As a compulsive bibliophile, I like to browse through used book stores, yard sales and church rummage sales in search of the unusual, the rare, and the weird. For the most part, I’m interested in what lies between the covers. It’s not good enough to find a pristine first edition. I want a pristine first edition that’s worth spreading on my lap for a few hours. So, for example, I’m particularly proud of a first edition World of Wonders which I bought for 50¢ at a garage sale in Guelph because, although a fabulous find, it would have enjoyed an honoured place on my book shelf even if it were a dog-eared paperback. But unlike the purist, I sometimes opt for the copy with the epigraph scribbled in the front cover, or the crib note in the margin. While a true bibliophile might say that these markings render a collector item worthless, for me, these often add to the value. Sometimes they hint at other stories and, like any good book, they set my imagination adrift in alternate realities. Here are a few samples from my shelves.
First a simple domestic epigraph that I found in a 1965 hardcover edition of Malcolm Lowry’s Under The Volcano: “To my dear husband – From his volcano. Leah”.
Here’s something silly from Crad Kilodney in his chapbook, Worst Canadian Stories Vol. 2: “Good news! God is fungus! Crad Kilodney”.
Then there’s the inscription in a Gideon Bible: “Since you couldn’t be here to take the Bible, we did it for you. Annajayne”. I bought this hot Bible at a church book sale.
Perhaps the most intriguing inscription comes from Clyde Rose in his volume of poetry, Christ in the Pizza Place:
“St John’s
Dec. 6, 1999
for Margaret Atwood in friendship
– pardon these poor verses but it’s the best I can do!
All best Wishes
Clyde”
I bought the book at the annual Victoria College book sale. Margaret Atwood is a distinguished alumnus of Victoria College who clearly supports the fund raising efforts of its book sale by sloughing off her surplus. This particular inscription raises a number of questions for me. Does Clyde Rose think so little of his own writing that he would be so self-deprecating?
Does Clyde Rose think so much of his own writing that he would foist his work on one of the English language’s acknowledged masters? Did Margaret Atwood ever read the book before sending it on the first leg of its journey to my shelves? Then there’s the simple observation that Ms. Atwood doesn’t share my compulsion since, clearly, she seems able to part with books. Unless, of course, she read the book and thinks it’s truly awful. Or maybe she did read the book, liked it, but simply has no room to spare. Could that ever happen to me? Could there come a time when I decide I have too many books? It seems improbable. Though I just put up another forty board feet of shelving to hold another 500 books that have been sitting stacked on the floor of my office for the last couple years. It is conceivable that one day I’ll run out of walls. Or maybe the house will collapse under the weight of it all.