When Loved Ones Leave
It's never easy letting go.
by Stone-JunctionDecember 19, 2004
Boy, it’s tough to watch your loved ones leave the nest.
I still remember when I first brought the little guy home. He was so cute, all bundled up in his wrapping. I handled him so carefully; they seem so delicate at first. Cautiously, I laid him down on the coffee table, flexed my fingers, cracked him open by the spine, and devoured his contents.
What? I’m talking about Henderson the Rain King, by Saul Bellow. The novel. Hello? What did you think I was talking about?
For years, Henderson has occupied a special place on my bookshelves, only brought down every year or so to reacquaint myself with his story. But time can be harsh on a book. The pages have faded; the cover is torn. The natural oils of my fingers have left blemishes no cleanser can erase. Henderson is no longer the book he used to be.
It’s my fault. Henderson needs to be free, to soar, to roam the world beyond my walls. He needs, in other words, to be read, and not just by myself.
For years, there has been an organization whose sole purpose is to ensure that the literary knowledge of this world is not found lacking. Bookcrossing.com, an Internet outfit for people who believe that books are more important than most of the people we meet, is a charity of ideas, an oasis of words and phrases amidst a planet of noise and image.
It’s not easy letting go, especially for someone like myself. When you read an average of eight books a month, you tend to become a tad, well, obsessive over the mountains of softcovers, hardcovers, and trade paperbacks you have accumulated over the decades.
But there’s only so much you can do, before they completely take over your personal space. I’ve lined them up horizontally and vertically. There are stacks in the corners of every room. I’ve stored them under beds, in closets, in the drawers I usually reserve for underpants. They are everywhere I look, and while I love and cherish every one of them, even the awful ones that dared me to throw them against the walls in disgust (I’m talking to you, Dean Koontz), I cannot bear to part from their company.
I’ve tried selling them at used bookstores, but somehow the process leaves me feeling cheap and unsatisfied. Apparently, sentimental value rarely comes into play when you are haggling over a mint condition Norman Mailer with a youth whose face contains more metallic objects than skin cells.
I’ve thought of selling them myself, at yard sales and countless book symposia, but I lack the business acumen to make a solid go at it. That, or I can’t stand to see complete strangers carelessly fondling my loved ones right in front of me, their chocolate-stained fingers permanently soiling the pages as they have the utter gall to protest that ten dollars is too much for a first-edition Douglas Adams! Too much! Stop wasting my time!
Okay, I admit, I have a problem. If there were a support group meeting nearby, I’d go first thing. “My name is Corey, and I’m a Bookaholic. The problem began in 1980, when I unwittingly began to read The World According to Garp . . .”
But Bookcrossing is the answer for problem readers such as I. I register the novel online, tagging it like researchers tag polar bears to chart their progress across the frozen tundra. Then, I set them free in the wilderness with a kiss goodbye and a tearfully whispered “Good luck!” Don’t look back, stiff upper lip, oh man, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
It hasn’t been easy. I’ve been slow to let go, releasing a James Ellroy here, a Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. there (that was a tough one). I try to find places where they’re sure to be recognized by people of quality, people who understand the valuable item they see presented before them in the magazine rack of a Tim Horton’s.
But enough pussyfooting around! Henderson must be free!
And so, a dreary morning in September, heavy of heart but stout of purpose, I released Henderson into the wilds of Winnipeg, leaving him cold and alone at McNally Robinson Booksellers, a paper proclaiming FREE BOOK his only wrapping.
I hope he finds a good home. I hope his new owners drop me a line through Bookcrossing, let me know how he’s doing. Remember, don’t keep him confined. Let him be free when you’re done. There’s an empty space on my shelf now, and a corresponding space in my soul.
However, I’ve just noticed the space is just the right size for my copy of The Snapper, signed by author Roddy Doyle himself.
And the circle of life continues.
I still remember when I first brought the little guy home. He was so cute, all bundled up in his wrapping. I handled him so carefully; they seem so delicate at first. Cautiously, I laid him down on the coffee table, flexed my fingers, cracked him open by the spine, and devoured his contents.
What? I’m talking about Henderson the Rain King, by Saul Bellow. The novel. Hello? What did you think I was talking about?
For years, Henderson has occupied a special place on my bookshelves, only brought down every year or so to reacquaint myself with his story. But time can be harsh on a book. The pages have faded; the cover is torn. The natural oils of my fingers have left blemishes no cleanser can erase. Henderson is no longer the book he used to be.
It’s my fault. Henderson needs to be free, to soar, to roam the world beyond my walls. He needs, in other words, to be read, and not just by myself.
For years, there has been an organization whose sole purpose is to ensure that the literary knowledge of this world is not found lacking. Bookcrossing.com, an Internet outfit for people who believe that books are more important than most of the people we meet, is a charity of ideas, an oasis of words and phrases amidst a planet of noise and image.
It’s not easy letting go, especially for someone like myself. When you read an average of eight books a month, you tend to become a tad, well, obsessive over the mountains of softcovers, hardcovers, and trade paperbacks you have accumulated over the decades.
But there’s only so much you can do, before they completely take over your personal space. I’ve lined them up horizontally and vertically. There are stacks in the corners of every room. I’ve stored them under beds, in closets, in the drawers I usually reserve for underpants. They are everywhere I look, and while I love and cherish every one of them, even the awful ones that dared me to throw them against the walls in disgust (I’m talking to you, Dean Koontz), I cannot bear to part from their company.
I’ve tried selling them at used bookstores, but somehow the process leaves me feeling cheap and unsatisfied. Apparently, sentimental value rarely comes into play when you are haggling over a mint condition Norman Mailer with a youth whose face contains more metallic objects than skin cells.
I’ve thought of selling them myself, at yard sales and countless book symposia, but I lack the business acumen to make a solid go at it. That, or I can’t stand to see complete strangers carelessly fondling my loved ones right in front of me, their chocolate-stained fingers permanently soiling the pages as they have the utter gall to protest that ten dollars is too much for a first-edition Douglas Adams! Too much! Stop wasting my time!
Okay, I admit, I have a problem. If there were a support group meeting nearby, I’d go first thing. “My name is Corey, and I’m a Bookaholic. The problem began in 1980, when I unwittingly began to read The World According to Garp . . .”
But Bookcrossing is the answer for problem readers such as I. I register the novel online, tagging it like researchers tag polar bears to chart their progress across the frozen tundra. Then, I set them free in the wilderness with a kiss goodbye and a tearfully whispered “Good luck!” Don’t look back, stiff upper lip, oh man, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
It hasn’t been easy. I’ve been slow to let go, releasing a James Ellroy here, a Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. there (that was a tough one). I try to find places where they’re sure to be recognized by people of quality, people who understand the valuable item they see presented before them in the magazine rack of a Tim Horton’s.
But enough pussyfooting around! Henderson must be free!
And so, a dreary morning in September, heavy of heart but stout of purpose, I released Henderson into the wilds of Winnipeg, leaving him cold and alone at McNally Robinson Booksellers, a paper proclaiming FREE BOOK his only wrapping.
I hope he finds a good home. I hope his new owners drop me a line through Bookcrossing, let me know how he’s doing. Remember, don’t keep him confined. Let him be free when you’re done. There’s an empty space on my shelf now, and a corresponding space in my soul.
However, I’ve just noticed the space is just the right size for my copy of The Snapper, signed by author Roddy Doyle himself.
And the circle of life continues.
