Written by Terry Weyna
Thursday, 28 August 2008 17:18
Columns -
Terry Weyna
This past Sunday was my birthday, and no one gave me a single book.
Yes, yes, I know all the excuses. I have lots of books already. In fact, I have
more books than I'll be able to read in my remaining lifetime, even if I have
as many years ahead of me as I have behind (which is still possible, though less
so than it used to be). One colleague has even called my library "obscene,"
and he wasn't kidding around; the tone was censorious. He seems to think it represents
the ultimate in greed, as if I owned eight houses or wore $500 Ferragamo loafers.
I've been accused by others of decimating forests, not to mention damaging floors.
But don't these people understand that there's no such thing as "too many"
books? That those who write, think and read need to be surrounded by the written
word?
Friends tell me that they don't know what book to give me because I have too many
books already; they're afraid that they'll buy me a duplicate. Yes, these people
have heard of gift certificates, but they don't think gift certificates are sufficiently
personal. And yes, they know that my Amazon wish list has 1,065 books on it, but
somehow that means I've picked out my own gift, and that's no fun for them either.
As if I'll guess in advance which of the 1,065 they've chosen!
In a strange twist of events, this was even a year in which my husband and I did
not give each other physical, wrapped gifts for our birthdays. (We're always giving
books to one another, so it's not clear whether books received somewhere close
in time to our birthdays count as birthday presents.) We decided to take a short
vacation instead, and promised each other not to buy additional gifts, and we pretty
much stuck to it. My sweetheart couldn't resist getting me a copy of Ethan Canin's
America America after I heard Canin interviewed on NPR a few weeks ago, but
he told me it didn't count as a birthday present.
I did get
myself a book:
Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy, edited by William Schafer (Subterranean
Press, 2008, $40). This anthology, which looks outstanding even in a year full of
outstanding anthologies, has all-original stories by the likes of William Browning
Spencer, Mike Carey, Tim Powers and Patrick Rothfuss. Subterranean Press is known
for its beautifully produced books that would not be published by mainstream publishers,
and this does not appear to be an exception. From the Dave McKean cover to the rich
paper, it's a lovely object even in the trade hardcover; I can only imagine what
the signed, slipcased edition ($150) or the lettered, traycased edition ($500) must
be like.
So far I've only read a couple of the stories. Poppy Z. Brite's story, "The
Gulf," is a powerful tale of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina on the Gulf Coast.
It has me thinking about the on-going hurricane season, and the normally placid
Gulf of Mexico, a bit differently. I could have sworn that the last page looked
like waves after I finished. The other story, "Alastair Baffle's Emporium of
Wonders" by Mike Resnick, has a Ray Bradbury feel to it. It is a magic shop story,
starting with 12-year-old boys, but if you don't feel oddly grateful for your
aging skin and aching bones by the time you finish reading it, you've missed the
point. If these stories are typical of the anthology, I am going to prize this book.
But the bottom line today is this: although books are the gifts I would most like
to receive, it is rare for anyone (except my adorable husband) to give me books.
Surely you, the booklover reading this, have experienced the same thing? People
don't understand us. Normal folks figure that if they have a book in the house
they haven't read yet, they're all set, there's nothing to panic about —
whereas you and I know that that's cause for alarm. In fact, most folks are okay
even without books in the house, because, after all, there's always something
else to do. These are not people like us, who are afraid to find ourselves stuck
in a long line at the DMV without something to read. Or, heaven forefend, with a
broken-down car, waiting for AAA, without so much as a magazine, completely idle.
(This happened to me once. I'm scarred for life.) These are the people who watch
television when they can't sleep at night, not the ones who search their shelves
for the perfect book to help them get sleepy — or give them a good reason to stay
awake. So they can't imagine why we'd want yet another book (or two, or three,
or ten, or twenty books) for our birthdays.
And so, it is with great pride, joy and love that I introduce you to my brother
Paul and his family, his wife Beth and his children Matthew and Kathy Ann. Because
it was Paul alone, of all my family and friends, who gave me a book for my birthday,
who makes the first sentence of this column a lie. My baby brother, a sweet kid,
smart, handsome, a loving dad and a hard worker — he was the guy who went to Amazon
and picked out a book he'd never read himself because he knew I'd love it. Paul
got me Sean McMullen's
The Time Engine (Tor, 2008, $27.95), the fourth book of the Moonworlds Saga.
It's a book of swords, sorcery and time travel — not a normal mixture of tropes,
certainly, and one I'm looking forward to reading. You can be sure I'll be letting
you know about it in a future column. Right now, I'm off to read.
Thanks, Paul.
Terry Weyna admits she may have crossed over the line
from bibliophilia to bibliomania. She is a part-time lawyer who reads and reviews
all sort of books, including contemporary fiction, non-fiction, science fiction,
fantasy, horror and mysteries, for various outlets, including
Reading the Leaves (her blog). Books for review
should be sent to her at 2033 Ralston Avenue, #154, Belmont, California 94002-1737.
You can write to Terry at tmweyna (at) gmail.com.
