I feel sorry for the books I see for sale on blankets on the street, or on a bookshelf in a display room at Crate and Barrel, or on a night table in a lodge my family and I once stayed at in Minnesota. I feel sorry for them because the golden age of reading has passed (a friend of mine has objected to this extreme characterization, particularly the word “passed,” so let me say that perhaps we are instead currently in a bronze age of reading), and these lowly books are the most inessential examples of collateral damage: ignored, unloved, untouched. In many cases I might well save my pity. I don’t know, for instance, that I need to feel too bad for Rue McClanahan’s autobiography, My First Five Husbands. She’s probably no Willa Cather. (On the other hand, I loved “The Golden Girls,” and they are all now dead but one. They are the ones I should feel sorry for––and I do.) But I know that as time passes, the chances decrease that someone––anyone––will pick up various oddball or unknown books that they come across by chance. The obscure title will stay obscure, because the books just look too old now, and besides, we are all simply overwhelmed and overstimulated, and we can’t take many more things in our midst. Our apartments and houses are sliding with books that have meaning from our pasts. Books that, as the psychoanalysts would say, we have cathected.
I used to read everything I could find; as a young girl, I had been forbidden by the librarian to take out a particular book that seemed too sophisticated for a third-grader. “No, Margaret,” the librarian said in her pious voice. “When you’re older.” I burned to read that book; I lay awake at night and built it up in my mind until it seemed to be the best book ever written. And I knew that when I could finally get my hands on it, everything would change in my life. My grandmother would never die. Neither would my dog. Utter happiness would pour down upon me. As it turned out, The House on Hollow Hill possessed no special qualities. It did not change me, and it certainly did not stop death. I seem to remember the plot having something to do with four children circa 1956 getting awfully spooked late one night. I was crushed. How could something so forbidden be so dull?
Books, back then, were often hot objects, containing the promise of deep fantasy and deep feeling. But as technology thrust its way into the world in a loud, difficult birth, we didn’t quite know where to look anymore, and it seemed that the world suddenly became overrun with books, those objects we’d lived comfortably among forever. Now they were like the stray cats that haunt the Colosseum in Rome. Wherever you turned, you could find an ancient, long unread Ngaio Marsh paperback with a picture of a constable on the cover, and the price: 50 cents. Or a self-help book from the 1970s, warped so badly that it seemed to be willfully flexing its own spine. Or, of course, something from the Rue McClanahan ouevre.
I want to save these books from being forgotten, but not because they are particularly good. I’m OK, You’re OK does not need to be revived in a New York Review of Books Lost Classics edition. But I guess I mean that I want to save all books. Or at least I want to save all readers: those increasingly obscure figures who find their attentions stretched to such a degree that remembering the paragraph they have just read is quite the feat. For a long time I blithely said that A Passage to India was my favorite book. This was true. Then I began it again recently and the opening involved a long description of the city of Chandrapore. I had not remembered this, or at least, when I last read it, the length and detail of the opening had not bothered me. Back then, the world was different and books appeared before you with just the right frequency. We were not overwhelmed by them, but felt able to discern among them easily, going from one to another as if they were stepping stones in a river.
Now, in this current world of too many books and devices and interruptions––many self-imposed––I sometimes linger on even the worst of the worst––the books that don’t deserve my time or sympathy, but get both because they are part of something powerful and partly lost. Rue McClanahan, I am about to find out if this book is your My Antonia…
March 26, 2012 at 3:16 pm
Just wanted to mention that Golden Girl Betty White is still very much alive!
March 26, 2012 at 4:04 pm
Yes, thank, I have fixed it. (I hope it shows up fixed if you click the link.)
March 26, 2012 at 11:13 pm
One wonders, in 5-10 years, what will we say about the smell of our expired Kindles? About the faded numbers on our Nooks? Will we look at them longingly across the room, now just smudged metal and plastic cadavers, a pile of cords, and the paper booklets of our warranties.
March 27, 2012 at 2:43 am
That is an excellent question… ! You certainly could be right. What an image..
July 15, 2012 at 7:23 pm
I need some words of encouragement, if you have a sec. I’m trying to write a story for a competition, and as the deadline nears, my insecurities douse my passion and confidence. I’ve been re-reading The Ten-Year Nap for inspiration (even better the second time, btw).
One of my favorite lines–for there are many dog-eared pages and highlighted chunks with crayon or pen, whatever I have on hand–is “is there some logical connection between handling silverware and possessing ovaries?”
This line, the whole conversation it is nestled into could be a snippet of my main character’s naive and regular daily life. And it makes me wonder, how can I ever capture the universal struggles of everyday women the way you do it, so succintly and condensed into the moments that define us.
How do you do it?
The devil? Do you still have his business card?
haha.
But seriously, did you ever have insecurities like this? How did you slay them?
July 22, 2012 at 4:58 pm
Dear Rena,
I just now saw your note. Thank you for your kind words. As for me and the devil and his business card… I guess I would say to you what I say to my students: I think if you marinate in something long enough, you realize what it is you really want to write. And the feeling of “wanting” to write something probably comes unconsciously from already knowing that you have a bit of something to say about that thing. Perhaps it might be helpful not to think in the broadest terms (universal struggles of women) but to think of one particular woman’s struggle, and have the faith that she is not so freakish that other women don’t share some of her concerns. Start with particulars. Who is she and why is she the way she is? The critic Laura Miller said that of the novels she’s read, the ones she remembers most seem to have something in common: someone wants something and does something.
As for insecurities, of course, of course. I don’t know that they’re ever slain, but they’re simply ridden over and perhaps eventually flattened like roadkill, through lots and lots of work and many drafts. I wish you good luck with your work and this contest. Write as fully and strongly as you can. I often feel: if not now, when?
All best,
Meg W
April 4, 2012 at 12:02 am
I don’t know how to get in touch with you so forgive me for interrupting
your blog–GREAT PIECE IN NY TIMES BOOK REVIEW, Thank you.
Ilene Beckerman
April 4, 2012 at 4:59 pm
Dear Ilene,
That’s so kind of you to say. Thanks very much for writing. I believe we met briefly at Love, Loss. (Nora and Delia are my friends.)
All best,
Meg
April 20, 2012 at 1:54 pm
I happily just discovered you and am reading The Ten Year Nap and plan to buy more. My husband loved this book. I’ll be a visitor here for sure to be enlightened, amused and, this feeling surprised me, refreshed.
Thank you for being such a good writer.
April 22, 2012 at 9:20 pm
Dear Gayle,
Thanks so much. I am delighted to hear that. If you do plan on reading further among my books, may I recommend The Wife and The Position next? I appreciate your kind words.
All best,
Meg W
June 5, 2012 at 8:38 am
Everything takes longer to reach Italy, which sometimes works to our advantage. E-readers have not really caught on yet. I know they will eventually, but I’m happy the invasion is still some time off and on the metro, beaches and parks everyone still has wonderful, old-fashioned books. Sorry to be the one to point it out, but the cats in Rome’s Colosseum you mention are going the way of books – there’s been a neutering programme these past years to decrease their numbers and there aren’t nearly as many as there were in the past.
I was happy to read your recommendations to a comment. I love your books, but The Wife is my favorite, with The Position a close second.
June 17, 2012 at 7:51 am
Thanks, Kimberly. It’s nice to know that e-readers have not caught on everywhere, but I suppose it’s just a matter of time… Still so many people I know are seduced by actual books. And thanks for the kind words about my books, too.
July 30, 2012 at 2:53 am
Thanks, Meg.
It couldn’t have come at a better time. Contest entered.
Rena