A Tour Of My Library
Jan. 11th, 2007 01:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
poliphiloIt's mostly paperbacks and DVDs these days, but there's still some interesting stuff left.
I used to have a mania for old books. I had shelves and shelves of them. Where they were cheap enough I bought first editions.
Second-hand bookshops: Oh, how I loved second-hand bookshops! These days I happily pass them by, but back then I was looking for something.
An identity, perhaps?
A life?
Who knows?
Most of the valuable things are gone now. I had some lovely stuff. A Selected Swinburne with really kinky pictures by a guy who thought he was Aubrey Beardsley but couldn't draw legs; I left that at a girlfriend's house. A 19th century illustrated Shakespeare with gold tooled, leather covers; it got damaged when the roof leaked and I couldn't bear to keep it in its ruined state.
Others- boxes and boxes of them- were sold for cash. I needed the money and the man pretty much ripped me off.
But some I couldn't part with. My Chestertons (I used to contribute essays to the Chesterton Review), my Kiplings...
Most of my Kiplings are first editions. The earlier ones are bound in blue cloth and are printed on thick, coarse-woven paper. And they have a glorious smell- a spicy smell, impossible to identify; maybe it's from the glue that was used in the binding. Whatever it is, it's a smell of the 1890s.
Oddly comforting. I open the pages and there's a coal fire burning in the grate and whisky (in a cut glass decanter) to hand.
My copy of The Day's Work carries the bookplate of the early 20th century thriller writer, E. Phillips Oppenheim. I don't harbour any illusion that this makes it valuable.
I also have three of the original Railway Library editions- slim pamphlets that were sold from kiosks at Indian railway stations, price: 1 rupee- bound together in blue boards with a leather spine. Unfortunately the original paper covers have been lost, which takes the value way, way down. This particular book has a plate that identifies it as having once belonged to The Brothers' Library at the Charterhouse. "N.B." it says, "it is earnestly requested that this Book be kept clean, and returned to the Library as soon as convenient."
Brothers? Charterhouse? That's monks, isn't it? Carthusians.
Which instantly reminds me of a limmerick I learned from my old Latin master, Monkey Chamberlain:
There was a Carthusian monk
Who went to sleep in his bunk;
He dreamed that Venus
Was tickling his toes
And woke up all covered in perspiration.
Erm.... now where were we up to?
Ah yes,
Books....
I used to have a mania for old books. I had shelves and shelves of them. Where they were cheap enough I bought first editions.
Second-hand bookshops: Oh, how I loved second-hand bookshops! These days I happily pass them by, but back then I was looking for something.
An identity, perhaps?
A life?
Who knows?
Most of the valuable things are gone now. I had some lovely stuff. A Selected Swinburne with really kinky pictures by a guy who thought he was Aubrey Beardsley but couldn't draw legs; I left that at a girlfriend's house. A 19th century illustrated Shakespeare with gold tooled, leather covers; it got damaged when the roof leaked and I couldn't bear to keep it in its ruined state.
Others- boxes and boxes of them- were sold for cash. I needed the money and the man pretty much ripped me off.
But some I couldn't part with. My Chestertons (I used to contribute essays to the Chesterton Review), my Kiplings...
Most of my Kiplings are first editions. The earlier ones are bound in blue cloth and are printed on thick, coarse-woven paper. And they have a glorious smell- a spicy smell, impossible to identify; maybe it's from the glue that was used in the binding. Whatever it is, it's a smell of the 1890s.
Oddly comforting. I open the pages and there's a coal fire burning in the grate and whisky (in a cut glass decanter) to hand.
My copy of The Day's Work carries the bookplate of the early 20th century thriller writer, E. Phillips Oppenheim. I don't harbour any illusion that this makes it valuable.
I also have three of the original Railway Library editions- slim pamphlets that were sold from kiosks at Indian railway stations, price: 1 rupee- bound together in blue boards with a leather spine. Unfortunately the original paper covers have been lost, which takes the value way, way down. This particular book has a plate that identifies it as having once belonged to The Brothers' Library at the Charterhouse. "N.B." it says, "it is earnestly requested that this Book be kept clean, and returned to the Library as soon as convenient."
Brothers? Charterhouse? That's monks, isn't it? Carthusians.
Which instantly reminds me of a limmerick I learned from my old Latin master, Monkey Chamberlain:
There was a Carthusian monk
Who went to sleep in his bunk;
He dreamed that Venus
Was tickling his toes
And woke up all covered in perspiration.
Erm.... now where were we up to?
Ah yes,
Books....
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Date: 2007-01-11 03:37 pm (UTC)When I woke up and realized that there were probably more than 100 books on my shelves that were there only as snob value, I immediately went into a major culling phase. I still have more books than I will ever want to read again, but I try to be more selective about what I keep. I may have enjoyed a book once, but I try to be ruthlessly honest about whether or not keeping it will add value to my life, or only clutter.
I have a couple of prizes that have sensual as well as entertainment or intellectual value. One of my favorites is an old-but-in-excellent-condition copy of Richard Halliburton's Complete Book of Marvels: a thick, hard-bound book that I love to hold and page through.
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