could barely understand her.
“Um, Seamus.”
“Shay-mus?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Shaymus! We are going to connect you to the DJ, hang tight kid!”
She put him on hold. A Ricky Martin song blared out of the earpiece and Seamus held it away from his head a little.
A male math teacher walked by the classroom and Seamus dove behind Mrs. Blaire’s desk. Students weren’t allowed to be on the phone unless it was an emergency. When he peeked around the side of the desk, the math teacher was gone.
“Hello? Is this Shaymus?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Congratulations Shaymus! You are the tenth caller! You are on the air amigo! Your name and the school of your choice will be entered into a drawing! The winner of that drawing gets to meet Shakira and have a private concert for all the kids at whichever school you choose!”
Seamus jumped up from crouching behind the desk. “I am? Really? I am!”
“Right-o, Shaymus. And which school would you like to enter?”
“Wayne Jr. High!”
“Alrighty, Shaymus, listen to our broadcast at 7 o’clock tonight to find out if you and Wayne Jr. High are the winners!”

* * *

At 6:55 p.m. Seamus ran downstairs to the living room and turned on the stereo. His parents were in the kitchen preparing dinner and his brother Shannon was watching television.
“Hey!” Shannon exclaimed as Seamus turned off the TV.
“I just have to listen to this for five minutes Shannon, please?” Shannon glared at Seamus, but obliged. They listened to commercials for five or six minutes, waiting to hear the DJ announce the winner in his squeaky voice. After a commercial for Trojan condoms, the DJ finally came on, rambling off the details of the contest.
Five minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. McGhee came running into the living room. Seamus was jumping up and down on the couch screaming at the top of his lungs.
Mrs. McGhee looked at Shannon. “What in the world has gotten into your brother?”

* * *

The next Friday, Seamus was the talk of the school campus. People high-fived him as he walked down the hallways and the semi-cool kids even asked if he wanted to sit with them at lunch. Bobby Cressant made a loud joke in the cafeteria about how Seamus was a “fag” cause he liked Shakira.
“Uh, have you seen Shakira? She is HOT! You’re the fag, Bobby!”
Seamus didn’t know who said that, but he laughed along with everyone else as Bobby threw his rice pudding across the cafeteria and stormed out.

After school, hundreds of kids poured out into the parking lot where a huge stage had been erected while they were in class all day. There was music blaring from giant speakers and kids chatted animatedly, looking around to see if they could catch a glimpse of Shakira.
Seamus was waiting backstage. Part of the prize had been that he got to meet Shakira personally and introduce her onstage. He stood in the shadows, shaking a little, clutching his Bible. A producer came over and directed him toward a trailer behind the stage. He climbed the stairs and into the open door.
Shakira shook his hand and said hello and congratulated him for winning the contest. He just stared at her. Everyone kind of laughed. She asked if he would like an autographed picture.
“Yes, please, but can you make it out to Mrs. Blaire?-that’s B-L-A-I-R-E. She is the reason you are here.”
Shakira smiled at him and began to sign the photograph. He read it when she handed it to him. ‘To Mrs. Blaire, Seamus’s favorite teacher. Vive la musica! XOXO Shakira.’

* * *
On Monday, school had more or less returned to normal. Bobby threw a biscuit toward Seamus in the cafeteria but missed him by about ten feet. No one else picked on him. In fact, many kids smiled at him in the halls. He sat with the same group of kids at lunch that he had sat with on Friday.
In literature, Mrs. Blaire had framed the Shakira picture and hung it up on the wall. Not much had changed. But Seamus felt different. He walked down the halls with his head held a little higher. He actually noticed people in school he had never even seen before.
As he walked down the crowded hallway after the school bell had rung, someone called out his name. “Hey Seamus!” Seamus smiled as he saw the kids from lunch waving at him.
He walked by an empty classroom as he headed toward them, reached in, and tossed his Bible in the trash.

This was an audition piece for LFB. Check them out.