If my beloved wife, Ellen, a bookseller, ever gave a talk on the care of fine books the lecture would end dramatically, with her pulling back a curtain and pointing at me, a feral beast in a cage, gnawing on paperbacks and cutting the pictures out of coffee table books. She would warn all horrified book lovers: “Keep this primitive creature far away from any books you value.”
I can’t imagine why she feels this way.
As we obeyed the flight attendant and buckled into our seats I could see seven hardbound books in Ellen’s backpack, under the seat in front of her. “Bringing all those books is crazy. You’re a human bookmobile. You should have brought a Kindle instead.”
Having worked her whole life as a bookseller in precious bookstores with precious names like “A Clean Well Lighted Place” and “The Earthling Bookshop,” Ellen was unforgiving of the digital changes that afflicted her industry. She arched her eyebrows like Jack Nicholson. “You know how I feel about the ‘K’ word. Kindles are the devil.”
“No they aren’t, Laura Ingalls Wilder. Auto-mobiles are the devil! And, by cracky, they’ll never replace the horse. Sweetheart, you’re such a Luddite. Did you pack a butter churn, too, in case we get hungry on the plane?”
“Laugh all you want but there is nothing like the feel of an actual book.” As she said this she dropped her backpack on my foot. She was right. There’s nothing like the feel of seven actual books on a big toe.
Today she works at the University of Arizona BookStores, where she is responsible for ensuring that thousands of books are available across the entire venue of the Tucson Festival of Books for every pulp junkie who feels ”there is nothing like the feel of an actual book.”
When we married, Ellen brought with her 12 bookcases of prized fiction, borne on the backs of hundreds of bookstore cats.
Leaving on a trip I innocently grabbed one such book off the shelf in her library because I couldn’t find my Kindle. Once we were in the air I fished it out of my backpack and set it on the folding tray in front of me. Surprised that her chimp could read, Ellen asked, “What’s that?”
“A book.”
“I can see it’s a book.” I cracked the spine. Ellen was horrified. “Did you just crack that book’s spine?”
“Sure did, Miss Marple.”
“Since when does a book need a chiropractor? Don’t ever do that again. Where did you get that book?”
“Your library.”
“What?”
“It was just sitting there. So I grabbed it.”
“Oh my God, it’s one of my signed first editions. You got your hands all over it! I can’t believe you cracked the spine! And you smudged the dust jacket! Here. Give it to me. Just give it to me. Now.”
I folded the corner of page 2 to mark my place, closed the book and handed it to her.
Exasperated, she asked me, “Why did you fold down that page?”
“So I won’t lose my place.”
“Page 2? This is not origami! It’s a book! What else did you do to it?”
Just then my neon yellow highlighter slipped out of my pants pocket and dropped on the floor. I kicked it under my seat before it could incriminate me.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Hey, Miss Literacy, aren’t books meant to be read?”
She huffed and handed me the airline catalogue. “Read this. The words are small and easy to understand.”
Last summer we were visiting the center of the universe, Powell’s Bookstore in Portland, when Ellen came up behind me. “I caught you red-handed, David Wayne Fitzsimmons. I saw you scanning book titles with your Amazon app.”
“Back off. It’s cheaper just to order the book from Amazon.”
“Traitor! You are helping to destroy bookstores all over America. Why don’t you just order a knife and stab me in the heart with it?”
“I can’t afford the expedited shipping. Can you wait a day or two?”
“You’re a scream, David Sedaris. Let me see what’s in your basket. You don’t need that one. Or that one. And you already have that Kliban Cat book.”
“I know. But this copy looked lonely on the shelf. Like an orphan.”
Which is why we have to cull our books regularly. As Ellen suggested just this week. “You should make room for whatever new books you get at the book festival. Start a Bookman’s box for your old giveaways. Touch any of my books and you’re dead, Pigpen.”
