No wonder Alexander carried the Iliad with him in a precious casket. A written word is the choicest of relics . . . it is more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself, It may be translated into every language, and not only read, but actually breathed from all human lips . . . carved out of the breath of life itself. Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations. — Henry David Thoreau, Walden
“Real readers,” as old Granny called us, understand what Thoreau meant. Books form chains of understanding and connectivities among acquaintances and even strangers. For example, these men — both of whom are far better read than I — are unlikely ever to meet each other: John, my best friend when we were in college, responded to my column about October by e-mailing me a poem. I forwarded it to Dan, the moderator of a book discussion group, who sent me back a lovely poem that I forwarded to John.
During a conversation about Harper Lee’s writing, Jean and I reminisced about our favorite books. We started with childhood favorites: Nancy Drew mysteries, Little Women, and Anne of Green Gables. Jean said that her fourth-grade teacher read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer to her students, and Jean visualized herself on the raft. My fourth-grade teacher read poems written by James Whitcomb Riley and his “Bear Story” to us. Then we moved on to adult literature.
After our chat, I decided to dust and rearrange all of our books in the shelves that take up a wall of the room that we grandiosely call “the library” as well as the paperbacks in our office. I figured that it would take one day, but it took three because I kept dipping into books and reading little snippets.
Oh what treasures there are in that wall of words! Biographies, histories and memoirs give me entry and insights into the worlds and lives of others, present and past. I read again the wonderful words of Queen Elizabeth I in Winston Churchill’s four-volume History of the English Speaking People. She said, “ I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too.” Elizabeth has always been one of my heroes, and I view her as one of the first feminists.
Books trigger memories of beloved people. I thought about Bill’s and my dear friend, Phyllis Otto, when I came across Elizabeth von Armin’s charming memoir, Elizabeth and her German Garden, that Phyllis recommended. Elizabeth married a German count and went to live on his estate a few miles from the Baltic Sea. She was a free spirit who had droll observations about life among the upper classes. I gave the book to daughter Vicki who greatly enjoyed it.
I could hear the voices of my parents in my mind’s ear when I read a few paragraphs in Richard Haliburton’s Magic Carpet. They loved his tales of derring-do that took them to faraway places that they’d never see. He was a professional adventurer whose last adventure ended when he was lost at sea while trying to sail a Chinese junk from China to America.
From Louisa May Alcott’s stories about the little women to Zafon’s Shadow of the Wind, I found myself wanting to reread every book that I have ever loved, but if I do that how can I read new things? There were over 300,000 new and re-issued books published in the U.S. last year. And they say that Americans don’t read!
Some people multitask; I “multiread.” I’m currently reading Erica Jong’s Fear of Dying, Peter Mayle’s The Marseille Caper that Jean lent me, and John Grisham’s latest book.
Oh dear! So many books, so little time . . . I must hurry! wclarke@comcast.net