What’s not to Love your Books? We all love the books we possess. Some more, some less.
What’s not to love about collecting books, from the thrill of stocking up on a new authorial crush to remembering favourite titles long since devoured?
Nothing, except, perhaps, the flip side to amassing a library: the emotional attachment to the books. You start loving them as your children. And as my father, Nirmal Chandra Kumar, the famous antiquarian said: you don’t have to feed them: morning, afternoon and night. Only take care of them.
But recently, I was struck with grief when I parted with a book. My son, Abhishek, came home and carried with him the book Macbeth by William Shakespeare, illustrated by Salvador Dali 1946. Nothing wrong. He asked me. I felt a pang. But what is there between a father and son over a book, which anyway, he is going to inherit.
I thought I could come over it. But I wallowed in Grief. Book Grief. It was only when it was gone, and I stared at the empty space in the shelf that grief struck me. As I looked at the space realised the enormity of what I had done. I was filled with remorse. I sat still and felt that I have lost a child.
May be, I am far from alone at suffering from book grief, an ailment familiar to many who have taken a vigorous approach to book culling either for lack of space or shifting to a new destination. I pity the people who can regard a book simply as a container for the text inside.
Too many of my books have powerful associations, with my life, my growing up, to the people they belonged to or where I bought them.
I can’t get rid of the textbooks that belongs to my son, because they have his notes in the margin. Handwriting is such a powerful evocation of a person’s character – almost like hearing someone speak.
One person, whom I know, going the Buddha way, gave away almost all of her books last year. Out they all went in a frantic purge as she thought she was on the way to Nirvana. But almost immediately, regret set in. She started missing them soon and frequently stood by the bare shelf and wept. (Incidentally she did not attain Nirvana). Recently, on getting back to earth she has started buying those exact titles which she gave away.
Radha Prasad Gupta, popularly known as Shatul, the famous bibliophile once told me that he was often in need of money but never could imagine selling his books. “I would Murder My Library”, he said. “It would be like I’d disposed of myself and my own history because I was downsizing. I would feel a bit humiliated by it,” adding: “I would be very wounded by the response when other people said, ‘Oh, I could never do that.’ As if I’d put the pillow over the mouth of a dying loved one.”
One book I wish I hadn’t gifted is La Symphonie pastorale, a French novella written by André Gide first published in November 1919 because of what happens to the young blind girl, Gertrude. The title refers to Beethoven's Sixth Symphony (also known as the Pastoral Symphony) which the pastor takes Gertrude to hear. It also refers to the pastor's own symphony with Gertrude.
I wanted to add Dali’s Macbeth and Gide’s Symphonie back to my shelf, but it is out of reach. Dali’s Macbeth costs Rs 80,000 plus another Rs. 5000 for shipping from the United States. La Symphonie pastorale, by André Gide costs Rs. 22,000 plus another Rs, 2000 for shipping. I know, I can buy reprints at a lower price, but that is not the same.
One book-loving friend, who recently relocated to the US, says: “I grieve for the books left behind, but I think a lot of that was the broader grief of leaving behind a lot of different things and not having found new things here. And sometimes I still miss the old books, especially when one of the kids mentions having heard about a book and I wish I could grab it from the shelf as we talk about it.”
On and off I meet my son over a Video Talk and he requests be to walk the home with him, particularly the Library. The last time he pounced like a triumphant eagle, seeing a prey some thousand miles up in the sky. A Nonsense Book by none other than T S Eliot, titled Mr Mistoffelees. I know it is his next target. But it is better than some of the New Gen who have no interest in printed words. Last when he took me on a Video Walk round his home, I spotted an antique book on the Polish composer and virtuoso pianist Frédéric François Chopin.
I am attached to these books because they made me who I am. Book grief to many is as pointless as any other grief for an inanimate object. But to me they are my children.
— with Abhishek Kumar