How I Met My Book: Part III

In previous installments of How I Met My Book, I talked about hand-me-down books and unexpected loaners. For this installment I want to tell you about my copy of The Waste Land and Other Poems by T.S. Eliot. I’ve bought so many books lately that you might easily assume this slender volume was one of them, but no. This one I “borrowed” from my parents’ library a long, long time ago, and it has since taken up permanent residence on my bookshelf.

You might wonder why I’ve kept it all these years, especially since until recently I hadn’t read any part of it. The book is certainly no looker. It’s a dismal gray and worn around the edges, not to mention grubby.

I’m tempted to take a swipe at those stains on the cover. I think some of them might be removable, but I’m not going to touch the coffee ring. The ring is like an Official Seal of Authenticity certifying the book’s age and previous usage. The book survived college life in the 1960s, and it sure looks it. I like that about it.

I’m being self-contradictory, I know. Usually I prefer clean books, as most people tend to do. But I also love a book that has something to say about its own history. This book has been in the family for a long time, so its “germs” are family germs. Its grubbiness is familiar and endearing.

Back in April of this year I finally tried to read the book. Afterward I wrote, “Eliot’s work represents both the best and the worst of what poetry has to offer. Some of it is so perfect that it will stop you in your tracks. And some of it, if you’ll pardon my French, is obfuscatory bullshit.” Had it not been for the book’s provenance, I probably wouldn’t have kept it, but I did and probably will forever. Maybe I’ll even try again to read it during some future April, but a less “cruel” one, I hope.