Bibliomania, part I

{Since I'm still stuck in essay writing mode I haven't been able to write anything creative this week, so I just posted the beginning of something I wrote last year. I like Mike's idea for next week, thus: OH YES! YES! OH MY GOD YES! YES! MORE! YES! DON'T STOP BELIEVING!}

The Old Man had sat quite motionless, reading, for nearly three hours. The only thing that had broken the silence during those three hours was the crisp sound of a page being turned every few minutes. Seated comfortably, as always, in his worn leather chair, book in hand, he had barely noticed as the sunlight entering from the windows dimmed so much he was forced to squint in order to decipher the words he was reading. Finally closing the book and laying it on the armrest of his chair, he took off his glasses with one hand and rubbed between his forefinger and thumb the pressured area between both eyes were all his mental force seemed to be concentrated. His eyes tingled back into focus and scanned the room slowly. As usual, what caught his gaze were the books, and as usual he felt a surge of warm comfort as he studied them. Books were everywhere in the room: most stood on rows of wooden shelves that covered all four walls of the room from floor to ceiling, but they were also piled on the floor, strewn on wooden chairs and tables, falling over one another everywhere he looked in a haphazard equilibrium of paper, leather, and wood. Any other person would have found the room chaotic, filthy, stuffed. But not the Old Man. this was his universe, and within the confusion of the thousands of books that seemed to cover every available inch of space in the room, there was a certain order which only he could understand. The Old Man knew at all times where every single book was in the room.

Having gazed long enough at the books, the Old Man concentrated on his other senses. First came touch; and by touch the first thing he felt was the soft leather of his reading chair under his hands. Next he felt warmth, emanating from under him, the spot on which he had been sitting, immobile, for three hours. Finally the dusty, air around him; he could feel it, soft and warm against his worn cheeks. The Old Man then turned his attention to what he smelt, and as usual it was this sense that brought the most pleasure, as if by smelling his world he could feel its reality and understand the composition of his comfort. In a dream, he thought, I see and I touch, but what I see and touch is not real. I cannot smell my dreams, thereby by smelling I can confirm the reality of my environment. The smell that came to him in his room was strong and musky, recalling that of mould. It came from all of these books, which crammed together in such a tight place had created an atmosphere of their own and exhaled this strong odour throughout the Old Man’s home. When the Old Man had absorbed his universe and the limitless beauty and comfort it encompassed for him he finally stood up slowly from his chair. He left the books he had been reading on the chair for he had not finished it, and made his way to a shelf that stood at shoulder height by the door leading out of the room. There, amid the mass of printed works, stood a dozen thick binders, bound in black leather worn by years of use. He took out the seventh binder and opened it towards the end, leafing through the paper until he found the appropriate page, on which appeared the bibliographical information of the book he had been reading and a blank space below where some notes had already been scribbled in black ink in the Old Man’s small, messy handwriting. He took out his pen from the breast pocket of his shirt and returned to his chair to scribble down a few more lines of notes on the page. In this manner, every page of every one of the black binders corresponded to one of the books he owned. Whenever he acquired a new book, he would take out his typewriter and on a fresh sheet of paper the Old Man would type the title of the book, followed by the author and the place, company, and year of publication. He would also add the date on which he acquired the book. Leaving the rest of the page blank, he would then add the page at its appropriate place in the appropriate binder, which served in fact as a miniature version of his universe of books. Like the books in the room, the pages in the binder were not organized in a way that could be understood by anyone other than the Old Man. They were not set by alphabetical order of author, or title, subject, or even date of acquisition, but there was certainly a form of organization because invariably the Old Man would know were to place a new sheet of paper, or how to find an old one, just as he knew exactly where to place a new book, or find an old one, in his room.