Holiday Book Exchange
This Christmas I heard about a local family’s very interesting gift-giving idea. Rather than fighting holiday shopping crowds to hunt down the perfect sweater-vest for Uncle Wayne and the snazziest Snuggie for Aunt Vernita, each family member wrapped up his or her favorite book from the previous year and contributed it to a “Dirty Santa”-style gift exchange.
I thought this book-recycling project sounded like a really cool way to connect with family members who would likely end up with a book they would never have ordinarily picked up. In the best of all possible worlds, maybe families who don’t have much to say to each other (or have a few too many un-civil things to say all the way through Christmas dinner) could at least talk about good books and their reasoning for picking out their particular titles.
The anti-consumerist aspect of it appealed to me as well, as I genrally try to avoid coming within a three-mile radius of a shopping center from late-November to January. On the other hand, this book-exchange idea would present me with a couple of serious problems.
First, I’ve gotten to the point where I almost never actually buy a book. Even if the library system doesn’t have a title in its collection, the surprisingly speedy “Inter-Library Loan” option allows patrons to request just about any title for library staff to track down from other libraries all across the country.
I’ve also found that I’m especially compelled and driven to read library books because of the finite nature of the loan. If I buy a book, it can sit on the shelf for years, decades even, and I won’t necessarily feel like I have to read it. With library books, on the other hand, I can renew it for up to six weeks but I know I’m eventually going to have to give it back. This really works as a serious motivator to either put down a book I’m not enjoying or power all the way to the end of a great read.
Finally, I’m a lot like a struggling Little Leaguer at the end of a season-long slump when it comes to reading. I mean, I just love to have that trophy at the end to keep on the shelf.
There’s a painfully true Seinfeld episode where Jerry and George argue the merits of keeping books they’ve already read, and I definitely fall into the mildly shameful category of people who have to keep them like the antlers of some big game hanging on the wall.
If, for example, I ever finished James Joyce’s Ulysses (hell, if I ever got through the first chapter), there’s no way I could give that book away to Cousin Cletus at the Dirty Santa exchange. I’d prop that baby up on the coffee table as a permanant conversation piece to brag about endlessly to anyone unfortunate enough to ask me what it was doing there.
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Comments
Oh, and I can’t remember where Sadie asked if anyone really reads all of Moby Dick and Ulysses. I, too, would like to be able to say I’ve read Ulysses, completely understood it, and here’s my copy! (Well, I already have the copy, I just haven’t read it yet.)
Is there a Reader’s Digest version of Joyce’s masterpiece? And could you read it without feeling guilty? And would you be able to talk intelligently about the book once you digested the digested version? I can just imagine the abridged version of the final section of the book: “Yes, she said, for so many reasons.”
Love the idea, Chris, and I certainly can relate to your book trophy syndrome. After I moved from a big house to a small apartment I had to confront my book hoarding instinct. I had to choose to keep only the ones I really couldn’t part with, and weed the rest. Tons of my books went to friends, used book stores, and the Metro Friends book sale. Since I’ve been in a cracker box for more than ten years, I occasionally have to revisit the weeding process. It certainly helps you determine while books have the most meaning to you.