I used to be embarrassed if someone “caught “ me looking at
the books on their shelves. I’m over
that. I am a book person. I look, no apologies.
I love the new book My Ideal Bookshelf wherein the editors
asked a bunch of people, some writers, but also artists and designers of all
kinds, to assemble their ideal bookshelf.
Then an artist did watercolors (at least, I think they’re watercolors)
of the books on each shelf (when in reality it’s doubtful that they occupy a
single shelf. Mine surely don’t, not
even in the above photo). One guy
chose his ideal bookshelf based on the colors of their spines. Why not?
He is an artist. An ideal
bookshelf for me is tough to assemble. I could probably assemble a dozen ideal
bookshelves, depending on mood, the weather, alcohol intake, etc. For this list, I began to think of books that
were influential to me, books that have been read over and over, books that
were touchstones for important experiences or relationships in my life. My Ideal Bookshelf. Here it is.
Paddle-to-the-Sea, Holling Clancy Holling. This is the classic 1941 children’s book illustrating
the Great Lakes and the romance of the north. Holling was an artist and this is geography,
gorgeous and inviting. My father’s mother,
a children’s librarian, gave this to me, signed and dated.
Lives of the Saints, 1955.
The only book in my Grandmother’ Flynn’s house (other than the bible). Furthermore, she had no television (actually,
she had one, just no reception). Thus,
we read this book, looking mostly at the illustrations of the violent ends of
the martyrs. After my Grandma died my
Aunt gave my grandmother’s copy to me.
St Joseph’s Daily Missal.
The standard Confirmation gift, consulted at daily mass, and also Sunday
mass. I read it until the covers came
off. I probably had mine for only three
years before they stopped saying the mass in Latin. I recently acquired another copy, this one in
near mint condition, except the child owner’s name and address in the front.
Doubtless a Confirmation gift for a would-be Catholic who never attended mass
again. I am happy to have the Latin at
my fingertips once again.
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. My father gave me these for Christmas in
1969. There are four volumes, bound in
red leather and the pages are gilt with gold leaf on the top. The print is too small for me to read now,
without a magnifying glass. The same Christmas he gave me a stopwatch, as at 16
I was a serious runner. The first (of
few!) early hints that my dad knew what I was about.
Mount Analogue, Rene Daumal, 1952 I had heard of this in the climbing
underground long before I found a copy of it.
I now own two translations of it, a hardcover first edition in English,
and a copy in the original French. The cult classic for all hippie
mountaineers, wanna-be mystics of the 1970s.
Under the Volcano, Malcolm Lowry, 1947. How can a story
about death by dissipation be so beautiful?
How can I love a fictional character who is so utterly . . . helpless? The miracle of language is here.
foto Hnos Mayo. 1992. This is a book of photographs taken in the
forties and fifties in Mexico by the Hermanos Mayo, Spaniards who fled Franco’s
Spain and championed the working class.
The book was an extravagance that I bought at the Los Angeles Museum of
Art when I couldn’t afford it. It became
a touchstone for my novel Forty Crows, which is set mostly in Mexico City. It was published in a limited run as a
catalog for an exhibition. I love owning
it and thinking of its scarcity.
Climbs on Alpine Peaks, Abate Achille Ratti (Pope Pius XI),
1923. The ecstasy of climbing as
recorded by the then-not-yet pope. The main climb he writes about here is an
early ascent of the Dufourspitz of Monte Rosa from the Italian side, a peak
John McInerney and I climbed in 1980.
The Mont Blanc Massif: the 100 Finest Routes, Gaston
Rebuffat. The 100 finest routes in order
of difficulty. A guidebook, a history, a
coffee table book. I carried it with me
on European climbing trips and copied out the route descriptions on scraps of
paper that I carried in my pocket on climbs.
Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell (2004). For thirteen years we lived in a town that
didn’t have bookstore. Thus whenever we
had to go to a larger town, for medical reasons, say, we also went to the
bookstore. Thus I bought my copy of this the day I was diagnosed with
cancer. And I read it weeks later after
surgery and in a morphine haze. (See
last post, .)
The Path to Tranquility, Daily Wisdom. The Dalai Lama. These are short daily meditations. I try to read them every day. I read them as I once read St Joseph’s Daily
Missal (sporadically, but with good intentions!).
Of Walking in Ice, Werner Herzog. In 1974 Herzog travelled by foot in midwinter
from Munich to Paris under the belief than the pilgrimage would somehow ensure
the survival of his friend the film historian Lotte Eisner who was dying of
some terrible illness. The book purports to be a transcription of his journal
from the trip. I know of nothing else
like it: it's an interior look at an artist’s mind. Although I have only
had my copy for two years, it has gone out of print again and used copies are rare
and expensive. I am lucky to own it.
