From The New Yorker, November 7, 2011, this aside by James Wood in his meditation on personal libraries — his exploration of the notion that they are, at least in some cases, expressions of vanity:
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I remember hearing about an incident that befell the scholar and critic Frank Kermode, several years ago. He was moving, and had put boxes filled with all his most precious books (his fiction, his poetry, his signed first editions, and the like) on the street. The garbage collectors came by, and mistakenly took the boxes, leaving Kermode with a great deal of contemporary literary theory. The story once seemed horrifying to me; now it seems almost wonderful. To be abruptly lightened like that, so that one's descendants might not be burdened!
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I too remember the Kermode incident and the way it made me shake my head and smile. although I suspected myself of Schadenfreude masked as poetic justice. If only Kermode had taken a stronger stand against literary theory!
Wood's piece ("Shelf Life") makes you take another look at the shelves above your desk — as captured in my case by the photograper Brian Adams. — DL
I suppose I am the garbage collector in this tale. My mother, who will not be with us much longer I think, has been trying very hard to get rid of books. Everyone else has shown no interest. I have now a complete Shakespeare collection from the 1700s, a signed Faulkner, and a lot of very peculiar mouldering volumes. Last time we were all gathered, and my mother once again begged everyone to search the books, I made my pile, and suddenly everyone suddenly became jealous. Some of these old books are so strange, it is hard to explain their value. Language is used so differently from one century to the next, and history, too, changes–the same events told in 1900, for example, are not at all the same at all. But I do pity whoever comes after me.
Posted by: Nin Andrews | November 22, 2011 at 02:07 PM