A book inscription is a wonderful thing. I know that’s not a universal sentiment. Some people, such as serious book collectors, are more likely to look upon an inscription as a blemish. But if you’re like me and really interested in stories, then you might see an inscription as part of the story of the book itself. At the very least, an inscription is permanent proof that someone cared enough to give the gift of the written word. At its best, an inscription yields tantalizing clues into the history of the book and a glimpse into the heart of a person who once thought the book was worthy of bestowing on another.
Many of the books in my library have inscriptions. Some were written to me. I feel happy and grateful and pleasantly nostalgic when I see them. Some were written to previous owners. They, too, have the power to make me smile, but they also fill my mind with questions. For example, my copy of Tuck Everlasting has this inscription:
For J— from Natalie Babbitt 3/90
There’s something just a little bit special about a signed copy and knowing that the author physically held the book, if only for a moment. But where is J— now? And why did this book leave her possession? I wonder.
One of my joke books has an inscription saying, “L—, this book had your name on it!” I guess the joke is that the book still has his name on it and always will, though he gave it away long ago. But why did he he give it away? Was it because he didn’t think it was funny? Was he just not a bookish type of guy? I wonder.
There’s a very nice inscription in one of my quote books. It says,
“When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.” I think that’s where you and I connect—in our mutual insanity—and I want you to know I’ll be thinking of you every day of your exhilarating and mad journey.
Paper-clipped to the page is a picture of the giver and the recipient together (though I don’t know which is which). Both young women look like people I ought to know, or might like to know. Does the inscriber still sometimes think of her friend? Did her friend fail to see the inscription or forget it was there? Did they have a falling out? I wonder.
If the writers of these inscriptions were to see this blog post, they might be unhappy to know that their gifts have since moved on to someone else. To them I would say that we can’t control how our gifts, or the words we write, will be received, or where they will go once they leave our hands, or even how long they will last. This has always been a risk for both gift-givers and writers, because often they put a little bit of their hearts into these things. That’s part of why they’re special. So I thank the writers of these inscriptions for giving me their words, even the ones who did so unintentionally, because I treasure them as I treasure the books.
Inscriptions are probably rarer now than they once were, and in this day of e-books, they may be on the verge of extinction. There is no digital equivalent for a book inscription. That’s one of the reservations I have about switching to an e-reader. E-books are not shared the same way as print books. They don’t have the longevity. They are like ghosts, dependent on electricity to give them form. A real book, though, is something that can last for hundreds of years. It can move from place to place, person to person, picking up little bits of hearts and history along the way. That’s a wonderful thing.