There's something magical about libraries.
I'm not talking about the south stacks of Memorial Library, where you can feel like a wizard by moving the bookshelves with a touch of a button. Libraries are filled with books that have been read and touched by other people. The idea of getting novels and poetry books for free has always been an obvious incentive in my insistence of getting a public library card at every new city I stay in, no matter how briefly, the real reason I love libraries is that I love used books.
Perhaps it is simply another facet of my bad habit of hiding out in other people's pasts, but I love the idea of being connected with former readers from other times and places. When a friend lent me a copy of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test,"" she prefaced it by warning me about the residue left by dead bugs that had flown into its pages when she had read it while camping in Ecuador. Rather than being grossed out, I imagined that I was in a humid tent in a South American rainforest while I read it and would look at every brown spot with nostalgia for memories that weren't even my own. Although I didn't even enjoy ""Acid Test"" itself very much, the act of reading it connected me with the mysteries of someone else's private life.
I love getting books out of libraries that have notes in the margins. Every now and again, while reading a book for class I bought from the University Bookstore, I'll notice that a former reader has underlined something that has no significance in terms of literary analysis, but simply sounds beautiful. I always read old books wondering if previous readers were touched by the same things I was and if places where the pages are warped are the result of tears or a spilt drink.
The truth is, there is much more to reading than simply consuming words. Listening to authors read their books aloud on tape is valuable in its own way, there is something unique about the experience of reading a physical book, especially a used book. Each crease in a book's binding is a physical reminder of someone else's page-turning. Reading a used book is like being able to reach into an old photograph and touch someone, while still being able to imagine and guess at their idiosyncrasies.
When I checked out John Fante's ""Dreams From Bunker Hill,"" from the library for the first time, there was a typed-written note tucked in between the table of contents and the first page. The note, from the late '80s, thanked the librarian who had hunted down the book for her and was signed by a woman who lived in Middleton. I knew, before I even read the first page, ""Dreams"" would be one of my favorites. After all, if it had moved this woman so much she wrote a thank-you note, how could I not enjoy it?
I did, and after finishing it and brushing my hands over the back cover, I looked at the note again. I wondered if the librarian had ever received it and - if he had - if he replaced it because he thought that symbol of appreciation had become part of the book itself.
If you would like to send Frances your used books, get in touch with her at provine@wisc.edu.
