20190307.0430

In yesterday's post to this webspace, I comment that I have had several reasons to hoard printed pages. It must be the case that I have had them; I've dragged more than a ton of them across states and time-zones, and that kind of investment of time and effort has to have some justification. In earlier times, my doing so might have had to do with my work trying to be a scholar and teacher in the academic humanities, chiefly English languages and literatures. Even now, knowing that I ought to divest myself of some of the printed pages I have accumulated over the years in favor of electronic reading and library work, and knowing that I should get rid of some of the others because they represent connections to parts of me that I ought to relinquish--growths or vestigial organs that serve no purpose but threaten to grow septic--there are a fair few pieces that I mean to continue to keep. They continue to matter to me in ways that go beyond the words printed on their pages.
I've addressed some of the reasons why, to be sure. There are copies of works my wife and I have that are for display, and, yes, there is some snobbishness in having fancy ones that do not get opened often if at all. There are some that I keep for their sentimental value, because they were given to me by people for whom I cared and care. My copies of Asimov's Foundation novels are among them, for example, as is my grandfather's copy of an old edition of Shakespeare. There are some, too, that I still use, whether because I continue to play RPGs such as L5R or because I still flatter myself that I do a bit of research people might occasionally want to read or to hear me present at a conference now and again. (Did I mention I've got another one coming up in May?)
One thing that gives me some pause as I consider getting rid of some of the books I have but no longer use, or the academic journals I've gathered over the years, is that I make many notes in the margins of the books from which I study. The fancy and sentimental copies of my books are exempt from that, of course; the pretty ones should probably remain pretty, the ones that matter should get no blemish, and my pen-hand remains poor despite the practice through which I put it time and again. But my working books, the ones from which I've taught or to which I've gone time and again for materials from which to write what I write in the most formal venues where I write, are bestrewn with my notes, both interlinear and marginal. It is because owning copies of the books allows me to make the notes that I have continued to buy books as I have, and it is because there are little bits of me thrust into those pages through the guided work of my hands upon cylinders that trail something behind them that I am loath to part with so many of the pages I've acquired.
I worry that I will be diminished.