Chekhov’s Mistess

Book-slums, Blurbs, and the Blues

I promised myself that once we put in our new bookshelves – 8 shelves, including the top of the case, 3 feet wide – that I would expel any books that couldn’t find their way in. We’re ignoring for a moment the boxes of books in the basement and those stacked in various other places around the house, including three other bookcases, and that’s not counting all the children’s books in my kid’s room or to diverge further, the thousand or so CDs that must now be disposed of in adaptation to the electronic age.

Here’s the problem. I took all the books off the shelves and put them back in their newly expanded homes. It turns out that I now have an entire bookcase of poetry, which surprised me because I hate most of the stuff (all of them actually, except for the ones that I absolutely love). I managed to get the books of short stories on one shelf, with a little bit of stacking, probably about five feet of shelf space. I have a lot more essays than I thought too – and an entire shelf, or maybe two, of other people’s letters, memoirs and personal essays. Another surprise. I mean where did they all come from?

Now, I don’t get a lot of free books, something of a trickle but they do add up over time. Some, titles like “Secrets of a Former Fat Girl” are pretty easy to chuck, being that I’m a man and all, and while fat is a matter of definition, this book’s subject matter “How to Drop Two, Four (or More!) Dress Sizes – and Find Yourself Along the Way” is likely not to hold my interest for long.

Ah, but then there are those unknowns. The promise was that I would get rid of everything that remained once I filled the shelves (with only minimal double stacking). There are a lot of books left. Another bookshelf worth. How could I have not realized there were so many books lying around here? So, I’m going through, starting with the easy ones, that is, the ones that came to me free via publicists. The one thing I like about getting books in the mail is that there are sometimes gems in there and you just don’t know until you check them out. That’s where the blurbs come in.

A lot of people say that blurbs don’t mean anything, but I think they do. I’ve long felt that if, for instance, Susan Sontag blurbed a book, that was good enough for me. That idea is tempered by the fact that that John Barth once said he only blurbed his students (this is in the context that he blurbed William H. Gass, who was not his student). The other problem is that so many blurbs are written in such ready made lofty quotable language that they are a joke unto themselves.

That doesn’t mean they’re not useful. I’ve taken as a gauge that if, to pull an example out of the hat, Jennifer Weiner, author of Good in Bed, blurbs a book, it’s probably not my style. Conversly, I nearly tossed Megan Abbott’s The Song is You until I saw that my friend Sarah Weinman blurbed it. It remains at least for closer inspection. So there is something to say about the categorization of blurbs if not necessarily their quality or intent.

Ed mentions the raves about Roberto Bolaño, who is one of the most heavily blurbed novelists in (my) memory with accolades for his The Savage Detectives by Susan Sontag, Franscisco Goldman, John Banville and many more. His blurbs, splashed across the book’s jacket, are pretty heady endorsements, which makes it seem like, if you didn’t know he’s been dead for four years (or indeed, one of his blurbers) , he’s the hottest novelist on the planet. I’ve actually read another of Bolaño’s books, so in this case I know that the Emperor’s clothes are real. Still, I get the feeling that there is something to be said for being over-blurbed when, if you’re like me, “the latest sensations“ strike a nerve in my contrarian side.

Back to the problem at hand: Am I such a materialist? I’ve only treasured three physical things in my life. My camera, my music collection and my books – that’s been consistent for many years. Unfortunately for me, all those things are expensive. Herman Melville went into debt buying books (too bad he didn’t have a blog) and I’m not far off. What’s more, I’m constantly in a ”meta“ stage – acquiring books instead of reading them; finding places to put them instead of reading them; writing about getting rid of them instead of reading them.  Of course I’m not going to read them all, and even the ones I treasure most will very likely not get much sunshine. Then why keep them? Do I need validation? Is that comfort I feel with them around me just one more excuse for buying more stuff? You can see the existential crisis this is all causing. And, like my three year old after he gave up his pacifier, it won’t mean so much when they’re gone. Except for maybe just that one book…

comments

I didn’t know what to do with my old books either until I came across this great book selling avenue. Check it out!

BlueRectangle.com

    – Sylvia (04/10  at  12:29 AM)

I have dedicated a shelf to things I plan on reading again, things I have read once and won’t repeat, books I haven’t read but plan on (5 total), favorites, antiques, science fiction, Books I don’t like but can’t part with (lots). More books I’ve read and thought were mediocre and Still can’t get rid of them. Then there are the one zillion archaic nancy drews from my child hood, and reference books on construction. Truly I understand shelving problems.

    – vanishingword (04/10  at  01:14 AM)

I have had to live without my entire collection of books for almost 5 years now (since moving to Victoria with my husband.)

My 40 boxes of books are in storage, waiting for our new home where I can have a room of my own for writing and reading. We currently live in a townhouse and space is always an issue.

The 200 books I have listed on Library Thing are the books I’ve accumulated since moving to Victoria . . . I long for my books, I dream about them and I definitely worry about them.

    – Christine (04/26  at  10:20 PM)

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About this Post

• Posted by: Bud Parr
• Date: April 09, 2007
• Filed Under:
  Song of Myself: Diary

• Comments:3
• Links to this Post: Technorati

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