Burning Books?

 

I have a lot of stuff.  I have things given as gifts, inherited furniture and hand-me-downs, functioning and broken appliances and gadgets, art and other equipment for hobbies and other pastimes.  I don't like shopping and recycle, repair and reuse as much as I can.  But I am not materialistic, and feel no particular connection to any of these belongings, regardless of whether they were gifts from close family members. I value such gifts no more than the fossils I have collected on beach walks (which does not mean I don't value them - I do.)

I don't think I am sentimental.  I often pore over those questions that are meant to make you really consider your priorities, and give you clues as to the type of person you are. For instance: 'If your house was on fire, and you could only save one thing, what would that be?' You are usually allowed to omit the obvious things (family members, pets etc.) but this has always perplexed me.  Those who would return for a pet, or a photo album, a cherished item belonging to a late relative are deemed more human than those who would return for an expensive or useful item. Few would admit to going back for a laptop or phone (but I understand that has changed recently where teenagers and their phones are concerned, which concerns me deeply).  When I ask myself that question, I struggle with everything about it:  Why is my house on fire?  Why didn’t I put it out?  Where are my family? I don’t have any pets.  Belongings are just things… stuff.  But then I think about my dictionary.

When I was about 12 or 13, I would go to the library, a lot. It was an important haven from school and family where I could lose myself in other worlds. One day, there was a sale of books, and among the well-thumbed volumes were some older books.  One of the books caught my attention.  It was thick, with marbled board covers and a half leather bound spine.  The words Lampriere and the date 1859 were visible in small capitals in gold.  I picked it up and looked at the price.  I looked at the spine again and saw that it was a ‘Classical Dictionary’.  I had no idea what this was, but I liked classical architecture and words, so I looked inside.  I thumbed the pages and the book fell open at NI.  I read the first entry: ‘Nestorius – A Bishop of Constantinople who flourished A.D.431.  He was condemned and degraded from his episcopal dignity for his heretical opinions.’  I was taken aback – What was this?  Who was this person?  What was this language? What was episcopal?  I knew where Constantinople was, thanks to the old song, but the rest was intriguing.  I read on. Nestus, or Nessus – a small river in Thrace…  (Where was Thrace? ) Netum – a town of Sicily, now called Noto, Neuri – a people of Sarmatia (where was Sarmatia?)… Nicaea – a widow of Alexander who married Demetrius…

I was enthralled by the names and places immediately, so I bought the book - using the last few of the tatty pound notes from my pocket money - and took it home.  I followed the references to their logical ends, pulling the threads of history and stories, places, people and events.  Some of them could be tied together, or led to more, connected threads.  Stories and histories began to emerge, piece by piece, name by name.  Within a year or two I had discovered Homer and Virgil, Socrates and Plato and more and widened my reading even more. My vocabulary had probably doubled in size and I had learned an appreciation of Latin and Greek which helped me understand yet more words.  What a find this old dictionary was!

It has sat on my shelf since then, sandwiched between the complete works of Shakespeare and my Aubrey Beardsley Illustrated copy of Thomas Mallory’s Le Morte D’Arthur, to be taken down and carefully thumbed from time to time.  It is very dilapidated now, and I often think I might like to get it mended, but I'm not sure I could bear to entrust it to someone else. 

It struck me that this book might be the one thing I would rescue for my theoretically burning house.  But it would not be sentimentality that would spur me – it is just a book.  But it represents everything about me and the way I see the world - detail, by exquisite detail.  The excitement of finding two snippets that have a common thread, or following enough threads to constitute a story of a battle, an adventure or a tragedy, is laid out within the pages of that book, in much the same way it is within me. To most it is a random collection of defunct facts about irrelevant places and events, but to me, (and hopefully, some others) it was a clue that led to another world; a rich tapestry of magical names and strange language that harks back to ancient times, great deeds and heroes of the intellect and the battlefield.  

No, I probably wouldn’t go back for it. It would be difficult to replace, but I have to believe there are one of two more of them out there…

 

The Lycian Tombs of Dalyan, Turkey

 

 

End of an Era

I have always marvelled at my relationship with my son.  It is a rare and fascinating thing; surprising and delightful - baffling and energising. I have watched him grow from a baby; helpless and needy, through year on year of discovery and adaptation.  I have seen him try and fail, learn and forget, grow and withdraw.  Where once there was a weak and directionless tributary, easy to dissuade and encourage with few well-placed pebbles, now flows a river; drowning obstacles and carving its path through solid rock. Floods and droughts colour his mood, and I must not stand in his way. Not that I have any intention of doing that.

Of course, I have not enjoyed every aspect of this journey.  It is impossible to 'enjoy' watching your child learn about prejudice, misogyny and hatred, and wrestle it into a place where it can be safely dealt with. I have, however, taken enormous pleasure in seeing him recognise and overcome such things.  Now, as he approaches another key juncture in his life, I can't help but look back and bask in pride at the young man he has become.  He is not a genius, has no extraordinary talents or skills.  He works hard, but not as hard as he should, and therefore achieves, but not as much as he could. But he tries, and I know he will continue to mature and, one day, reach his full potential.

I am, by nature, an objective person, and I have always been honest with my son.  I could no more give a glowing, falsely positive review of a drawing or a piece of writing, than I could claim that it was less than its worth, for whatever imagined effect.  Sometimes he would be disappointed that I didn't appear to like something as much as he had hoped, and sometimes he would be surprised as I listed all the unintended merits of another of his projects.  But in the round, he has come to understand that he will only get an honest opinion from me.  Of course he also understands that my opinion is just that:  My opinion. We butt heads constantly, but I usually give in.  I realise he is no different to me in that he needs to find out for himself.  He will not be taught.  Neither would I, and I know how much I have learned, despite this.

I am coming to terms, as all mothers, and fathers must, with the fact that he is his own man.  He will go his own way, whether I think is it the right choice or not.  I fear for him, but not as much as I would if he was not his own man.  He is about to enter a world that is almost as alien to me as the 90s were to my mother.  As he turns 18, I hope we have done enough to give him the skills and the will to succeed for himself.  We will be there for him, for as long as we can sustain.