It’s Furious Balancing

I have determined that it is, indeed, possible to get a hangover from overindulging in books.

The Husband and I came home from our Saturday shopping to find an amazon.com box on our doorstep with Books Six and Seven of the Harry Potter series, and I vanished for the rest of the weekend, finishing Book Seven around 12:30 a.m. on Sunday night. I’m estimating 1,500 pages in less than two days.

I think I hurt myself.

I’m in the process of re-reading Book Five at the moment, and I will then go through Books Six and Seven again. Since I flew through them at the speed of sound, I’m certain I missed many details. Plot, for instance.

A few (spoiler-free) observations:

• The Harry Potter fans — the ones I know both on the Internet and in Real Life — have been fabulous. Several people commented how they wished they could be reading the books again for the first time since they remembered how exciting it all was. They never talked about spoilers, and if they were posting online, they gave ample warning they were about to do so, like STOP READING NOW. Part of their fun in sharing the story with me was watching as the plot revealed itself and I put the pieces together or speculated on the fates of certain characters. I know I amused one of my co-workers no end with my hypotheses on Dumbledore and Snape.
  
• My favorite Hogwart’s student was Neville Longbottom. Even though I hate to say this (because it’s such a trite expression), he definitely “grew” the most during the course of the seven books. In terms of my least favorite, I would have to say Pansy Parkinson in Slytherin House, mainly because she seemed more like a cardboard cutout than a real character to me. I mean, we were offered little glimpses of the personality or family life of other minor characters (Lee Jordan, Seamus, Dean), but we only saw Pansy laughing maliciously at other students.
  
• I haven’t quite figured out Snape yet. I knew by Book Four that there was more to him than meets the eye, and I was surprised by the revelations in Book Seven about him as a young boy, but there are still missing pieces. I’m sure those missing pieces are all in the text; that’s just what happens when I read so quickly. I’m thinking he would qualify as my favorite Hogwart’s professor. McGonagall and Hagrid were cool in their own way, but Snape had a certain je ne sais qua.
  

• Ravenclaw needed a better representative than Luna Lovegood. It’s not that Luna was a bad example; I just don’t recall seeing a Ravenclaw student that exemplified their House’s emphasis on intellect. I was always sorted into Ravenclaw in the umpteen online quizes/memes I took.

The sorting hat says that I belong in Ravenclaw!



Said Ravenclaw, “We’ll teach those whose intelligence is surest.”

Ravenclaw students tend to be clever, witty, intelligent, and knowledgeable.
Notable residents include Cho Chang and Padma Patil (objects of Harry and Ron’s affections), and Luna Lovegood (daughter of The Quibbler magazine’s editor).

Take the most scientific Harry Potter
Quiz ever created.

 

Hogwarts Sorting Hat: Based on Myers-Briggs Personality Typing

 

You are a RAVENCLAW!As a Ravenclaw and as an NTP, you are intellectual, independent, and value excellence in yourself and in those around you. You have a strong sense of curiosity, and in general can see many aspects of a single issue or debate. You have a strong drive to acquire knowledge and set very high standards for yourself and those around you. You enjoy being challenged, and can accept constructive criticism without taking it personally. You are probably at least somewhat unconventional, and will not usually follow authority for its own sake; instead, you will consider the issue at hand and make a decision for yourself.
Take this quiz!

Quizilla |
Join

In any event, it’s almost Caturday here, so that means you lucky folks get a Friday LOLCat. I’ve had this one for quite a while, but never had a reason to post it. It’s one of my all-time favorites.

Have a splendiferous Friday, cats and kittens.

I will admit, despite my earlier reservations and protestations to the contrary, that I am enjoying the Harry Potter series. “Enjoying” may be too tepid of an adjective here. Since I began the first book a few weeks ago, I will confess to:

• Pre-ordering the collectors’ edition complete boxed set of hardcovers from amazon.com (for delivery in October).
• Borrowing Book Two since I couldn’t wait until October to continue reading the series.
• Ordering copies of Books Three and Four since I couldn’t wait until October to continue reading the series.
• Re-reading Books One and Two since I flew through them on my first pass.
• After finishing Book 3, realizing that I did not, in fact, have Book Four in my possession (but that I did have Book 5, oddly enough), and then ordering Book Four for overnight delivery to my office since I couldn’t wait until October to continue reading the series.
• Staying up to all hours of the morning to finish reading the books I did have in my possession. I think I was up until 2:30 a.m. reading Book 3, and on a School Night, too! I was only up until 1:00 a.m. last night polishing off Book 5. There was no way on God’s Green Earth that I was going to go to sleep without reading the denouement after the wizard battle between Dumbledore and You-Know-Who. Nope. Nosirree.
• Cancelling the order from amazon.com for the complete set since I figured out I would have copies of all the books (and a duplicate or two) long before the set was shipped to me, then ordering copies of books Two, Six, and Seven, and no, I don’t want the shipment delayed by Super Saver Shipping, thankyouverymuch.

Needless to say, I think I’ve blown my book budget for August and September.

One of my co-workers, somewhere near the start of all this, asked me when it was that I knew I had changed my mind about reading Harry Potter. It was right around this passage, from the first book, somewhere around page 22:

Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of cabbage and Mrs. Figg made him look at photographs of all the cats she’d ever owned….

Harry knew that he ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn’t easy when he reminded himself it would be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws and Tufty again.

I think it was then that I noticed and began to appreciate the wry sense of humor in these books.

Despite my bachelor’s degree in English, I find it difficult to describe why it is that I prefer some writers, and why it is that I dismiss some books and laud others. It all comes down to how well I am drawn into the story. If a book makes it possible for me to sit on my living room couch, with cat and fleece throw and bottle of soda water, and read for hours without noticing the world around me, then I consider it a good book. Similarly, if I can go to a movie and forget I’m at the movie theater (and that the popcorn is too salty and that I need to pee and why oh why did I order a large frozen Coke when I knew I was going to sitting for two hours…), then I consider it a good movie. Wholly subjective, to be sure, but I’m sticking with it.

 

I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library. — Jose Luis Borges

Well, in my Paradise, it wouldn’t exactly be a library because I would want to eat gooey caramel-filled chocolates and take bubble baths while I read. Real libraries frown on that sort of reckless behavior.

“Libraries” make you keep their books at arm’s length, and I’ve always been of the opinion that you should love your books hard. Live with them. Write in them. Get chocolate on them when you lose yourself in the words and have a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup melt in your page-turning hand. I’ve dropped a few of my books in the bathtub, and a great deal have some humidity damage. People with pristine books make me suspicious: Have you actually read your books? How can one tell?

I am careful with books I borrow from other people, certainly, but those times are few and far between. I confess to having no self control in book stores and, frankly, I don’t want to.

I recall reading in one of those “declutter your house” books an author theorized that books represent knowledge and people are reluctant to part with them because owning books means you own the knowledge in the book. He also says, and I quote, “If they don’t fit on your shelves, they shouldn’t be in your home.”

Well, I don’t believe small children should be in a home until they’re toilet trained and can dress themselves, so I’ll let him slide by with that specious comment.

Let it not be said that I am not amenable to changing my opinions — specifically my opinion concerning the Harry Potter Phenomenon. Considering that I am a devoted follower of H.P. Lovecraft, who is frequently described as a minor hack writer, I should not be casting any stones in regards to what I deem “literature” and what I deem “tripe.”

LOLCat courtesy of ICanHasCheezburger.com

At lunch today, I learned that the Exceedingly Intelligent Wife of an Exceedingly Intelligent Local Attorney in her eagerness to read the final Harry Potter book actually shut herself in their bathroom. I admire that in a Reader. It reminds me of My Younger Self on several levels. A few encouraging bits in the media about Rowling’s deft tying up of loose ends in the series also piqued my interest.

So I ordered Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone from amazon.com. I got the mass-market paperback edition, with the rationale that I wouldn’t be spending too much money (and since I wasn’t spending too much money I could therefore justify the purchase of something a smidge more erudite — the annotated version of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land — and something “just for fun” — Stephanie Pearl-McPhee’s Knitting Rules!).

I’m also looking for Something Else to Read because I’ve reached that part in The Fugitive when I want to slap Marcel into the middle of next week. “Albertine left you, eh? Perhaps it’s really not due to her lesbian proclivities and wild, abandoned desires but actually may have something to do with the fact that you’re an overprotective, overly jealous, clueless git?”

So, while I have this sinking feeling that I may be sucked into Pott-headness in much the same way people talk about being drawn into a stumbled-upon, coincidental televangelist broadcast and “finding Jesus,” I’m giving myself a few pats on the head about my trying to remain open-minded.

This whole enterprise may be a dismal failure. Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone may suffer a fate similar to The Blithedale Romance, or, Heaven forfend, I might actually enjoy reading it.

I am one of the few people who will not spend today ensorceled by the latest installment in the Life of the Boy Wonder Wizard. I haven’t read a single word of any of the Harry Potter books and there is no doubt in my mind that I will go to my grave a fulfilled and well-read woman nonetheless.

It is a closely-held belief of mine that any work — literary, cinematic or otherwise — that can so dominate popular culture for so long must, inherently, be low brow and aiming for the lowest common denominator. However, since I haven’t read any of these books, I am in no position to say whether this holds true (or not) for Rowlings, Potter, et al.

I didn’t say I was right; I’m just saying it’s one of my beliefs. I realize I may be putting to fine a point on this distinction and am uncertain if any of the Pott-heads would be able to discern it, but I digress.

If this series can withstand the test of time (i.e., it is still in print in 25, 30, or 40 years) I may pick it up and peruse it. I still reserve the right to throw it across the room.

To my recollection, I’ve only thrown one book, the Norton Critical Edition of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Blithedale Romance. This was during sophomore year’s American Lit class and, if memory serves me, I picked it up and repeatedly slammed it against a wall in our dorm to the point pages fluttered from its limp carcass. I still can’t remember what set me off.

[That's Rolling On the Floor Laughing - not Rolfing as in massage therapy or rolfing as in an onomatopoetic way of saying vomiting.]

After my post yesterday, I decided to spend some time on the ‘Net searching for more literary LOLCats. Now, it’s my understanding that the LOLCat phenomena encompasses not only the visual pastiche of “cat picture and silly misspelled caption,” but also the language alone which, to me, is heavily influenced by l33tspeak. The popular Cats Can Has Grammar post by Anil Dash discusses kitty pidgin in more detail.

As far as Internet surfing is concerned, I have the attention span of a dog. “Oooooo, this looks inneresting.” Click. “Oh, a link to something else inneresting.” Click. “How cool.” Click. “What’s this?” Click. “Look! A shiny!” Click. Click. Click, click, clickclickclickclick.

In any event, I type “lolcat literary” and stumble upon a blog post with 550+ comments, some of which are downright hysterical. At least, they’re downright hysterical to me, the Phi Beta Kappa English Major Who is Still Twelve Years Old on the Inside.

If you have time — and are so inclined — read through the comments. If you don’t have time, I’m going to post a few of the ones I like best. Oh, let’s make this a game! Name the Literary Allusion! Answers in the footnotes — no cheating! I think these are easy peasy anyway.

* * * * *

I can has peach?
O HAI MERMAIDZ! kbai

* * * * *

t3l3m4x0s: invisible daddy
su1t0rz: IN UR HALL, EATIN UR CHEEZBURGERS
0dyss3us: i can has ithaka?
p0s31dwn: NO WAI

* * * * *

OH NOES !! I IS SUDDENLY TRANSFORMD INTO MONSTRUS INSECT !!

[ "Hey, guys, you won't believe the size of the bug I just squished in Gregor's room." ]

* * * * *

IZ IN UR HORS
TAKIN UR BASE

* * * * *

oh noes! dark!
im in ur old age, cussin
DO NOT WANT!

* * * * *

A few overlap the LOLCat speak with syntax from old text-based MUD’s.

> IM IN UR MEADHALL EATIN UR GUYZ
> wh@ h4pn!!
> 5umbdy set up utz t3h 6renz0r!!
> hai I r hiro can I has arm?
> OH NOES
> oh hai mom
> 4lL UR C4RLZ 4R3 83l0N9 T0 u2.
> i move zig make ur time.
> PWND

* * * * *

>UR IN HEL NOW
>U SEEZ A LAKE OF BURNIN FIRE
>U HAZ NO HOPE

N

>BEATRIZ IZ NOT THIS WAI

E

>BEATRIZ IZ NOT THIS WAI

S

>O NOES U IS EATIN BY A GRUE
>KTHX BAI

* * * * *

That’s all for today, cats and kittens. All this LOLCat speak has worn me out. I think I need ice cream.

One of my favorite things about blogging is discovering how total strangers get directed to It’s Furious Balancing. It’s one thing to tell my co-workers and friends, “Oh, go check out the picture I posted of Thomas/my latest knitting project/a gaming screenshot,” or hand them one of my Moo Cards with my URL on it, and another thing entirely to have unexpected (and certainly not unwelcome) guests.

I check the “referrals” section on sitemeter just about every day. A lot of people get here via Google searches on “denamarin,” or “Vanguard continental faction quest,” or “cable knitting.” Pretty standard stuff. Today, however, I discover that someone found me by a Google search on “lolcat proust.”

My curiosity was piqued, to say the least. Do people make LOLCats that allude to Proust?

A mouse click or two later, I find this:

The link to the photographer’s page is here.

I know I mentioned before in this blog that I have nothing against red roses. Red roses are fine. Red roses are okay. Red roses are boring as all-get-out and take no imagination and no effort to procure. If a hapless swain were to present me with red roses, I would accept them graciously, like the first runner-up in the Miss America Pageant.

I found these beauties at the Busch’s in Dexter, Michigan. Since I’m in the middle of a thumping sinus headache as yet untouched by caffeine and extra-strength Vicodin, this is about all I can manage for a blog post today.

Well, that, and a quote from the book by which I’m currently ensorceled, Special Topics in Calamity Physics, by Marisha Pessl. Some of the reviews I saw on amazon.com were not kind. There was one customer review entitled “Lots of Words” which concluded that the reviewer would recover by reading Hemingway. I have little, if anything, kind to say about Hemingway. Ah, well. To each his – or her – own.

Since I love lolling about in words and language like some people enjoy lolling about in silk sheets, I’m enjoying this book tremendously. Allusions and obscure references abound. My favorite!

In any event, the first quotable bit I found was some advice from the professorial father to his daughter on organizing (documenting) one’s life:

Always have everything you say exquisitely annotated, and, where possible, provide staggering Visual Aids, because, trust me, there will always be some clown sitting in the back — somewhere by the radiator — who will raise his fat, flipperlike hand and complain, “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong.”

I found that apropos, but perhaps every blogger would find it apropos.

In any event, my headache has receded to a dull roar behind my right eye (frontal sinus), so I will present you with another Visual Aid and then run off to the world of Telon to work on my diplomacy and tradeskill levels. Game on.

I’ve been meaning to come over here and do my continuation post on the madeleines, but I’ve just not gotten around to it. All my pictures are on my hard drive at home, and I’m not at home at the moment.

Anyway. Memories. I read somewhere — I am always reading little tidbits of information and never remembering the source — that taste and/or smell is the sense most likely to evoke the strongest, most vivid recollections. Hence, Proust and his madeleines; the crumbs and the lime blossom tisane call forth the house in Combray where his family spent the Easter holidays, where the young Marcel could not sleep without his mother’s goodnight kiss.

My own experience with sense and memory is much more prosaic.

It was “smell” and not “taste” that made me (literally) stop in my tracks as I was walking in Ann Arbor one summer day. It was ungodly hot, the humidity was hovering around 137%, and I was walking home to my (non-air-conditioned) apartment after work. As I came out our back door, I was nearly knocked sideways by the strong breeze blowing through the alley behind the building. This is the alley we share with a few other downtown businesses, most notably a cafe. The garbage cans in the alley had been simmering all day, so this breeze was thick enough to stir with a spoon, let me tell you. There were some lingering fumes from a recent delivery truck.

Heat. The sharp smell of rotting food and diesel fuel.

I was brought up short. This was the scent of…

(pause for dramatic effect) …

Nairobi.

I spent six months studying abroad my junior year at the University of Nairobi (literature, religion and sociology, primarily). This was back in the day when Nairobi was fairly stable. No riots and exploding embassies and such.

Kenya is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful places on earth, and here my most vivid memories of it were elicited by the smell of garbage.

I told you this was prosaic.

Speaking of prosaic, I’ve discovered that I can blame Mickey Mouse (in addition to Sonny Bono) with my inability to get the last two volumes of the new Viking/Penguin Proust translations in the United States until 2018. In order to prevent such a classic film as “Steamboat Willie” entering the Public Domain — quelle horreur! — Mr. Bono authored the Copyright Term Extension Act of 1998. You can read more about this travesty here and here.

Mr. Bono’s smacking headlong into a tree seems like justice to me. Unfortunately, the Mickey Mouse Protection Act became law 10 months later, Sonny or no Sonny, and Steamboat Willie can rest easy (rest easily, whatever).

I, on the other hand, need to fork out nearly 14 British pounds sterling (I wish I could insert the funky symbol for such) for Time Regained.

It’s not even the hardcover.

I spent this morning cataloging my books — the fiction anyway — which is quite a daunting task considering the size of my fiction collection. I’m about 25% done: 2 out of 8 bookcases. After the fiction is entered in the database, then I need to tackle the books upstairs, the fantasy books in the study, and (whenever I get another bookcase or more shelf space [ha!]), the human sexuality and erotica currently hiding in boxes.

I don’t know if this level of smug satisfaction I’m feeling is from the size of my library, my twisted enjoyment with data entry, my joy in the written word, a smattering of nostalgia as I handle each individual book (1) , or a combination of all of those plus some other factors I haven’t quite verbalized yet. When I look at my books, or stand near the shelves, I feel grounded and secure. My books are my refuge. All I know is that my affection and need is difficult to explain to people who aren’t bibliophiles.

There have been a few instances in the past several days when I’ve overheard conversations, or been in conversations, with People Who Don’t Understand Books. One person used the word “purging” to talk about ridding their house of the excess books, like one would drown a litter of puppies or call an exterminator about carpenter ants.

I would sooner cut off my right arm.

I am certainly capable of throwing out a book, or putting it in a box for a future garage sale, but those are definite exceptions. They are either damaged (and I have another copy), or from a part of my life that no longer exists (2) . But throw out my LITERATURE!? Are you people crazy?!!

* * * * * * * *
(1) Especially the books from the college years. “Oh, Faulkner! I loved The Sound and the Fury from my first lit class with Dr. Griffin! And look at this, my Norton of James’ The Turn of the Screw! and Wuthering Heights! Oh, I need to re-read all of these…”

(2) I’ve got a bunch of touchy-feely New Age books boxed up for a Future Garage Sale. I feel that they’re no longer very relevant to me, so out they go.

So, reading Crazy Aunt Purl’s post about books, and children’s books, and thinking about how many of us who commented had strong emotional bonds to our books (whether in our childhood or now), sorta/kinda led me to this very long and strange digression.

My childhood book was Johnny Go Round. Gramma Fran would read it to my twin brother and me several times a day. I think we liked it because (1) it had a cat in it, and (2) there was a brother/sister pair that looked like they were twins, too. I never know what happened to our original copy. Mom mentioned several years ago that she couldn’t locate it, even though she thought she had saved it somewhere. So, Johnny Go Round vanished.

A few years back, I was talking to one of my co-workers about childhood books, and mentioned Johnny. She had asked if I had ever searched for it online. I had, but my searches weren’t fruitful. A few minutes after I returned to my desk, she had sent me an email with a link to a used book seller in Pennsylvania, saying “Is this it?” It was. I called the bookseller immediately and had it sent to me at the office. When I opened up the package and saw that oh-so-familiar cover, I just wept.

And now on to the digressions. Going back to read further comments on her blog post, I discovered a few Lovecraft related ones, and sent an email to one of the commenters about the H.P. Lovecraft Fan Club and the walking tour of Providence they do on his birthday, which ends in a reading at his grave site (click here, too). I have wanted to do this for years (and I didn’t even know there was such a club or an event). I must go. I see myself in the Providence graveyard, reading The Cats of Ulthar and getting choked up.(1)

Thinking of Lovecraft led to thinking of Lord Dunsany, and thinking that I needed to find that quote about throwing things of value out of a burning house. Reading the last paragraph of the quote led to thinking I should type up the entire thing; so here it is:

Preface to the Last Book of WonderEbrington Barracks
August 16, 1916

I do not know where I may be when this preface is read. As I write it in August 1916, I am at Ebrington Barracks, Londonderry, recovering from a slight wound. But it does not greatly matter where I am; my dreams are here amongst the following pages; and writing in a day when life is cheap, dreams seem to me all the dearer, the only things that survive.

Just now the civilization of Europe seems almost to have ceased, and nothing seems to grow in her torn fields but death, yet this is only for a while and dreams will come back again and bloom as of old, all the more radiantly for this terrible ploughing, as the flowers will bloom again where the trenches are and the primroses shelter in shell-holes for many seasons, when weeping Liberty has come home to Flanders.(3)

To some of you in America this may seem an unnecessary and wasteful quarrel, as other people’s quarrels often are; but it comes to this that though we are all killed there will be songs again, but if we were to submit and so survive there could be neither songs nor dreams, nor any joyous free things any more.

And do not regret the lives that are wasted among us, or the work that the dead would have done, for war is no accident that man’s care could have averted, but it is as natural, though not as regular, as the tides; as well regret the things that the tide has washed away, which destroys and cleanses and crumbles, and sparest the minutest shells.

And now I will write nothing further about our war, but offer you these books of dreams from Europe as one throws things of value, if only to oneself, at the last moment out of a burning house.

Which leads to a digression on the “necessity” of war which Dunsany seems to imply.

This current war in the Middle East is far from necessary. American soldiers are dying for no good reason whatsoever. George Bush is a lying sack of excrement and a murderer. But I can’t follow this digression, since it makes me far too angry. Far too angry.

* * * * *

(1) Why this emotional outpouring? It happens to me all too often; I cry at the drop of a hat it seems. A recent case in point – watching the Lord of the Rings movies. I cry when the beacons of Gondor are lit. I cry when the Rohirrim arrive at Minas Tirith (2)(4). There is something that resonates with me – a courage I can not even hope to achieve myself, though I wish it.

(2) Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,
a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!
Ride now, ride now, ride to Gondor!

Yeah, I’ve got The Return of the King at my desk as I type this. Forth Eorlingas!

(3) When I looked up the entire text of the poem, “In Flanders Fields,” I was sorely disappointed by the last stanza. When I first heard the first stanza recited, in some movie, as an anti-war sentiment, it was moving; but if you read the entire poem, it’s a rationalization for further bloodshed.

(4) Even my footnotes have footnotes. Woot!

When you find yourself looking at your books on death and dying, and:

decide that it’s time to divide them into three categories (general, forensics [anthropological and psychological], and those relating to prisons and the death penalty);

realize that forensics should be divided further between physical forensics and psychological forensics — e.g. rates of decomposition vs. profiling unsubs — and should you shelf them that way?

realize that “general” includes everything from societal attitudes towards dying to end-of-life care to early 19th century resurrectionists;

and further realize that you should include Lynch’s book Bodies at Motion and at Rest: Essays;

and that you knew who Lynch is;

and that you didn’t have enough room on one shelf for all the death books;

and that the graphic/comic The Big Book of Death was one selected to be shelved flat on top of the others, together with The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers;

It gives one pause. I paused for five full minutes staring blankly at the bookshelf.

I’ve decided that there’s no way I can deal with all my non-fiction in one day.

I’ve decided that curling up with The Worst Journey in the World or Scott’s Last Expedition — The Journals and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s sounds mighty good right now.

I’ve decided I should post that quote from Apsley Cherry-Garrard, the one that ends his book:

And I tell you, if you have the desire for knowledge and the power to give it physical expression, go out and explore. If you are a brave man you will do nothing: If you are fearful, you may do much, for none but cowards have need to prove their bravery. Some will tell you that you are mad, and nearly all will say, “What is the use?” For we are a nation of shopkeepers, and no shopkeeper will look at research which does not promise him a financial return within a year. And so you will sledge nearly alone, but those with whom you sledge will not be shopkeepers: That is worth a great deal. If you march your Winter Journeys you will have your reward, so long as all you want is a penguin’s egg.

I was surfing the innernets, as I am prone to do, looking for memes to jazz up my blog. I say that I have the World’s Most Boring Blog; it is in definite need of “jazzin’ up.” Since I don’t have a tremendous amount of material in my own life, I look elsewhere for inspiration and motivation — whatever it takes to get me typing about something.

I found a few book-related memes. Being an avid reader, I thought that might be one way to go, but I didn’t find any topics that quite “fit.”

One of the memes I looked at said to list the books in your TBR (To Be Read) Pile. I don’t HAVE a TBR Pile. I have a TBR Bookcase. Now, admittedly, it’s a small two-shelf’er and one of the shelves has my fitness/nutrition non-fiction on it, but most of it is Stuff I Haven’t Gotten to Yet. There’s also a small TBR Pile making it’s home on the sectional sofa in the living room, and a smaller one on my nightstand [The nightstand books are ones I'm currently reading; they tend to fall by the wayside every now and then and sit there for a while, so they're more of a To Be Finished Pile.] There are also assorted piles on the bedroom floor that are in some liminal states of Being Read, Should Be Read, Reference, and Why Haven’t You Shelved This Yet?

My name is Laiane Wolfsong, and I am a Biblioholic. (All together now, “Hello, Laiane!”)

There is no such thing as too many books — just not enough bookcases.

I decided – for the heck of it – to post some pictures of The Laiane Wolfsong Not-Yet-Memorial Library, and a few selected items.

To your left, Ladies and Gentlemen, are the eight stacking bookcases comprising The Fiction Collection. It appears that Ms. Wolfsong has a penchant for the classics. Austen, Tolstoy, Proust, Marquez, Trollope, and Shakespeare are well represented, with a smattering of Melville, Borges, Dostoyevsky, Dumas, Dante, and Hugo thrown in for good measure. There’s also a great deal of space given to one of her favorite writers, Howard Phillips Lovecraft (The Dream Cycle collection and the first volume of The Annotated Lovecraft are absent in that photo; she attests they are “somewhere” in the residence).

Here are two small gems for your consideration.

The first, “Most Expensive Used Book” — H.P. Lovecraft’s Something About Cats (First edition, 1949, Arkham House, August Derleth, editor). $130, not counting shipping and handling, brought this beauty into The Collection. Worth. Every. Penny.

The second, “Best Beloved Book, Judging By Its Cover” — Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl (79th printing, 1976).

Here I have to lapse back into the first person narrative. I got Anne’s diary when I was perhaps 11 or 12 years old. I have read it dozens upon dozens of times. The pages are yellow with age, and many of them are falling out. Of course, I bought The Definitive Edition (new translation, originally edited out bits added back in) when that came out in 1995, but I would never toss out the first book. Sacrilege! No other book in The Collection comes near the well-worn-ness of this book. Okay, maybe my paperback version Richard Adams’ Watership Down, but it’s not THAT close.

This is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. I have, in my study, two shelves of children’s books and fantasy, and well as The Non-Fiction Collection: Human Sexuality, Eastern Religion, Western Religion, Women’s Studies, Art/Photography, History of World War II, Marilyn Monroe, Women’s Health, Adventure, Death and Dying, Travel, Cats, Humor, u.s.w. There is also an entire closet of my comic books and graphic novels.

I really need to catalogue all of these. The task is just too daunting. I can’t even begin to estimate the sheer number of books in this house.

I have a deep connection with my books. They have sustained me during all the circles of hell through which I have had to travel. Homesickness. Divorce. Pain (physical and emotional). When I look at my shelves, I see more than paper and bindings and words. My books give me a sense of solidity that nothing else can. The written word is my lifeline.