Relinquishing the Hoard

I’m taking a hiatus from writing my graduation saga in order to write about another momentous event:

I have cleaned out my bookshelf and donated one hundred of my babies to my old K-8 school library.

My bookshelf is a giant, unvarnished, red-brown thing, looming over all of the other furniture in my bedroom at home.  I’ve had it since I was about eleven years old, when my grandparents, knowing my tendency to stash overflowing books in piles around my room, got it for me for Christmas.  The bookshelf was initially supposed to be hidden in the detached garage.  Grandpa had written a clever poem which was meant to lead me to its location.  Unfortunately though, Christmas morning dawned especially cold that year, and my parents thus decided to spare me the traipse outside.  The bookshelf waited beside the Christmas tree instead.

For years, this bookshelf has been large enough to hold all of my books.  Sure, there’s some double layering going on.  Sure, when I ran out of room to arrange spines vertically, I stacked more horizontally on top of the vertical.  But I don’t especially mind having a packed bookshelf: I have a system of arrangement, and I do, contrary to my family’s belief, generally know which titles I own and which I don’t own (and how to find them).  Plus, a packed bookshelf implies literary affiliations.  I feel proud and cozy and like an English major when I gaze upon it.

Today, however, when standing in front of the dear thing, trying to decide what to read next, I tipped back a few titles to peek at the ones behind.  And some of the ones behind, I realized, I hadn’t seen in a while.  And I hadn’t missed them.

I decided it was time to pare the collection down.

I have long thought that if an eleven-year-old girl in possession of familiar bookworm tendencies were to stop me on the street and ask me for a suggestion regarding what she should read next, I would undoubtably pile all of my Gail Carson Levines, my American Girls, my Nancy Drews into her hands.  I would happily pass my books off to someone who I knew would enjoy them as I had.  Why, though, was I sitting like a miser on a mountain, hoarding books I had long outgrown, waiting for the right young prodigy to come along and ask for them?  Surely it would be better to put the books in a library, where they could be paged through and jam-smeared by hundreds.

I quickly had all my books off my shelves and into piles: Classics; Popular But Still Quality; Popular; Teen Fiction I Still Love; Short Stories, Poems, Plays; Reference; Series; Children’s With Sentimental Value (Little House, Betsy-Tacy, Charlotte’s Web); and Donate.

I dusted the empty shelves, and then slowly started refilling them.  I moved my most beloveds to the top, and–vainly–put the classics front and center.  I pulled out the books I plan to attempt this summer and stacked them separately, for easy access.  I bagged up the “Donates,” including A Series of Unfortunate Events.  Perhaps the ban has been lifted since I left middle school?

Mom (a teacher at my old school) placed the bags in her van.  While I’m a little ashamed that it’s taken me so long to pass all of those books on, I’m glad it’s finally happened.


You Don’t Have to Burn Books to Destroy a Culture. Just Get People to Stop Reading Them.

When I was in middle school, I loved A Series of Unfortunate Events.  I owned most of them, but once I had read through those, I went to my school library (where I was a frequent shopper) to see if I could check out the rest.  Not seeing the books on the shelves, I asked the librarian if the library had them.  “No we don’t,” she said in a strangely tight voice.

“Is there any way you could order them?” I asked.

“No.  We don’t think those books are appropriate to have here.”

Feeling embarrassed without really knowing why, as if I had reached for something forbidden and been caught in the act, I walked away slowly, passing by even the Dear Americas, my trusty fallbacks.  What was wrong with A Series of Unfortunate Events?  I had them at home.  My parents didn’t seem to mind that I read them.  I had friends who read them.  But if they weren’t allowed at the library, didn’t that mean there was something inherently dangerous about them?

That night, I paged through The Bad Beginning, looking for some sign of Satan (I was in Catholic school at the time).  Nothing.  It was just a book, really.  A good book, a book I liked, but just a book.  There was no ooze seeping from between the covers, no curls of smoke or beckoning witch claws.

Finding no tangible reason not to, I scrounged up my twelve-year-old savings and bought the next book myself.  It was fantastic, but because of the library incident, the series had soured for me.  Reading it in class, I was self-conscious, afraid I was breaking some grown-up law that somehow divided books, things I had always viewed as free and untouchable, into categories.

To this day, I’m not sure what the reasoning for the Unfortunate Events banning was.  Perhaps because they’re rather morbid (although satirically so, I must add), perhaps because there are parts that might be considered violent (someone is eaten by leeches, at one point).  I’m not sure, furthermore, if the banning was a result of a parent’s objections, a teacher’s, or a librarian’s.

What I do know is that that incident, my first conscious brush with banning, shaped the way I read and the way I thought about reading for years to come.  I might be generous, and say that it made me more aware of the fragility of one’s basic rights, even in today’s modern society (that is, to the extent that a twelve-year-old understands such things).  That it did me a good turn, in a way.  But I don’t know that I want to be generous, because book banning, in my twenty-two-year-old opinion, is one of the most heinous crimes imaginable.

I don’t care if you don’t want to read a certain book.  I don’t care if you don’t want your child to read a certain book.  I don’t care if you don’t think I should be reading a certain book.  None of these things give you an ounce of justification for banning said book.  For saying, essentially, that because of your personal opinion, you get to deny fellow human beings their basic rights.

We all have the right to read, and to learn, and to explore.  We all have the right to take our resulting education and to make what we will of it.  I think that this applies to 6th graders as well as to college students.  Words are powerful things.  If people didn’t think so, there wouldn’t be book banning at all.  But words do not make choices for us.  Reading A Series of Unfortunate Events did not provoke me to stick a baby in a cage and dangle said cage out of a tower.  Don’t Ask Alice didn’t prompt my suicide.  Mrs. Dalloway hasn’t turned me into a lesbian.

Strangely, despite having read hundreds of potentially ‘dangerous’ books in my time, I’m still here, and I’m still okay.

There are four days left in Banned Books Week.  I encourage you to spend those days reading one of the gloriously damaging banned or challenged books on this list.

Library Planning

Finished Mrs. Dalloway.  Alas!  And now begins my 4-5 page paper on Clarissa.

Short post tonight, because I work from 10-midnight and am scurrying to finish my studying before then.

Great libraries I’ve been to:

Melk Abbey Library (Austria).

Austrian National Library in Vienna.

St. Mark’s Square Library in Venice.

It’s a short list, but these great libraries have inspired me to begin my planning for my own future home library.  A globe will be involved, and thick carpet, and leather chairs, and green shaded lamps, and likely no official organization system.