Thursday, July 31, 2008

De-cluttering books

I loved this series from the Washington Post about how this poor woman set about de-cluttering her attic, which from the photos looks like it was a complete wreck. So over the course of 11 weeks, I got to read a different aspect of how to de-clutter.
Week 4 was -- you guessed it -- de-cluttering books. I eagerly read the installment, because my shelves are overstuffed and unsightly. Alas, the author wrote:
On the issue of books I got surprisingly little help from Caitlin Shear, the professional organizer who has signed on to be my coach and hand holder during this process. Each week she has led me through the sorting, scrapping and separation anxiety of dealing with clutter. But when it comes to books, fiction and nonfiction, she is unabashedly a keeper.

"I am a big books person," she admits. "I tend to get rid of everything else before I will let go of a book." She has even allowed her husband, Mike, to keep his collection of science-fiction paperbacks from the early 1980s. "I am," she says, "a total bibliophile."
So this was not very helpful.

I will soon be turning to lessons learned from my recent library science class on Collection Development, on what librarians call "weeding." Weeding is when a librarian from time to time discards books that have been little used or are worn out. Yes, they discard them, and that means they throw them away, though sometimes the books go to reading programs etc. This is done because no one library can hold every book, and shelf space is at a premium.
I'm going to try really hard this weekend to weed my books and maybe even sort them.
What are the criteria for weeding, you ask? Well, poor physical condition is probably the number one reason, followed by outdated information and/or lack of patron interest. Wish me luck because I weed my books regularly and it is very difficult to find things to discard.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Yeats exhibit in Dublin

I was reading an excellent article today about a major exhibit about the Irish poet William Butler Yeats going on in Dublin. It sounds fascinating, with lots of multimedia components of interest to aspiring high-tech librarians like me. To quote a bit from the story, which talks about a letter to Yeats from his passionate friend Maud Gonne:
Yeats taped the letter into the notebook. Now, a century later, that book is on display at the National Library of Ireland, opened to a page that is just barely visible under the indirect lighting prescribed for aged ink treasures. Yet every syllable — every comma-deprived sentence, every curve in her script, every ampersand — is legible. Next to the display case the entire notebook has been digitally reincarnated. With the stroke of a finger on a touch screen, a visitor can flip through pages written 100 years ago and summon an image of this letter, or any other entry. If needed, Gonne’s handwriting can be deciphered on a pop-up screen that types out her fevered scrawl.

Read the whole story here. This is very exciting stuff to me.
The heartbreak is that I could have seen the exhibit when I was in Dublin last year, but didn't. It's one of several things that we just didn't jam into our few days in the city. Knowing what I know now, I would have made room for it by bumping something else. On the other hand, the visit to Dublin was a sumptious feast, especially from a literary point of view. So it's like enjoying a fabulous full-course meal and then complaining afterwards because you didn't get a cheese plate too. (And boy do I like cheese plates.) Instead I'll just be thankful for the feast!

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Flannery O'Connor, Parker's Back and Comforts of Home

A few weeks ago I was feeling like I had been reading "junk food" lately and wanted to engage with something more substantial. So I read for the first time Flannery O'Connor's short story, "Parker's Back."
How great this story is! It's funny and real and transcendent, all at the same time. What I like about O'Connor is the way her stories are very much in the school of realism, while also being highly symbolic.
It's about a man named Parker who is married, not so happily, to Sarah Ruth. He's also addicted to getting tattoos, which she doesn't like. Rather than divulge anymore, I will instead urge you to run, don't walk, to your nearest library and get a copy of "Parker's Back." You'll find it in the short story collection "Everything that Rises Must Converge" or "The Complete Short Stories." I also want to point you to a wonderful web site I discovered while googling "Parker's Back."
The site is Comforts of Home: The Flannery O'Connor Repository -- created by a librarian, naturally! It is a collection of information and links to authorative information about Flannery O'Connor. I particularly like that it includes a bibliography, aka "Offline resources," for those critical essays that you can't get on the Web. (Shocking but true -- not everything is on the Web.) This site really is a superb model for Web sites that celebrate great literature.

Sunday, July 06, 2008

Lincoln and Spoon River Anthology

I picked up Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln to read during a short vacation. I did not finish it yet, but it's an excellent book; I'm quite engaged with it.
I was excited to see that it quotes an Spoon River Anthology poem early on. (The index tells me this is the only SRA poem quoted.) It quotes arguably the most famous of the SRA poems:

Anne Rutledge

OUT of me unworthy and unknown
The vibrations of deathless music;
“With malice toward none, with charity for all.”
Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions,
And the beneficent face of a nation
Shining with justice and truth.
I am Anne Rutledge who sleep beneath these weeds,
Beloved in life of Abraham Lincoln,
Wedded to him, not through union,
But through separation.
Bloom forever, O Republic,
From the dust of my bosom!
Anne Rutledge was the young love of Abraham Lincoln. She died early, and he never got over it, or so the story goes. There's not a whole lot of evidence to support this, but it's certainly part of the Lincoln legend that she died young, and that the loss affected Lincoln forever.
Abraham Lincoln haunts Spoon River. The poems in Spoon River are set roughly during the turn of the century, so the Civil War would have been in the living memory of some of the older people of Spoon River. I think a good idea for a student paper would be to trace the influence of Lincoln and the Civil War in Spoon River Anthology.
My favorite Lincoln poem from SRA, though, is this one:
Hannah Armstrong

I WROTE him a letter asking him for old times’ sake
To discharge my sick boy from the army;
But maybe he couldn’t read it.
Then I went to town and had James Garber,
Who wrote beautifully, write him a letter;
But maybe that was lost in the mails.
So I traveled all the way to Washington.
I was more than an hour finding the White House.
And when I found it they turned me away,
Hiding their smiles. Then I thought:
“Oh, well, he ain’t the same as when I boarded him
And he and my husband worked together
And all of us called him Abe, there in Menard.”
As a last attempt I turned to a guard and said:
“Please say it’s old Aunt Hannah Armstrong
From Illinois, come to see him about her sick boy
In the army.”
Well, just in a moment they let me in!
And when he saw me he broke in a laugh,
And dropped his business as president,
And wrote in his own hand Doug’s discharge,
Talking the while of the early days,
And telling stories.
You have to be cautious about examing war in Spoon River Anthology, though, because some of the poems refer to the Spanish-American War, not the Civil War. One of the most moving poems, "Harry Wilmans," refers to the Spanish-American War, which Masters very much opposed.
Harry Wilmans

I WAS just turned twenty-one,
And Henry Phipps, the Sunday-school superintendent,
Made a speech in Bindle’s Opera House.
“The honor of the flag must be upheld,” he said,
“Whether it be assailed by a barbarous tribe of Tagalogs
Or the greatest power in Europe.”
And we cheered and cheered the speech and the flag he waved
As he spoke.
And I went to the war in spite of my father,
And followed the flag till I saw it raised
By our camp in a rice field near Manila,
And all of us cheered and cheered it.
But there were flies and poisonous things;
And there was the deadly water,
And the cruel heat,
And the sickening, putrid food;
And the smell of the trench just back of the tents
Where the soldiers went to empty themselves;
And there were the whores who followed us, full of syphilis;
And beastly acts between ourselves or alone,
With bullying, hatred, degradation among us,
And days of loathing and nights of fear
To the hour of the charge through the steaming swamp,
Following the flag,
Till I fell with a scream, shot through the guts.
Now there’s a flag over me in Spoon River!
A flag! A flag!