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: βKeep this primitive creature far away from any books you value.β
I canβt imagine why she feels this way.
As we obeyed the flight attendant and buckled into our seats I could see seven hardbound books in Ellenβs backpack, under the seat in front of her. βBringing all those books is crazy. Youβre a human bookmobile. You should have brought a Kindle instead.β
Having worked her whole life as a bookseller in precious bookstores with precious names like βA Clean Well Lighted Placeβ and βThe Earthling Bookshop,β Ellen was unforgiving of the digital changes that afflicted her industry. She arched her eyebrows like Jack Nicholson. βYou know how I feel about the βKβ word. Kindles are the devil.β
βNo they arenβt, Laura Ingalls Wilder. Auto-mobiles are the devil! And, by cracky, theyβll never replace the horse. Sweetheart, youβre such a Luddite. Did you pack a butter churn, too, in case we get hungry on the plane?β
βLaugh all you want but there is nothing like the feel of an actual book.β As she said this she dropped her backpack on my foot. She was right. Thereβs 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 βthere is nothing like the feel of an actual book.β
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 couldnβt 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, βWhatβs that?β
βA book.β
βI can see itβs a book.β I cracked the spine. Ellen was horrified. βDid you just crack that bookβs spine?β
βSure did, Miss Marple.β
βSince when does a book need a chiropractor? Donβt ever do that again. Where did you get that book?β
βYour library.β
βWhat?β
βIt was just sitting there. So I grabbed it.β
βOh my God, itβs one of my signed first editions. You got your hands all over it! I canβt believe you cracked the spine! And you smudged the dust jacket! Here. Give it to me. Just give it to me. Now.β
I folded the corner of page 2 to mark my place, closed the book and handed it to her.
Exasperated, she asked me, βWhy did you fold down that page?β
βSo I wonβt lose my place.β
βPage 2? This is not origami! Itβs a book! What else did you do to it?β
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.
βWhatβs that?β
βNothing. Hey, Miss Literacy, arenβt books meant to be read?β
She huffed and handed me the airline catalogue. βRead this. The words are small and easy to understand.β
Last summer we were visiting the center of the universe, Powellβs Bookstore in Portland, when Ellen came up behind me. βI caught you red-handed, David Wayne Fitzsimmons. I saw you scanning book titles with your Amazon app.β
βBack off. Itβs cheaper just to order the book from Amazon.β
βTraitor! You are helping to destroy bookstores all over America. Why donβt you just order a knife and stab me in the heart with it?β
βI canβt afford the expedited shipping. Can you wait a day or two?β
βYouβre a scream, David Sedaris. Let me see whatβs in your basket. You donβt need that one. Or that one. And you already have that Kliban Cat book.β
βI know. But this copy looked lonely on the shelf. Like an orphan.β
Which is why we have to cull our books regularly. As Ellen suggested just this week. βYou should make room for whatever new books you get at the book festival. Start a Bookmanβs box for your old giveaways. Touch any of my books and youβre dead, Pigpen.β