Confessions of a Bibliophile

Little did I suspect that as I agreed to accompany my husband to visit friends in Oklahoma, it would turn out to be treasure trove of a book trip.

It started five minutes before we were about the leave. I suddenly remembered I'd not packed any reading material. (That alone would have been disaster. I'm reading Pride and Prejudice, and I'd just reached the part where Mr. Darcy proposes to Elizabeth Bennet.) So, I scrambled to the bedroom, found my beloved copy, then realizing how thin the volume was, I also grabbed Emma.

Any Janeite is already sensible that regardless of what else might have happened on this trip, I was prepared. Let there be a flat tire. I have Mr. Collins to entertain me.

Then, my husband pulled into an antique store that he's always wanted to show his friend. I eyed the derelict building's decor of rusty washing machines, piles of broken windows, and rusting car parts, wondering why he'd want to show anyone this place. Oh the places amazing little volumes can be found at.

Inside, a old man, wearing a mechanic's suits, told us stories about the tornados which had recently battered the woods near his house. Afterwards, as my husband inspected antique televisions, I stumbled upon a wall full of old books.

Now up until yesterday, had someone asked, I would have stated I cared little about the book itself, but more about the material inside. Why else would I want a Sony Reader or underline passages?

But at that moment, just for the mere pleasure of touching out of print books and reading the opening lines of novels that are no longer remembered, I became lost. Eventually, I found a book from 1866. It was bound with string instead of glue. Its leather cover was cracked and disintegrating. It was a college book intended to teach students how to translate Latin into English and visa versa. In pencil, those already sleeping had scribed their names and jotted notes. It wasn't worth more than the dollar I paid for it, but suddenly, I didn't want this edition sitting with other books that were mildewing, completely forgotten.

Then upon discovering I was interested in books, the elderly man showed me his back storeroom, where thirty years ago, he'd had a truckload of books from a closed library in Chicago had been deposited. Books that had been sitting there since I was a toddler were still slowly being sold (though the Mennonites, as he said, had just about bought up the bulk of them over time.) The only light in that windowless back room was a single bulb hanging directly in the bathroom. I had to squint to even see the book. (No I didn’t bring any into the bathroom to better see them. I was too afraid of brown recluses to dig too deeply.) I did find another book which for reasons I'm uncertain about, interested me. So I grabbed it and purchased it as well.

That book turned out to be a treasure. It was a grammar book from 1926, but instead of the usual methods of teaching grammar it was written for writers. Its exercises are intended to teach writers logic and teach them how to write clearly. I spent the next 8 hours on the road mentally untangling the sentences in their exercises. I can't remember the last time I was this thrilled over a book on writing.

I think on the way home, I'll bring a flashlight and see what else I find.

Okay, so maybe I'm not a true bibliophile, but I do show some promising tendencies.

What about you guys? Is it only the love of story that motivates you, or somewhere deep down is there just a plain old-fashion love of books?