On a flight from Austin last week, I watched as my seatmate threw her bag in the overhead, snapped on her seat belt, and dove into a book. It was a well-loved copy of Memoirs of a Geisha, the mesmerizing tale of a fisherman’s daughter whose beautiful face and natural grace propels her to the upper ranks of the now-vanished world of the Japanese geisha. It’s an incredible read, especially given that the author, Arthur Golden, a man, told the story in first person, imaginatively entering the mind and heart of a young woman. When it came out in 1997, everyone it seemed was reading it. Now, thirteen years later, my seatmate was rapt, devouring the book with the same intensity that I once did. I envied her.
In Austin, I had visited the Harry Ransom Center, the magnificent library and museum at the University of Texas, whose collection boasts many "firsts"—the first book printed in English (William Caxton’s 1474 edition of Lefevre’s Historyes of Troye), the first photograph (Joseph Nicéphore Niépce’s View from the Window at Le Gras, ca.1826), and the first major book illustrated with photographs (The Pencil of Nature, 1844-46, by William Henry Fox Talbot).
Best, though, was seeing the Center’s Book Conservation Lab. It’s essentially a book hospital, where damaged volumes are tenderly brought back to life. A conservator showed me a small plastic bag filled with what looked like wood shavings. They were the remains of an old book cover that had been repaired. When I asked what she’d do with the shavings, she said, Oh, we’ll keep them. You never know! It made me happy—as a writer, but mostly as a reader—to know that there’s a place, many places, where books and even scraps of books are still considered precious.
These days, as every author knows, publishers are scrambling around like chickens without their heads, clucking, The book is dead! The book is dead! But just as opera didn’t die with the advent of movies, and movies weren’t killed off by television, books aren’t dead, they just have to share shelf space with other forms of entertainment. Even though the traditional form of the book may be changing, our innate human need for stories will never die.
Back home, inspired, I saw my writing studio with new eyes. My bookcases were full to bursting and the floor was covered with precariously tall stacks of books that rose up like literary stalagmites. Did I really need all of them? Sure, as a nonfictionist, I could justify the thousands of titles but, increasingly, I’ve been writing about those bigger, intangible truths that can’t be footnoted but are true nonetheless. I was ready to clear the literal and metaphoric decks and welcome something new, like this blog, into my life.
They say, If you want your life to change, move 27 things. Well, I moved 27 things—and dozens more. It was an unexpected occasion of grace to sort through my books, releasing those that I no longer needed and thanking the authors who had been so helpful to me. I boxed up about 300 books for Amazon’s new EasySell program, which takes the hassle out of packing and mailing books individually. But the best part was setting up a book-giveaway table outside my house. Over the course of three weekends, I gave away hundreds of books to neighbors and strangers alike. Sending my books into the world, where they would continue to bring pleasure and new insights to others, filled me with utter joy.
The book is dead? Not a chance!
Though I may listen to a book on tape or read somethings electronically I also have a book always tucked away in my bag.
Long live the book!