First Editions/Vercors

The English textbooks my big sister suffered through for four years of private high schooling were called Literature and Life. She didn’t care to read, and being just the opposite of her, I dug into these books off and on but remember only one selection from any of the volumes. I think the title of the work was “Nevertheless,” merely a story about a couple of kids, perhaps teenagers, laughing over the word nevertheless. (As for nonetheless, they probably would have laughed harder.) I thought the story worthless, but it made an impression on me: every time I read or hear the word “nevertheless,” I think of that story. Surely a textbook with such a grand title had more to offer, and it’s offering itself now as the name of my blog, for that’s what I intend to write about: literature and life.

Outside the day is a bit dreary, but inside my study, with its walls of bright yellow, it always seems the sun is shining, a prop I need to get through routine chores. But alas, the yellow walls are in only this room, and that dictates the selection of activity. But before preparing my lunch, I made myself get through another chapter in the book I’m reading. (I will tell about it later.) That is a great plus in my accomplishments for the day, as the tome has 642 pages. I’m ready for page 112. When I hold up the closed treasure, with its bookmark barely sticking out, it looks like so little read. But each turn of the page counts and in time they accumulate.

I read several books at the same time, just as the author of the above book, in an interview, said she does. Perhaps many writers do. It’s been my custom for many years to have about a dozen going concurrently, reading what suits my mood or need at the time. But when one of the twelve grabs me harder than the others—perhaps as far as halfway through—I move on with it and get it finished first. Occasionally before the second one of this dozen crosses the finish line, a new book, or two or three, have entered the house, and the stack grows. I wouldn’t be quite happy if not for a stack of mainly new books to devour. And devour is what I want to do when my shopping bag weighs heavy with new books. I look at the author’s photo at the store, read the short bio there; then at home I break in each volume as the librarian at my high school showed us how to do, check the title page, the back of the title page (looking for a first edition), the dedication, the acknowledgements, index if any, look at but don’t read the notes if any, sometimes read an introduction or preface, but I never read about the book in the material on the dust cover. The book’s surprises are not to spring forth that soon.

As for first editions, someone asked me, “Why do you want first editions in these new books? They aren’t worth anything.” I’m not interested in paying a fortune for old first editions to someone who perhaps bought them new at the regular price. Why not let value multiply while a book is in my possession? We never know when one of them may become a rare one in these days of mass destruction. But I don’t collect first editions seriously, just spasmodically, like when I find one I want to read.

What a joy it is to come across a volume (preferably small) that in some way appears unique. So I buy it. The greatest one I’ve acquired that way is The Silence of the Sea by Vercors, translated from the French. Jean Bruller, who used the pen name for an obvious reason—he wrote it clandestinely in Nazi-occupied Paris—tells a fascinating story of patriotism and passive resistance with only three characters: an older uncle, his adult niece, and the German officer who has taken over part of their “chateau,” as he calls it, for his own habitat, and the barn for his men. The unique quality of this work shows up in the enemy officer’s doing all the talking with no reply from his French hosts.

I have often thought what a great stage play this story would be and how inexpensive to produce with its one setting. But drama groups want set and costume changes in a play, and more characters than three, with all of them talking. But great dramatic and cinematic action often occurs with the eyes and body language. This tiny volume I purchased at a lending library (that was discarding it, for it was worn) in a San Francisco department store, for only twenty-five cents, and it was a first edition to boot. Somewhere through the years, I bought a soft-cover copy in French, a language I cannot read. I would have bought it in any language. I doubt it was ever published in German, which I could have understood. In English I have read The Silence of the Sea at least fifty times. Faster readers than I can manage it in less than an hour.

P. D. James once said in a television interview that she reads the five novels of Jane Austen every year. Someone out there will say, “No wonder she doesn’t write many books herself. She doesn’t have time.” But she’s written quite a long list of books. She must use the rest of her time wisely.

If a book is truly good, it merits reading more than once. When you eat your favorite food, does one time do it for you? A good book offers so much more variety of ideas, style, excitement, beauty, drama, LIFE, than does any pizza. Besides, you may learn something from the book. The only lasting affects of eating pizza are weight gain and a memory for more weight gain.