Writing Life

Yesterday, at a used-book store in Davis, I found a beautiful copy of Carlo Collodi’s “The Adventures of Pinocchio.” It caught my eye because its front and back covers were free of the usual promotional verbiage – no blurbs, no plot summary, no text at all except for the title and the author’s name. I picked up the book and discovered that, though it was an English translation of “Pinocchio,” it had been published in Italy, by a company called Giunti Gruppo Editoriale. When I opened the front cover I found the following inscription:

May 2003
To: Margaux & Nora
With love from Collodi, Italy –
Home of Pinocchio.
With Love,
Aunt Kathy & Uncle Lynn

I can’t afford to collect signed first editions of the works of Twain or Dickens, but for several decades now I have collected books memorably inscribed by a gallery of nobodies. These books carry inscriptions not from their illustrious authors but from some previous purchaser. I’m talking about books that were given as gifts, from friend to friend, or parent to child, or husband to wife, and then somehow managed to end up on the shelves of a used-book store. I have a small but impressive collection of such works. Today, I added “Pinocchio” to that collection.
Many of my inscribed books I purchased with no intention of ever reading them. I bought them because something in their inscriptions spoke to me. I hate to see a lovingly inscribed book abandoned to the whims of commerce. By purchasing it for my collection, I feel that I have saved its inscription from complete oblivion.
It doesn’t pain me much to find a fifty-year-old book with a heartfelt inscription consigned to the shelves of a used-book store. People die, and it is only natural that their books should be sold off with the rest of their estate. I am saddened, however, when I open up a used book and find a tender inscription whose date is relatively recent. Some of these inscriptions are so endearing that only someone with a heart of lead could have traded it in at a used-book store. A case in point is the inscription I found in a hardcover edition of Margaret Atwood’s novel “Cat’s Eye”:

– April Elizabeth –

Did you know that when you read this
book in bed, that you are laying next to
the happiest man in the world.

Your husband,
Jim

“Cat’s Eye” was published in 1988. I found my copy (actually, April Elizabeth’s copy) in a used-book store in 1991. It seems unlikely that April Elizabeth could have died during that three-year span. Judging from Jim’s handwriting, April Elizabeth’s slightly hippie name, and the contemporary, feminist subject matter of the novel itself, I’d guess that April Elizabeth and Jim were a fairly young couple. So what could have induced a young wife to so quickly divest herself of a book so lovingly inscribed? For lack of any additional information, I am forced to fabricate an explanation. But nothing I can imagine portrays April Elizabeth in a favorable light. Judging from her taste in reading material (assuming, of course, that she even bothered to read “Cat’s Eye”) it would seem that she is at least mildly feminist and almost certainly more literate than her husband, who misuses a form of the verb “lay” and omits the question mark that should have ended his inscription. Did April Elizabeth outgrow Jim intellectually? Did she drop him in favor of a more literate lover? Did too much Margaret Atwood raise her feminist consciousness to the point where she could no longer endure her husband’s sentimental paternalism? I doubt that any plot thread of “Cat’s Eye” (which I’ve never read) can be as intriguing as the question of what caused April Elizabeth to trade in Jim’s lovingly inscribed gift.
At least when April Elizabeth traded in her gift she appears to have gotten a decent return for it. I bought the book for six dollars, which means that April Elizabeth probably got three dollars in cash for it. But what can be said for Tabitha Hart, who traded in a paperback copy of Irving Stone’s “The Greek Treasure” that bore two memorable inscriptions:

Darling Tabitha

Happy 14th
Birthday –
I love you always –
Big Kisses

Daddy
June 15, 1986

P.S. The Author
autographed this
book especially for
you!!

And sure enough, after Daddy’s inscription, we find, in a sloppier handwriting:

For Tabitha Hart

Have a fine read.

Cordially,
Irving Stone
May 1986

There are so many things wrong with this picture I scarcely know where to begin. I found “The Greek Treasure” on a shelf of bargain used books, where it was priced at fifty cents. That means that Tabitha probably got a quarter for it. For twenty-five cents she traded in a book lovingly inscribed by her father and cordially inscribed by the author. I know no more about Papa Hart and Tabitha than I do about April Elizabeth and Jim, but if I were to assemble a portrait of their lives from the one shard of evidence available to me, I would make the following conjectures. Papa Hart is probably divorced from Tabitha’s mother. When parents are married, their gifts to their children usually are given in both their names. Perhaps intellectual incompatibility had a hand in the Hart divorce, just as it appears to have played a role in April Elizabeth’s split from Jim. Tabitha was born in 1972, at which time the best known Tabitha in America was a character in the sitcom “Bewitched,” still widely syndicated on television in those days. Tabitha Hart’s mother probably named her daughter after the daughter of Elizabeth Montgomery’s character in “Bewitched.” Mr Hart probably regretted this. He appears to have been more intellectually inclined than his wife. The book he gave his daughter for her fourteenth birthday was a fictionalized account of the life of Sophia Vimpos, who, when she was just three years older than Tabitha, married 47-year-old Henry Schliemann (the famous “Schliemann of Troy”) and undertook with him the adventure of unearthing the ruins of the most legendary city in all of ancient Greece. No doubt Papa Hart was trying to inspire in Tabitha an interest in history, archeology, literature, and other scholarly pursuits (though, let us hope he was not trying to encourage her to run off with a man thirty years her senior while still a minor). Obviously the marriage of Papa Hart and his sitcom-addicted wife could never have worked out. Who knows what the final straw was? Perhaps he met April Elizabeth one day at a used-book store and they ran off together in pursuit of a more intellectually congenially union. It’s a fairly good bet, however, that Papa Hart was financially straitened in 1986. Had his bank account been at all healthy he probably would have purchased a hardbound edition of Stone’s book rather than the cheap supermarket paperback that he ended up giving her (could the cheapness of the edition have anything to do with the rather niggardly and perfunctory inscription from Stone?). But though he may have been poor, Papa Hart wasn’t without resources. He was farsighted enough to have sent the book off to Stone a month or two in advance of Tabitha’s birthday. And he was clever too. He found a way to increase the worth of the book (though obviously not its resale value) at a cost of just the dollar or two he probably spent on postage. In those pre-Internet days it probably took a bit of sleuthing to uncover Irving Stone’s address. So clearly Papa Hart wasn’t the kind of father who picks up a birthday present for his daughter on the way over to her house for a weekend visitation two weeks after her actual birthday. He was a smart and thoughtful man. His handwriting is elegant and confident, much smarter and neater than Jim’s (which is simple and spare) or even Irving Stone’s (which is sloppy). But Tabitha, alas, appears not to have appreciated her father’s resourcefulness. Otherwise she would never have sold off his gift for a mere quarter. She is now 38 years old. I picture her looking a bit like the grown up Lolita – a frumpy conventional housewife with a snot-nosed child or two always in tow. As I’ve said, this is mere conjecture on my part but, as Schliemann of Troy taught us, much can be gleaned from the mere shards of the past. Stone’s novel begins with an epigram from Sophocles that you might want to keep in mind if you’re thinking about trading in a book lovingly inscribed to you by your Grandmother Rose or your Uncle Ernie: “The long unmeasured pulse of time moves everything. There is nothing hidden that it cannot bring to life…”
In that spirit, let us now consider the case of a boy named Nathan. In the year 2000, while visiting Powell’s Bookstore in Portland, Oregon, I came across this inscription in a used trade-paperback edition of Chaim Potok’s “My Name Is Asher Lev”:

To My Dearest Nathan:

May this book show
you the memories of your
past and the promises of
your future.

Your loving
Mother,
Judith

Monday June 16, 1997
~ A very special day ~

I doubt that Nathan’s bar mitzvah or high-school graduation took place on Monday, so it seems likely that the “very special day” his mother refers to is his birthday, probably his eighteenth. It also seems safe to assume that Judith, like Papa Hart, is a person of limited financial means. Her gift is a fairly humble one for an eighteenth birthday: a paperback book. But Nathan’s mother is obviously keenly interested in her Jewish heritage and has made an effort to pass on this interest to her son. I suspect that she has failed. A son who can sell off such a lovingly inscribed gift for a few bucks is not likely to ever find himself convicted of ancestor worship. Most likely Nathan is a greedy ingrate who will always be a source of disappointment to his mother. If I sound a bit harsh, it isn’t without reason. You see, shortly after I found the inscribed copy of “Asher Lev,” I came across this inscription in a mass-market paperback edition of James Hilton’s “Lost Horizon”:

Nathan:

Enjoy this
book while you
sail off to faraway
places. You’re a
good friend
and I’ll
miss
you!

YSFC
Trisha

A cynic might point out that I found this book in a Placerville, California, bookstore, nearly 600 miles from Powell’s, and thus it is unlikely to have belonged to the same Nathan as the “Asher Lev.” But both books appear to have been inscribed to a young man embarking on the first big adventure of his adulthood. I prefer to believe that both books came from the personal library of the same callous young man. Otherwise I am forced to confront the depressing possibility that the world is full of heartless Nathans. But perhaps I have been too hard on Nathan. Perhaps Nathan is a native of New York or New Jersey and, following his graduation from high school, he opted to spend a year or two traveling across country, pursuing some lost horizons of his own. Perhaps he thumbed rides with passing motorists or hopped aboard slow-moving freight trains, carrying only what could fit into his small backpack. Perhaps, before leaving home, he stuffed into his backpack the inscribed books he had received from his mother and his best girl Trisha. Things probably went well for a while. But then, somewhere out on the west coast, he must have run out of money. Perhaps he was robbed at knifepoint or fleeced by some slick conman. In a small town in northern California he was forced to sell Trish’s gift in order to raise a few bucks to buy food or a room for the night. Later on, in Portland, he was forced to do the same thing with his cherished copy of “My Name Is Asher Lev.” Perhaps he promised himself that he would someday return to these same used bookstores and retrieve his graduation presents, like the John Cusack character in the movie “Serendipity” who spends years searching every used-book store in New York for a copy of the novel in which the woman of his dreams inscribed her name and phone number.
I’m not sure which portrait of Nathan is the more likely: greedy jerk or luckless wanderer. I have very few clues to go by. Most intriguing is that “YSFC” at the end of Trisha’s inscription. I typed the letters YSFC into an internet search engine recently but all I found was the Yeardly Smith Fan Club, a group devoted to the work of the actress who gives voice to the TV character Lisa Simpson. Could that possibly be the YSFC that Trisha was referring to? Probably not. According to the online site urbandictionary.com, YSC stands for “You’re so crazy.” Thus, YSFC is probably the same message with a common four-letter intensifier thrown in for emphasis.
In my experience, it isn’t always prodigal sons like Nathan who are unable to appreciate the value of an inscribed book. Sometimes it is the parent who is the unappreciative one. I have a copy of Graham Greene’s “The Quiet American” inscribed with this message:

To Mom,

Happy Birthday!

Love,
Sarah & Mary
February 11, 2003

I found the book in 2004. Mom is obviously no sentimentalist.
Likewise, I found the following inscription in “The World of Herb Caen”: Dad – Here’s another look at your “breakfast buddy” of some 30 years. Thought you’d enjoy one more column from the “Master” – he’s a good one. Have a great birthday. We love you. The inscription is followed by the signatures of Dad’s four children.
I have a soft spot for books that appear to have been inscribed to a personal friend of the author’s and yet still somehow managed to end up in a used-book store’s bargain bin. Consider for instance the inscription I found on a cheap paperback copy of Max Byrd’s crime novel “Fusetime”:

For Ted and Toby

Wonderful friends
and supporters of the
life of crime – with the
promise that the next
one will be set in
Paris!
– All good
wishes –
Max

I bought the book for a dollar, which means that Ted and Toby probably got fifty cents for it — a quarter each! One can’t help but wonder just how wonderful and supportive these friends of Byrd’s really are.
And then there is the copy of Kendall Hailey’s “The Day I Became An Autodidact,” that a friend purchased in a used bookstore and gave me for my collection. Hailey inscribed the book:

For Mel and Bette,

Who knew me when (you lucky
devils) and who I hope will
always let me be part of their
lives.
With much, much love,
Kendall

It seems unlikely that Mel and Bette have always let Kendall be a part of their lives, seeing as how they didn’t even allow her book to remain a part of their library for very long. Kendall Hailey is the daughter of two successful Beverly Hills writers. Any friends of hers are likely to be wealthy Beverly Hills residents themselves, which only makes Mel and Bette look worse. They didn’t need the money!
Other favorites from my inscription collection include a copy of E.M. Forster’s novel “The Longest Journey,” which carries this sweet handwritten message:

Dearest Will

Here is one to start
your collection of
dreams, wisdom, and
reality. Good luck on
having time to read
it. Remember I’ll always
be there to travel “the
longest journey” w/you.

(heart) Carrie
XXOO

And here is a lovely inscription that I found in a copy of (of all things) “I Am A Memory Come Alive,” a collection of autobiographical writings by Franz Kafka:

For the first time in my life
I can look at you and
not feel any quirky…oh
forget it. You’re a great guy.

Happy Birthday (smiley face)
Love
Cissy

Experience has taught me that certain books are much more likely to be inscribed than others. If you want to build a collection of your own, start out in the classics section of a good used bookstore. Handsome editions of classic books, especially those that are part of a series like the Library of America or the Modern Library, are often inscribed as gifts. Shakespeare’s works are frequently inscribed, especially big omnibus editions of his complete plays. Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s “A Gift From The Sea” is one of the most frequently inscribed books I know of. Kahlil Gibran’s “The Prophet,” Paul Gallico’s “The Snow Goose,” and Richard Bach’s “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” are also on the Most Likely To Be Inscribed list. But none of these four last-mentioned books has ever yielded an inscription so memorable that I felt obliged to buy it.
Based on my unscientific and anecdotal approach to the subject, I’d say that women were far more likely than men to be both inscribers and inscribees. Woman-to-woman inscriptions are far more common than any other combination (father to child, husband to wife, mother to child, etc.). Classics of feminist literature, such as “The Golden Notebook” or “The Well of Loneliness,” seem to attract inscriptions the way other books attract dog-ears. Several years ago I bought a used copy of May Sarton’s “A Self-Portrait” that contained a woman-to-woman inscription I liked:

For Dar ~

A short introduction
to my favorite living author
who wrote “Gestalt at Sixty,” and
at 76 now says she celebrates
“The life that still lies ahead.”
Happy Birthday
Love,
Paula

I suppose “Dar” could be short for Darrel or Darrin, but I doubt it. It seems more likely that Dar stands for Darla or Darlene, and that she and Paula are (or were) domestic partners. So the fact that “A Self-Portrait” ended up in a used-book store makes the inscription all the more poignant. Every time I look at it I can’t help wondering: What ever happened to Dar and Paula?
Even rugged adventure tales often contain feminine inscriptions. A while ago I found a hardbound copy of Henri Charriere’s memoir “Papillon” with the following inscription:

To Ron,

A truly great book
for your bookshelf.

Love Mom
Xmas 1974

You’ve got to love a woman who would buy a convicted felon’s prison memoirs as a Christmas present for her son.
Used copies of artsy coffee table books are the heavyweight champs of the inscription world. I’d guess that roughly one out of five of these massive tomes carries some sort of handwritten sentiment on its title page. I once purchased a copy of “Renoir’s Nudes” because I liked the inscription: Merry Christmas Jessica! I hope you enjoy your babes! – Love Rilla. Okay, the inscription wasn’t the only reason I bought the book. Like Jessica, I like looking at naked babes. I just wish I knew someone who would give me a book filled with them for Christmas.
Recently I purchased a cheap used copy of a book called “High Endeavors” from a mail-order bookstore. The book is a joint biography of Miles and Beryl Smeeton, a thrill-seeking married couple who climbed mountains in the Himalayas, crisscrossed the world’s oceans in a sailboat, hiked through the jungles of Burma and Thailand, and trekked across the Andes on horseback. When I opened the cover, I discovered I’d gotten more than I’d bargained for. On the title page I found this inscription: Barrett – This book is out of print but I was able to get this copy through a friend. It reminds me of you. – Mom, Christmas 2002.
Someday, Barrett, you’re going to regret selling “High Endeavors.” When that happens, you are going to search high and low trying to find it. If your search eventually brings you to this online essay, feel free to contact me. I’ll be happy to return the book to you. But it’s going to cost you!