The Library

UnknownThe ceiling of the Library of Congress is embossed with aluminum.  Aluminum, the tour guide tells us, was a precious metal.  Once.

On the top there is a torch.  Torches are prominently featured.  As are: Minerva, owls, and women showing or unshowing one or both of their breasts, it varies a great deal.  Minerva has a sword.

The first Library was burned.  The second Library burned.  Now, rather than much of a library for Congress, it is a book fetish place on the mall.  For the second time, I got a reader card.  I would call it a library card.  Proof of book fetish, merely, I wasn’t going to read anything there.  Libraries, in fact, I love and fear, because I don’t check out books anymore unless I have an in.  I can’t be trusted with library books.  I have dug myself holes.  The government employees at the get-your-card office are deeply unimpressed with your desire for a card, just ignore the warnings that this is NOT A SOUVENIR.

What people do is create libraries, and then those libraries are burned or dispersed.  Three-quarters of my library has languished in a Lenexa, Kansas storage unit for two years, twenty-four months.  I never thought I could live without it.

The Library was the first building in Washington, DC to be completely electrified, and people used to go there to see the sight.  They also installed gas.  Once the electricity fad passed, they could crank up the gas lights like regular people.

Thomas Jefferson’s books, the ones that survived the second fire, are preserved in a swoop of an almost circle, glass on both sides, so you can see both sides, the spines are on the inside, labeled by subject, and the outside is all their pages, some of them dizzyingly marbled, blue and cream or burgundy and cream.

Aluminum was, in the beginning, so precious that royalty had one set of aluminum fork, knife and spoon for the honored guest, and the others had to use gold.

Were books your company?  When weren’t they?  When have you felt lonely, away from your book, and worse when you had to stop and realized how one-sided your relationship had been with the book.  Hadn’t it been?  When did you know the complete hollowness of not having any book you wanted badly to reenter?  Did the books you read pay any attention to you?  Did they respond at all?  Did they light up?

Jefferson sold his library to Congress.  He thought they could use them, sure, but also he needed the money.

The last day of school, I ended up sitting and chatting a long time with a student.  He told me he wished his dad would teach him how to pray.  I told him if he didn’t end up a neurologist, he could still work in medicine.  He might change his mind, and that would be okay.  I told him to read Atul Gawande.  Do you know anyone who’s gone to medical school? No.  I told him to go to the Natural History Museum, he had never been there, I told him it was free, really, just give them a dollar, they let you in.  Go see the dinosaurs.  Maybe I will, today, Ms Schurman, maybe I will.

Distance

When I was zipping through a practice exam to use with my students, I slowed way down to read Ralph Ellison.  I don’t really know anything about him.  I’ve never read Invisible Man.  Strange as it seemed, I was enjoying reading a passage on a test.  I immediately went back and ordered it from Amazon, which is, strictly speaking, not permitted in my budget.

This morning there was a tow truck in my driveway.  My neighbor had pulled his moving truck up on the lawn, and it was stuck.  I wandered over, both to ask the driver to move the truck, and to see the spectacle, and to comfort my neighbor.  He had offered to introduce me to his cousin, who was helping him move.  His cousin is near my age, and apparently rich as King Midas.  When I approached my neighbor, his cousin was standing a ways off, shirtless and angrily smoking a cigar in the spring sunlight.  His chest hair was the same color as the cigar.  “We’re a little frustrated at this point,” my neighbor said.

The Ellison book arrived.  Along with the New Yorker and Smithsonian.  They were all waiting in my black mailbox, despondent.  I had forgotten about them.  The first piece in the book is the one I had already read from.  It’s about living with the noise of other artists.  Ellison is trying to write, and a singer lives above him, and drunks sing around him in the alleys, and he’s trying to fucking think straight.  He buys a record player and blasts arias and spirituals at top volume, in a war with his neighbor.

One of my uncles is an audiophile, collects turntables and exquisitely designed Japanese needles that will transmit sound with the delicate touch of one rabbit hair.  He has often been stopped at a Japanese airport to have a needle inspected more closely.  I would think it a weapon, myself.  They come in odd-looking little clear plastic boxes.  Once he sat me in the “sweet spot” in his listening room and played us a piece with a pizzacato bass.  I closed my eyes, and I would have sworn I could taste the rosin that sticks to every stringed instrument after being in clouds of it rubbed lovingly on bows.  I could feel the glossiness of the thin wood of a stringed instrument, and the lightness of its body, which is so scary, like holding an infant.

How do things touch each other?  Physically, proximity, neighbors.  Physically, as a copy of Living With Music by Ralph Ellison is plopped in my mailbox, from Spokane, Washington, inscribed with the black ink notes of a stranger: “One moment inspires many that’s great like Herb Hancock quote about conversation.”  Sometimes remotely, like a bass far from me in time and space, living in my ears anyway, in the top floor of a house on the outskirts of San Antonio, Texas.  And sometimes across years and genders and races from Ellison to me: “Those who know their native culture and love it unchauvinistically are never lost when encountering the unfamiliar.”

Fetishes: Annotated Bibliography

“The French have a horror of the smell of cooking food, whereas Americans find it appetizing; in the nineteenth century the first French Rothschild went so far in this aversion as to have the food brought from the kitchen to the dining room on an odourless, because underground, train.” –Edmund White, The Flaneur

(I couldn’t figure out how to put a circonflexe on that Flaneur.  But I do know what a circonflexe is, if that makes it better.)  Seriously, the smell of cooking food?  What is the difference between the smell of cooking food and cooked food?  There are subtleties that, as a corn-fed American, I’ll just never understand.  This makes me feel much less bad about refusing to use powdered creamer, or “creamer” that isn’t, in the main, something from a cow’s tits.  It’s the only time I feel my European ancestry.  We drink cow milk.  We have for centuries.  And wait, “odourless, because underground”?  It seems like a great book anyway.  I just started it.

“The ruling gentry in Thomas Paine’s hometown had their own octagonal temple, and Thomas Jefferson had built an octagonal house for his daughter.  Jefferson was so delighted with the result that he also built her a pair of octagonal outhouses to accompany it.  But Fowler brought a new and nearly religious fervor to octagons.  They allowed more windows and thus were lighter, healthier structures, he insisted– and his readers all knew how essential good health was to the moral improvement of the world.”  –Paul Collins, The Trouble With Tom

Number one, I think octagons are ugly.  There was a house either hexagonal or octagonal around the corner from where I grew up.  It was a glorious shot of scotch in a very warm-milk area.  Still ugly, though.  I imagine that back when it was so much harder to get straight lines, before computers and machines, straight lines were super sexy.  In my time and place, I have sought out sagging lines in every building I have lived in.  Sagging is the thing now.  Good health leads to moral improvement?  Oh, silly Americans.  Lucky for the sick and the cheerfully degenerate, that just doesn’t follow.  Finally, if you get a chance, you’re going to want to say “octagonal outhouses.”  I’m going to try to work that into conversation tomorrow.  That’s the kind of phrase that makes people stop and think, both in its meaning and its poetry.

Things Other People Said: Long Ago or Far Away

“‘Don’t go, Peter,’ [Wendy] entreated, ‘I know lots of stories.’  Those were her precise words, so there can be no denying that it was she who first tempted him.” — Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie

They have everything in Neverland: hideouts, pirates, mermaids, caves, treehouses, wild animals, natives.  Everything except stories.  Neverland is only in the present.  Stories are all in the past.  Wendy is going to travel to Neverland to be maternal, which includes storykeeping.  Although all the wild characters in Neverland care nothing about the future, they still appreciate a bedtime story.  It’s the only thing they don’t have.  Wendy’s flirtiness here is a cute sideline.  I want to go/no I can’t possibly/well, all right.  No means maybe.  And exotic, in Neverland, means connected and clear.

“And the youngest daughter, Felicia, wrote a novel called Carpathia, about a headstrong, high-born young woman in the Mohiga Valley who fell in love with a half-Indian lock-tender on that same canal.” — Hocus Pocus, Kurt Vonnegut

This is a long, curly sentence for Vonnegut.  He often doesn’t want to give us so many petals on the flower, but right here he couldn’t help it.  It’s a sentence I remember from the first time I read it…in 1994.  It has little to do with the plot, as I recall– it just makes everything classier, with its cold music. Like high heels.  Vonnegut is so plain that he’s classy.  Quite a feat.  No pun intended.

“And to the question asked by Ecclesiastes 3000 years ago, ‘That which is far off and exceeding deep, who can find it out?’ two men alone of all now living have the right to give an answer– CAPTAIN NEMO AND MYSELF.” — 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne

You would think Jules Verne was writing the goddamn Bible, not merely alluding to it.  Writers of unrespected genres, and writers of early novels (this is 1869) weren’t afraid to set off the fireworks.  Verne was writing about going to the moon, and to the center of the earth, and down in a nuclear submarine, so he’s gotta be comfortable with flash and drama.  Still, seriously, this is the cannon shot in the 1812 overture.  “Two men alone of all now living.”  I couldn’t find who translated my Wordsworth classic edition, or the original sentence in French, but I would guess it sounds more ass-kicking in English.  “Myself” instead of “moi” or “me.”  There are other translation issues with this novel, because of Nemo’s sorta pacificistic politics.  Like a lot of science fiction, Verne’s work is burning with political messages.

“Best, therefore, withhold any amazement at the strangely gallied whales before us, for there is no folly of the beasts of the earth which is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men.” —Moby Dick, Herman Melville

Melville loves alliteration, inside and outside words, and I love that, too, so much I have to rein it in with revisions.  (Although not here, see?)  English prose likes to go rah-rah-ruh and la-luh-vull.  Play in and out with consonants.  I’ve never been a fan of rhyme, outside of lyrics for hymns and songs.  Emily Dickinson’s rhymes are as as far as I can go.  Too rhymey gets too yellow and Kool-Aid.  The g’s in “strangely gallied.”  (“Gallied” means worried or frightened.  While the mouthfeel of Melville’s words is great, needing to use a dictionary while you’re reading a book is annoying.  Maybe that’s the only word you know to express that idea, but if it’s not in my vocabulary, as a regular reader of literature, it interrupts and distracts.)  The relationship between the t’s in “beasts,” “earth,” and “not,” all close together, and all slightly different, but still tapping to the t’s, a bit.