Seemingly casually tossed into the trash bin behind my house, lies my first and only copy of Dune. Seemingly indeed, as it took a final unfortunate dip in the bath that resulted in it's tossing. I have had that book since grade 11. That book has been with me to Japan and back, across country to Toronto, moved from Ikea shelving unit to shelving unit to where it finally sat in my home shared with my family until the unfortunate bath incident of 2013.
A house, at least my house is not a home until the books are at rest. Forget the china, the coffee machine, the linen, my home does not coalesce until the bookshelf has been assembled and the books are categorized and duly shelved. I really should have pursued the library sciences during my undergrad years because my talents for categorization is beyond the average level of normalcy. Bi-annually I can be found on my third floor knee deep in a book mess, carefully and thoughtfully pulling books out from the layers of stacks, found behind stacks to re-organize and exhibit. As I sit in our den, I can see all those books, all those dear stories that bring me so much joy, happily arranged. With only one area to put the books, I have become quite adept at arranging them. While some dream of walk in closets and marble columns, I sigh over a home library complete with deep leather chairs and a roaring fire to keep my footsies warm during cold grey Novembers.
I come from a line of bookworms. Mom's house is marked by the Ghostbuster level of stacked library books found on her dining room table. Every place we moved, my Mom was quick to find and procure library cards quicker than she had my brother and I enrolled in school. I have yet to meet anyone tear through a book like that women can and for most of my life I thought every household read like we did and every Mom could be found buried nose deep in a mystery novel while still managing to make home-made cookies all while running a ceramic class from her kitchen. Readers beget readers, who beget readers who one day may be writers. (You never know, personally I am hoping Dune Son, becomes a vulcanologist or better an egyptologist but writer is cool.)
With Dune in the garbage and Heretics of Dune in tatters (The Unfortunate Incident of Why you Should Never Lend a Book to Your Husband of 2007) I am feeling sentimentally off-kilter. Dune hubby mentioned he would buy me the Dune series for Christmas after he found the remains of dearly departed in the trash as he was hauling it out to the curve. While a nice gesture, it was way too much for me to handle. What print would he buy, does he know what cover art I approve? To make it less awkward I kindly refused, telling him that "WHAT COVER WOULD YOU BUY? in a rather high-pitched intense voice, and then walked over to our sofa, lied down in a lump and took a nap.
Funny how a good movie can bring up a whole lot of weird. Thanks Ghostbusters! (I know, best movie ever right! Next to The Mummy which is highly entertaining and should really have won some type of Oscar as every time it is on TV I have to watch it. I have to, I can't not watch it.) Yes, this rather dangling, reminiscent post is about Ghostbusters. If you were to look up unrelated and what? in the dictionary you would see a reference to this post.
A house, at least my house is not a home until the books are at rest. Forget the china, the coffee machine, the linen, my home does not coalesce until the bookshelf has been assembled and the books are categorized and duly shelved. I really should have pursued the library sciences during my undergrad years because my talents for categorization is beyond the average level of normalcy. Bi-annually I can be found on my third floor knee deep in a book mess, carefully and thoughtfully pulling books out from the layers of stacks, found behind stacks to re-organize and exhibit. As I sit in our den, I can see all those books, all those dear stories that bring me so much joy, happily arranged. With only one area to put the books, I have become quite adept at arranging them. While some dream of walk in closets and marble columns, I sigh over a home library complete with deep leather chairs and a roaring fire to keep my footsies warm during cold grey Novembers.
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| No human would stack books like that |
With Dune in the garbage and Heretics of Dune in tatters (The Unfortunate Incident of Why you Should Never Lend a Book to Your Husband of 2007) I am feeling sentimentally off-kilter. Dune hubby mentioned he would buy me the Dune series for Christmas after he found the remains of dearly departed in the trash as he was hauling it out to the curve. While a nice gesture, it was way too much for me to handle. What print would he buy, does he know what cover art I approve? To make it less awkward I kindly refused, telling him that "WHAT COVER WOULD YOU BUY? in a rather high-pitched intense voice, and then walked over to our sofa, lied down in a lump and took a nap.
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| Take that Bembridge Scholars! |
How sad! I can so relate to the cover dilemma though. My wife despairs of getting me books, even ones I clearly point out to her, as she is afraid a ding here or there will cause me to agonize and wish I had bought it myself. Such is the plight of book lovers.
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