Eulogy for my Books

Over sixty years ago I first touched European soil and stayed for almost a year. After
another spell in the US, I crossed the ocean once more, this time to remain in Italy
where I have now been for over sixty, or perhaps seventy, years. My occupations
have varied, from having a shop to teaching English to translating. I’ve raised two
children, and now here I am “retired”. Many old friends have fallen by the way, but
there have been new ones. And then there are those that never fail – my books.

Since my sons are now reorganizing the villa and I have been transferred to Orvieto
itself to be closer to them if need be, it means reorganizing that years-long living
space. And that means eliminating some of the books, legacies if you like, but mostly
vital signs of those who lived here off and on, that take up just too much space. In
other words, my books. And now without them I feel bereft. For they are all
somehow old friends. I mourn them, the way I would mourn the passing of a friend.
In writing about them though I know they will continue to be alive in my mind.
The time has come to retire some, to decide which ones I will keep in active service.
So, let me pay them homage. Let me write a eulogy for my books. When she came
to visit, my great grandniece put it well. While you and I are decades apart, she
noted, we share a love of books. She admits to having a tendency to hoard more
books than she can read, due in part to growing up with my sister. She remembers
that they had shelves full of books, some she doubts were ever picked up twice. The
air would be impregnated with the scent of old books, a scent you don’t smell much
anymore when you walk into someone’s house. Some of the books were good,
some were bad, and some absolute gems. For these books allowed her to meet
different people, go to different places, and step into completely different worlds.
At any point in time, she could pick up a book on one of those shelves, and go
anywhere in the world she wished to.

I agree with her about the magic of books. It is not that I hoard them, but since they
are part of me, how can I let them go? There are so many categories, perhaps that is
the best way to understand them. They are my friends and companions. Even so,
now that I think about it, over seventy years ago when I was a watcher more than
anything else, books were sometimes shelved for later, put on the back burner as
they say. Some went into cold storage as new impressions crowded them out. But
they were patiently waiting, waiting to be joined by others, by the hordes of words
that would be written and read, by new acquaintances that would join the old. They
sit there on their shelves, waiting to be turned to once again. Books continue to be
in my life, those I have acquired as I attempt to understand other lives and those
given me by friends, that help me understand other points of view. Now as I renew
old friendships, I also open the door to new ones seen with a maturity I lacked
before.

There comes a time when we all come face to face with the future. When we realize
that the life we have lived up to then will change. For me, one was leaving the place
I had lived in for years, with all its books and objects, not just me. Memories cling to
us, are part of us. Now that I have moved to elsewhere, the future has become my
present. My books are no longer where I knew them to be. Will I ever find them
again? Are my books now wandering in purgatory? Are they in the bardo, that
intermediate, transitional, or liminal state between death and rebirth, waiting to be
reborn?

Wherever they are, they remain in my mind where I can always find them.