As in “anthology.” As in, Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces, Norton Anthology of American Literature, and Norton Anthology of English Literature Volumes One and Two. And this is how I know I have a problem.
For those of you not familiar with the Nortons, they are not the most charming of books. Heavy, chunky, ultra-thin Scripture-like pages, tiny print, no illustrations. You could probably kill someone with one of these bad boys, without even trying all that hard. They’re like the Steven Seagal of literature - not much in the way of nuance, but they get the job done with brute force: “You fuck with Catullus, you die. You fucking know who wrote ‘The Death of Ivan Illyich’? Do you? Why don’t you turn to page 1943 and say that to my face, muthafucker!” Hauling these books around has been like doing penance for some horrible literary crime, like - I don’t know. Seeing the movie instead of reading the book - which I would never do, of course. (Except that once with that one book by that one guy. You know who you are, One Guy. You are a terrible and long-winded writer, my friend.)
Still. While writing this post, there suddenly appear to me a heavenly host of reasons why I should keep the Nortons, praising their usefulness and saying, “Keep these books, you dillhole! Where else will you find such a vast array of literature gathered in one location and so convenient for referential purposes?”
But the truth is, that my attachment to these books has nothing to do with their usefulness. I mean, really. When would it be, exactly, that I would have a sudden, urgent need to reference Francois Rene, Vicomte De Chateaubriand? Well…actually, maybe if I ever need to - okay, not the point, nothing to see here, moving on -
The point is, I am attached to these books because they have been there with me through everything since I was 19 years old: countless moves, countable boyfriends, my mid-20s midlife crisis, deaths and births, my mid-30s midlife crisis, living in Seattle, living in Korea, living in Idaho - they’ve seen it all. And because I have moved around so much and so often, my sense of home is often a bit skewy and I have a hard time attaching the concept of ‘home’ to a geographical location or particular living space. In a quiet way, in a small corner of my mind that I don’t really notice most of the time, I have never really felt that I had a home. Or, rather - I have felt that I carry that idea of ‘home’ around with me. And when I come to a new place, a freshly-painted vacancy behind a numbered door, the thing that sparks the home heartbeat and lets me know where I am is my books. Out on a shelf, adding weight and substance to what were at first just empty, hollow rooms. Having a bookcase full of books in a room is like having a fireplace there.
So anyway. Sending the Nortons on their way now, after all these years, is making me rather anxious, but I think it is good. Good to be divesting myself of those things I cling to for the sense of security and continuity they provide, but I think ultimately, that sense of security is false. And I think that I would rather be awake and scared, than asleep and safe.
At least at this stage of the game. Talk to me in a few days (or even later this evening) and I may be singing a different tune: ”Put me to sleep! I don’t care! Just - where’s the scotch? Gone??! What the - okay, here - take this Norton Anthology of English Literature Volume One, and just heave it at my neck, will ya?”
AHA! A use for the Nortons!
Maybe I should keep them….
Filed under: Addictions, Another Roadside Attraction, Things About Me | Tagged: heaving, Nortons, writhing
You DID NOT just write this.
Know what I just did, this morning? Brought a bag full of books down from the loft to some bookshelves in the furnace room (do I know how to honor my books, or what? Also, I’ve been here TWO years now, so it was about time, ya think?) and what was in there?
Yep, my Norton Reader! Required for every freshman, still in my possession! Since before you were born!
Mine, however, only has just over 1500 pages. It must be the abridged version.
Answer 1: Tolstoy. I actually read that BY CHOICE. I KNOW.
Answer 2: Joyce or Vonnegut would be my picks, but that’s just me.
But this? And when I come to a new place, a freshly-painted vacancy behind a numbered door, the thing that sparks the home heartbeat and lets me know where I am is my books. Out on a shelf, adding weight and substance to what were at first just empty, hollow rooms. Having a bookcase full of books in a room is like having a fireplace there.
That is beautiful.
Awww, thanks, Peg. That makes me feel good.
And, WHOA, nelly! I find that freaky and delightful, that you had a Norton encounter on this very day in which I write so bathetically of mine. Kee-razy!
Although, your comment is making me think maybe I should hold on to these puppies. I want to bring MY books down to the furnace room someday and find MY Nortons in their from before I was born, or…okay, that made no sense, but you know what I mean.
Oh, lord, I am a weak-willed ninnypoop.
And by “their” of course, I mean “there.”
Fer kee-rist’s sake.
I is a writur, and oncet, I do study the englishes.
What a fantastic post. Peggasus also quoted my favorite passage - it so beautifully describes the feeling of constantly moving. I am of the opinion you should keep them, but that is only because I am starting to move less than once a year, and I’m keeping more things because how many times have I thought of that one cool thing I used to have and spend the next five minutes wondering if I still have it or if I gave it away or if it is in storage. Sometimes I never know. At least this post could be your record of your decision if you do decide to ditch them.