==I have been here many times before. Not to this particular library but to others like it. Some have been on college campuses, others in private homes. Some have sprawled through many rooms, including the bathroom; others were confined to a single space. One had no windows; another overlooked a lake. Most were crowded. All were dusty.
Each was the domain of a scholar. Each was the accumulation of a lifetime of intellectual achievement. Each reflected a well-defined precinct of specialization. But what they also had in common was that each of their owners had died. And by declaration of their wills, or by the discernment of their families, I had been called to claim or consider the bereft books for my university library.
One of the little-known roles of the academic librarian is bereavement counseling: assisting families with the disposition of books when the deceased have not specified a plan for them. Most relatives know these books were the lifeblood of their owners and so of intellectual value if not great monetary worth. But they remain clueless about how to handle them responsibly. Some call used-book shops. Some call the Salvation Army. Others call a university library. Many allow friends and relatives to pick over the shelves before bringing in a professional.
On this particular day I’m standing in the doorway of a distinguished but forlorn library in South Bend, Ind., ready to perform last rites on the extensive collection of James White, a noted historian and specialist in the liturgies and worship practices of the Christian tradition. I always pause before entering these libraries. Even after the family has shown me to the space, I can’t just barge in. That seems disrespectful. I need to be introduced to the books. I need to become acquainted.
Surveying these rooms, I find myself wishing I had a ritual to invoke, for the study I’m about to disrupt is a private, beloved retreat — an inner sanctum for reading, reflection and writing. And since it is here that someone wrestled with ideas, sought integrity of expression and gave expression to fresh-jacketed voices, the book-studded room seems sacred. Is there a prayer I can offer? Sometimes I think I should take off my shoes — a physical act to show my respect.
What first catches my eye on this day is the calendar on the desk — a small scenic calendar from Vermont Life. It displays October 2004. (Professor White died on Oct. 31, 2004.) It’s as if time froze in this space on the eve of All Saints’ Day. Two volumes of Calvin’s “Institutes of the Christian Religion” hold pride of place in the middle of the desk — one open and face down, undoubtedly the last book he was reading. Bach’s chorale preludes are in the CD player, and my first act is to fill the library with the music White loved and often played on the spinet piano in the adjacent room. Before disturbing anything, I photograph the room from several angles, ensuring that his desk and books are captured for the archival record.
I prefer to inventory the books by myself. It is a way not only to get to know the library but to commune with the former dweller of the room. Sometimes the utmost diplomacy is required to persuade family members that I don’t need assistance as I sort, box and make notes in solitude.
These libraries have ranged widely on the tidiness scale. A few look ready for a Better Homes and Gardens photo shoot. One was fully cataloged; each volume stood tall in its proper Dewey location, spine perfectly aligned to the edge of the shelf, a regiment ready for inspection. Another was a health hazard — hundreds of books piled on the floor, knee-high canyons to navigate like Gulliver on Lilliput Island. Happily, most have been in between — well organized but showing ample evidence that someone had been working there.
The placement of individual books, as well as the adjacencies of groups, intrigues me. Are they subject categories, chronological gatherings, project clusters, a map of intellectual terrain or evidence of the constraints of space and shelving? Which books are closest to the desk or kept on the desk? Which are consigned to the bottom and top shelves or the closet? Books sequestered in the shadows behind others suggest clandestine reading and hidden pleasures. Sometimes, though, they are simply gifts hidden away for a coming event — a birthday, graduation or anniversary — a greeting card, yet unsigned, often their companion.
Did the professor value dust jackets? Did he write in the books, underline passages in red, dog-ear the pages, use Post-it notes? Inscriptions on the title pages tell of personal and professional friendships. Frequently, I find book reviews tucked among their pages. Often they are about that very book, possibly what prompted its purchase. Occasionally, something unusual tumbles from the pages — Civil War-era currency or a note from a famous person. Of particular fascination are the well-worn or worn-out volumes — the indispensable reference works or canonical texts in one’s field.
Sometimes I find books belonging to libraries that long ago abandoned hope for their return. The letters of thankful astonishment that I have received from some librarians after they opened the unexpected packages are treasures in themselves. “Could we hire you to visit the homes of a few other delinquent scholars?” one library director asked. “We would be happy to make it worth your while.” Another concluded her note, “This gives new meaning to ‘Death the Grim Reaper.’ ”
Removing the books from their familiar niches takes time and requires a personal approach. I place the books in boxes one volume at a time, noting each title, silently calling each by name — a bibliographic benediction for a job well done in this place for this scholar. At times I feel camaraderie with bishops who lay hands on confirmands and unhurriedly bless them by name, one at a time, regardless of how long the line stretches down the center aisle. I have little in common with moving-company packers for whom books are anonymous blocks of paper that stack easily. There is no grabbing the books by the handful, plunking them into boxes with speedy professionalism.
But what has taken years to create, I dismantle in a matter of hours or days. All too soon, walls of colorful volumes are reduced to a cube of brown cartons resting on a pallet, without a hint of the academic landscape they once shaped. The room itself becomes stark, the bookcases empty, the sweet autumn musty scent of the older books gone, only photographs, stapler, memorabilia and much dust remaining.
I leave as quietly as I entered, carrying with me privileged knowledge — the warp and woof as well as the quirks of this scholar’s habitat.
I wonder what the experience of future librarians will be as electronic books increasingly dislodge those that can be touched, smelled and boxed. Will private collections in the digital environment add value to university libraries, or will they be constrained by complex copyright laws? Will they convey a unique ethos, capable of stirring admiration, even sadness and rituals of respect, from the librarians sent to gather them?
For the moment, the collections to which I am called still consist of paper, ink, glue, covers and jackets. I find solace in knowing that these orphaned books — White’s collection in Indiana and many others across the country — have been adopted and become the companions of a new generation of students and scholars.
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