In the Attic

 

The attic is full of boxes and crates. The boxes and crates are full of books. Every so often I haul out a dozen or so books with the intention of moving them on to a new home. A minority of the titles do indeed find their way into a bag to be taken away. Some of them then find their way out of the bag when I decide that they are after all quite interesting.

However, most of the books do not even get so far as the bag. This is because I have turned some of the pages. And I am now murmuring to myself such phrases as, “oh yes, I remember this, now that would be worth looking into further”; or, “what’s this? Quite forgotten I had it”; or “this really belongs with another book that is further in, though I don’t quite know where. I will put it aside until I find that.”

Sometimes I say to myself that it is no good having books in the attic. I can’t see them or find them when I want them. On the other hand, on those disagreeable days when for one reason or another I cannot get to a second-hand bookshop, it is consoling to know that I can go and browse among these and the number of surprise finds will be almost as good. The attic is a serendipity engine. Since the books are in no particular order, any clutch of them may lead me almost anywhere.

It is true that a certain number of the books are duplicates or indeed quintuplicates. A duplicate, I tell myself, is a good idea because what if the first copy gets lost or damaged? And then other copies are useful to give away to friends. Also, each of the copies may well have a certain individual interest.

This one, for example, bears the bookseller’s label of the Bechuanaland Book Store, and who would not want to keep that? This other has a single-word sprawling signature, which appears to be ‘Gandar’. Who was Gandar? It is worth retaining this copy until we find out. This third has a smeared red back board which looks exactly like The Scarlet Door as envisaged in my story of that title. In other words, though the books tell ostensibly the same story, each copy in fact has a story of its own too.

Then there are the books whose qualities I appreciate but which might not easily find an equal welcome elsewhere. This oil-stained ironmonger’s catalogue, for example, has a certain fascination in its diagrams of nuts and bolts and its trade lingo. The Postal History of Tibet ought to have a specialist interest, but philately is not what it was. The novels of Maurice Baring have a certain urbane, fastidious charm but to how many others? No, no. Booksellers will purse their lips, charity shops will eye the pulp skip, friends will politely demur. It is better to keep giving them a home here.

And then of course there is the memory of the Books That I Have Moved On That I Ought Not to Have Done. There are probably in fact, were I to count them, which would be too painful an exercise,  no more than two dozen of these, but it is two dozen too many. Each one of them hovers in the bibliophilic ether like a reproachful ghost. It is true that some have been replaced by Another Copy. But it is not the same copy, the one that has gone to some fate unknown. These Cautionary Spirits lurk in the background in the attic, arguing against any Too Hasty disposal of any of their comrades. If in doubt, don’t.

These are not the only ghosts. There are also the Books That Have Disappeared. Some of these may in fact belong with the former category in that I have Moved Them On and forgotten I have done so. But there are others where I am pretty certain I could not have done that. So they must still be here. But where? There have even been concerted campaigns, stretching over numerous weary dusty cobwebby hours, of checking every single box and crate and still they have not surfaced. This is very peculiar. Of course, lots of other things have emerged instead, many of which it is gladsome to find. But even so they are not the sought-after thing. And if only I had fewer titles and they were better organized, it would surely turn up. I had better try to winnow them down a bit. Let’s take this dozen or so here . . .

(Mark Valentine)

Image: An Attic in Wales