September 4, 2024

I've worked my way through all my boxes of books, although this post will only cover the fifteenth out of what ends up being 37 boxes of books. Some of these other boxes are not sparking any flames, but luckily #15 brings a real jolt as I review it. The contents are eclectic as has been the case with more than 2/3 of all these boxes, but somehow with this box, the diversity can hit at some deep emotions.

Take the seven mysteries in here, three are Patricia Cornwell's, who I really did enjoy, even if I found her a bit boring after so many books. Cornwell was one of my mother's favorites, and somehow this demotion to storage seems a slap in her face. Also among the mysteries is James Ellroy's "Black Dahlia." Ellroy was one of my favorite writers for a long time, with a string of fantastic, gritty, mysteries between "Blood On The Moon" in 1984 and his masterpiece, "L.A. Confidential" in 1990. "Black Dahlia" (1986) deserves to be up on the shelves alongside his others.

So, in short, I really can't even sneer at the mysteries in here.

Then, add to that, a number of some of my favorite books of all time, a few relegated here because I have multiple copies, but not all. I am not sure any Literature major, let alone one with three degrees in literature, can justify why "The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson," "The Poetry of Robert Frost," Hemingway's "A Farewell To Arms," Eliot's "The Waste Land," Voltaire's "Candide," Frank Norris' "The Pit," and collections of William Faulkner and Hart Crane end up in cold storage.

One might say that it is even worse that so many books used for my dissertation are in here: Edward Townsend's "Daughter Of The Tenements," Henry Fuller's "With The Procession," Jane Addams' "Twenty Years At Hull House," and "The Portable Stephen Crane" with both "Maggie" and "George's Mother" (these Cranes do exist in other editions upstairs). I have found a few other dissertation books in other boxes that have tugged at my heart-strings a little more, works by Jacob Riis and actual tenement reports from New York. However, and I probably shouldn't admit this, even safely ensconced in retirement, but the dissertation was a means to an end. I enjoyed the books, my research and my writing, but finding "Candide" or Dickinson or Frost down here accentuates much more the betrayal it was to box them up.

The pangs of pain don't end here. I also find a few "U.S. News Best College" type publications, all from 2011. 'That's weird,' I think, '6 years before Lincoln's high school graduation seems a bit premature to be buying best college stuff.' Then, I realize what I have forgotten when I come across the Bluefield State College 2011-2012 Course Catalog. Oh yeah, these come from my last job search. I suppose I used these "Best Colleges" to prep for cover letters and interviews. The Bluefield State College Course Catalog did come from my interview at the West Virginia college. I assume someone gave me the catalog at the interview, as I am not sure how I would have found a printed copy before going there.

It was a good interview, well, if you don't count the half hour I spent with the President. I was convinced he was unhappy I didn't know more about him and blew me off. Otherwise, the campus was beautiful, the rest of the faculty and staff were engaging, and the job seemed perfect. Luckily I couldn't wallow in my depression too long, as it must have been the same month that SMC offered me an interview at the same time BSC told me "thanks, but no thanks." I also probably dodged a bullet as Bluefield State made the news for bad reasons within a couple of years. Still, to find these materials tucked in this box with these other memory-charged books is a shock.

And then finally there is another book of poetry from a former girl friend. The space is intentional, even if my intentions never were. Derek Mahon's "Antarctica” is one of the loveliest poems I have ever read, telling the story of Captain Oates from the ill-fated Scott expedition to Antarctica. Capturing Oates final act of going out into the unknown to willingly die, the poem keeps coming back to the two lines (not always consecutive): "I'm going out and may be some time," and "at the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime."

I never knew how much I should read into the poem in case of messaging directly to me. Mahon was an Irish poet, and my friend was fascinated by all things Irish. That may have simply been it.

And somehow that seems appropriate for this box with its ridiculous cacophony of books (I haven't even mentioned a couple of Lincoln's, several books on buying a computer, or the James Herriot). There is something sublime in all of this, as ridiculous as this book review expedition has been. 22 boxes to go.