That’s when frustration sets in, and history can become lost. The real concern, in my mind, is when communication breaks down and one-of-a-kind artifacts are left forgotten on untouched shelves. As in my story, there’s always a purpose to the pursuit, even if an item’s ultimately only meant for display. To some classic video game purists and preservationists, it’s become synonymous with “hoarder,” with someone who acquires things just for the sake of possessing them. The word “collector” has gotten a bad rap over the years. To them, the books’ function would be quite clear. What purpose would it serve? To others, say Architectural Digest subscribers like my cousin, that oddness may never cross their minds because the space is so meticulously presented and put together. To some, particularly ardent book lovers, it may seem strange why a person who doesn’t read much would have such a large library in her house. There are all kinds of reasons why people collect things. The conversation abruptly ended, and the tour continued into the recreation room with the pool table. Its job, she said, was to bridge the big gap there on the bottom shelf. I would have loved to have cozied up in one of the chairs and spent the whole afternoon dissecting themes of Catechistic cannibalism and flatulence in Ulysses with her as I swirled a glass of brandy in my hand, but when I jokingly pointed to her copy staring up at us, she admitted to having never opened the cover. Only I didn’t want to find another hideaway I was perfectly content staying right there. That room held a magic you only see in the movies, where the master of the mansion struts in and lifts one of the tomes to reveal a secret passageway. The room felt warm and welcoming because of those great pillars of old books stretching out like loving hands, urging me to sit down and pull out a pipe or something. And that wasn’t just my Liberal Arts degree brainwashing kicking in, either.
“I’ve been picking these books up at yard sales and antique stores to fill out the shelves. “I never knew you were that much of a reader!” “Dickens, Faulkner, Joyce…” I read, scanning the rows of volumes. All that was missing was a roaring fire and my smoking jacket. Two burgundy leather reading chairs sat comfortably below on the cherry hardwood floor in front of a well-placed ornate Oriental rug. A wooden ladder on wheels, used to reach the high top shelves, rested vertically across one bookcase. One of the last areas she led me to was what she called “the study,” where large dark mahogany bookcases brimming mostly with antique books stood the entire length of the back wall.
As she showed me around, I could hear in her voice how incredibly proud she was about how each of the rooms had turned out.
#Shellshock live molehill full#
Several years ago, my cousin invited me over to her new home to give me a full tour of the place.
0 kommentar(er)
