Nothing Personal
Several years ago I picked up a copy of Michael Chabon’s Summerland at a Goodwill in Northern California. I didn’t open the book for months, but when I did it turned out to be a signed copy.
Several months ago I internet-purchased a cheap, used, hardcover edition of Jim Lovell’s Apollo 13 book Lost Moon. I planned to bring it to Florida for him to sign. When it arrived in the mail, it was already signed by him.
Several weeks ago I ordered a book of poetry for my thesis. The book contained a simple inscription (see photo). For some reason it broke, and continues to break, my heart. I find myself reading the inscription more than the poetry inside.
I brought this up with two of my writer friends, walked them through some of the books that have found their way into my life (there are more. a lot not signed by authors, but instead by a loved one) and they both were equally upset.
The question we all kept asking, the question I feel sort of haunted by: Why would anyone get rid of these books?
My friends came up with the same adamant answer: the person died.
We constructed other scenarios – the sour friendship, the divorce, the items lost in a move, the unaware mother who cleans out the room of a college-attending child, etc.
But death seemed to be the only right answer. We envisioned bereaved family members, throwing dusty books in a box marked “donation,” too sick with loss to glance inside the dust jacket of Jim Lovell’s adventure.
When I own a book signed by an author, I keep it. When someone gives me a book as a gift, and takes the time to write something inside, I keep it. Even if the relationship sunsets, I still hold onto the book. I have them all. I guess that’s why it feels so unsettling to open a used book and read a personal note meant for someone else.
And while me and my writer friends all felt rattled by these books ending up in my life, I am pretty confident there are people in the world who would simply donate a personalized book to Goodwill. There are plenty of people who aren’t super-sentimental, or attached to a writer who signed a book. It’s easy to forget, while floating around in the MFA bubble, that there is a pretty large chunk of people who *brace yourself* don’t care all that much about books.
I keep wondering about Ben. I wonder if he remembers Bloomington and if New York treated him with kindness. I keep staring at the person who signed the note, at the scribbles after a definite “M.” And while it resembles “Mark” and the first name of the author is indeed Mark, I will never know if it’s him.
Just like I’m not sure I’ll ever know why these orphaned books, with penned-sentiments breathing relationships into their pages, keep finding their way into my home. I imagine more of them out in the world, lined up on lonely sagging bookshelves. And like the stray cats I see roaming Spokane’s streets, I wish I could give them all a warm bookshelf to curl up in.
I found a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit at my local used bookstore that I felt I had to buy because it was inscribed by the former owner’s grandparents. I considered that the child who owned it might have died, but it seemed more likely that the owner didn’t value it or the inscription, which, strangely, made me sadder. And then I got angry on the grandparents’ behalf. I felt like I was saving it from the indignity of sitting on a used bookstore shelf.
I’m glad we’re not the only ones who immediately leap to “death”….but oh man this is upsetting.
I wonder how much of it has to do with a writers innate fascination with stories. Not only do books contain stories, but then an inscription explodes the book into a whole ‘nother realm of stories. We get lost in those emotions.
I was at 2nd Look Books not so long ago, in the Essays section, when I found a book of “essays” that was obviously written by family members, published by the family for the family, I figured for a reunion or something. I almost bought it just because it seemed so sad.
Whhhaaaat? This is a new one for me, I can’t imagine coming across that. I’d probably just stare at it for fifteen minutes.
On a happier note, I once ordered a signed copy of a Mark Strand book on Amazon. To my surprise, it was signed “To Brett” with two Ts and everything.
It was pretty amazing.
Wait, WHAT? It was unintentional? Do you feel like it’s a sign from the writing gods or something? Crazy!
Whoever these people are, who can give away books, especially books with personal insriptions, I am convinced have no souls.
*inscriptions*
Or they’ve gone blind and accidentally donated the wrong book? I’ll accept that possibility as well.
I’m completely with you on the inscription. I’ve read at it three times now, and I’m kind of in love with it.
Can you imagine how you’d feel if you found a signed copy of YOUR book you’d inscribed to someone at a secondhand store? I’d probably laugh it off, but I’d also be like, ‘Thanks a lot, jerk.’
But maybe not. Maybe I’ll find out someday?
Haha! I’d probably buy it and mail it back to the person with a note that said: “Whoopsi you lost something! xoxoxoxoxo”
A few years back, I got a used copy of Riverteeth, David James Duncan’s mediocre collection of short fiction and essays, that someone had apparently used as a journal. All the white space was full of weird, confessional ramblings about the journal-writer’s personal/love life. Less sad than the above, but significantly more neurotic.
This is amazing. I would love a find like that! What fodder for found-poetry!
(and, seriously, why would someone get rid of that?)
I think it may have to become a found post of its own one day. Like maybe tomorrow.
Please do it, that would be such a great read!
When I packed up my house to go travel for a year, I had to get rid of a ton of books. It broke my heart, but I couldn’t afford the storage fee and visit all the countries I needed to experience. I kept the ones with notes from loved ones. I sold the ones that were signed by the author.
I think everyone comes to this at some point in their lives. In all honesty, I think this is where the majority of these books come from. It’s a necessity of life – we can’t hold onto every single thing we connect with sentimentality. Otherwise our grown children will be cursing us as they clean out our attics 20yrs from now.
When it comes down to it: books are heavy. Books take up space. Books just sit there.
After helping a friend haul 1,000,000 books up three flights of stairs when he moved, I swore I wasn’t ever going to buy another book in my life.
[...] this practice of gathering books secondhand leads to compelling anonymous interactions. Like Cathie, whose post last week started me thinking about this, I am drawn to the personal aspect of this practice, the sense of a [...]
[...] then i had to go and fucking ruin it by not writing that post. not to mention that jonathan and cathie wrote such lovely posts about used books that my original idea just seems stupid by comparison. [...]