Something Borrowed: Bibliophile’s Catch-22

 

In the third installment of “Some thing,” the brainchild of The Other Mother, I give you a moment of clarity.

1. Something old
2. Something new
3. Something borrowed
4. Something blue

Once, I had a vast library of books.  It was my hobby and one of my many passions.  I had no children and lots and lots of time to read.  I collected specific volumes of certain genres and authors.  At any given time, I could be reading three or four books at a time.  Once, I lived in a house where there was a “library”—an extra wide hallway lined with built in bookcases.  In fact, that’s why I bought the place—having a place to put all those books after years of hauling them around from place to place in boxes was the most sensuous experience.  I probably went through about a book every day.  My favorite haunts were used bookstores.  I kept checklists of books I had, books I wanted, and authors I wanted to explore. 

I was more than happy, after vigorous discussion over a book or author with a visitor, to loan the book or books to them.  What better thing than to loan them out?   It would provide me the excitement of further discussion when next we met—and of course it was all about me. What I noticed though, is that often I wouldn’t get the books back for weeks or months, or at all.  I’d have to hunt them down.  I then imagined the book, being covered in layer after layer of dust, untouched, unread, and unreturned—languishing in someone’s bathroom magazine stand or shoved into a drawer next to their spare vibrator batteries. Damn people.  How irresponsible.   They, wondering how the hell they ended up with yet another loaned book they’d never read and me, irritated and annoyed at that blank spot on the bookshelf.   

Then, I got it—years later, as I got older and wiser—they hadn’t asked to borrow the book.  I had basically shoved it down their throat—so eager was I to have them enjoy what I enjoyed.  If they returned it, I’d surely ask how they liked it or engage in a related conversation and they’d have to admit they hadn’t read it at all.  If they didn’t return it, they’d not be able to face me knowing they still had the book.  Definitely a Catch-22, Bibliophile Edition. I then stopped loaning books. 

But, about two years ago, a friend pleaded with me to borrow my no-longer-in-print Autobiography of Elsa Gidlow:  I Come With My Songs, so I reluctantly loaned it to her.  We share a love of her Sapphic poetry.  She knew how I loved the book, so I was sure she’d return it promptly.  Weeks turned into months, months into a year, then well into the next.  One day, while shopping at Beer’s Books, I ran across a copy, despite its rarity—the solution presenting itself like a miracle—I really didn’t want to have to take her out.  I bought it and left her a message that she could keep the book—I knew how she loved it.  And, me, well I got to shove the one I bought into that lonely blank spot on the bookshelf.