It’s been awhile since I’ve wrote a review so I’m a bit rusty. Here I go. The Library Book was, I will admit, a book club book. I’m not a book club peIt’s been awhile since I’ve wrote a review so I’m a bit rusty. Here I go. The Library Book was, I will admit, a book club book. I’m not a book club person, I tend to rant and throw around references and gesticulate to hell so most book club patrons are kind of horrified by me. Thankfully I DID NOT attend the discussion and decided to keep this to myself.
Background (not really to do with the book, so you purist review readers may not like this): My elementary school was built in 1891. When I was there in the 1970s there was no gym (we used a classroom) the big hall on the first floor was transformed into the cold lunch station (big table/chair combos set up) and the big hall on the second floor was our library. It was made up of about 8 stacks of books on a couple of area rugs and a few round tables. On each side were classrooms in full session. I would plant myself on one of said area rugs and just forget about everything. Often I would be ushered back to class and would return with my head full of wonders. Would Nancy find the Spider Sapphire on her trip to Africa? Will the Ingalls children have to quit school because of the grasshopper invasion? Will Pa survive the blizzard? Will Mary and Dickon be able to help Colin?
So, you can see my dilemma… not enough time to fit all this in. But then we would have the McGruff read-a-thons. This was my all out excuse to immerse myself in as many books as I could find since my parents and all their friends were donating 10 cents per book I read to stopping neighborhood crime! Who would contest that?
The public library in Manchester, NH was built in 1850s. Now, I’m not a fan of Manchester AT ALL but they did have an impressive library. I remember when I could get my first library card… we had to be able to write our names… I remember walking those looming stacks, finding the most comfortable chair, reading by the big window in the hallway. It was a haul for my parents to bring me down there (not being readers they couldn’t understand my fascination) so I didn’t get to make many memories there until I visited it again with my daughter when she was about 2. I would read to her in that same hallway, We would marvel at the punch card machine and giggle over the posters in the children’s room. Alas, she is not a reader now and when I try to share these memories she rolls her eyes. Shame.
Okay.. now the book.
“Sometimes it’s harder to notice a place you think you know well; your eyes glide over it, seeing it but not seeing it at all. It’s almost as if familiarity gives you a kind of temporary blindness. I had to force myself to look harder and try to see beyond the concept of library that was so latent in my brain.”
This books starts with the LA Central Library Fire of 1986. Remember that? Nope.. neither did I.. it might be because it was the same week as Chernobyl so it didn’t make national news right off. This fire burned for 7 hours and destroyed or damaged over one million books. It lost manuscripts, music, maps, microfiche (oh my). Hundreds of volunteers worked around the clock for the next 3 days.
“They formed a human chain, passing the books hand over hand from one person to the next, through the smoky building and out the door. It was as if, in this urgent moment, the people of Los Angeles formed a living library. The created, for that short time, a system to protect and pass along shared knowledge, to save what we know for each other, which is what libraries do every day.”
Holy crud. Imagine that site. It makes my eyes water. Book lovers are my peeps. This would send me over the edge.
So, the book centers on the investigation of the fire but also delves into the burning of libraries over the course of history (did you know that Library of Alexandria actually burned 3 times? So it was built up again and then lost and again… Christ) the history of the Central Library itself and also what is happening to modern libraries today. I was fascinated by the discussions with the librarians, security guards, help line workers (people actually call the library to find out google-able stuff) library packers, the trends of a library..
“The people in shipping know all the trends. They can tell when a book has been recommended by Oprah, because they will pack dozens of copies that have been requested all over the city. The know that the day after any holiday, the load will be heavy: Apparently, everyone in Los Angeles gets on the computer right after Thanksgiving dinner and makes requests for diet books.”
It makes me want to go to library school. I have found a renewed love for my librarian friends. I dreamed about the smell of books, the smell of libraries, the smell of burning paper.
“In Senegal, the polite expression for saying someone died is to say his or her library has burned… Our minds and should contain volumes inscribed by our experience and emotions; each individuals consciousness is a collection of memories we’ve cataloged and store inside us, a private library of a life lived.”
Isn’t that beautiful? This book is a must read for bibliophile. For anyone on this site. FOR THE LOVE OF HUMANITY. (okay, I’m reaching.. I know..)
“A library is a good place to soften solitude; a place where you feel part of a conversation that has gone on for hundreds and hundreds of years even when you’re all alone. The library is a whispering post. You don’t need to take a book off ta shelf to now there is a voice inside that is waiting to speak to you, and behind that was someone who truly believed that if he or she spoke, someone would listen.”
It's hard to be a cynic, much less a hatah when you have something pure like this. This may not be my favorite book, but I can't say that I didn't enjIt's hard to be a cynic, much less a hatah when you have something pure like this. This may not be my favorite book, but I can't say that I didn't enjoy giving up a few hours on a Wednesday night to visit Michael's world.
When I was little and told to say my prayers (by hypocritical lapsed catholics, by the way) I would start by asking that my family be safe (yeah, that didn't work out so well now, did it?) and then hit the trivial things like asking that Jimmy Watts would notice me or maybe my mom could buy me the new Olivia Newton John album? Ah... to be so oblivious.
Michael has just moved into a new house. 'House' being used in the loosest of descriptions. The previous owner wasn't so much into home improvement as he was into slowly dying. The yard is a mess of weeds and there is a toilet in the dining room. The garage is a home to broken appliances, rolls of linoleum, planks, boxes, bugs and something else.
"I thought he was dead. He was sitting with his legs stretched out and his head tipped back against the wall. He was covered in dust and webs like everything else and his face was thin and pale. Dead bluebottles were scattered on his hair and shoulders. I shined the flashlight on his white face and his black suit."
Meet Skellig. Say his name a few times. Notice how your tongue is trapped behind your teeth. Feel the grit. Accentuate the 'guh'. Yeah... now close your eyes and visualize Skellig... decrepit, emaciated, mean, gruff. He's like a bad guy in a fairy tale, right? The guy that you'd cross the street to avoid. And he lives in Michael's garage.
Did I mention that Michael's baby sister is dying? Oh, sorry about that. Michael doesn't like to dwell on that. Instead he makes friend with Mina, a girl who lives down the street who is home-schooled, likes to sing William Blake poems, and draw blackbirds and owls. He plays hookie to help his dad fix up the house. He tries to nurse Skellig by feeding him takeout chinese (27 and 53-nectar of the gods), beer, and cod liver oil. When he does go to school he learns about skeletons and wonders why people have shoulder blades. (They say it where your wings were, when you were an angel, Michael's mom explains, they say they're where your wings will grow again one day.)
Where does all this lead? What do children wish for? What do you do when your baby sister is in the hospital tied to wires and tubes? Do miracles really exist? ' You have to believe in magic' Olivia once crooned. 'If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.' says Blake.
"What are you?" I whispered. He shrugged again. "Something," he said. "Something like you, something like a beast, something like a bird, something like an angel." He laughed. "Something like that." He smiled. ...more
I can’t really express how much this book affected me. I was thinking I might just skip the review thingy and just leave it as ‘holy shit’ and be doneI can’t really express how much this book affected me. I was thinking I might just skip the review thingy and just leave it as ‘holy shit’ and be done with it. Of course, I can’t do that. It’s been 3 days since I finished it and I find myself going back and rereading lines and calling up scenes. Why? Because these characters are better than me and I live in retrospect. These stories pull at my gut and bring me back to times where ‘shoulda’ and ‘maybe if’ exist even though I know I can never go back and undo what has happened. Those events and my actions are a part of me. They are noxious memories that cannot be candy coated. My bad.
Maybe I am a stereotype. One that writers can hone in on and know that I am where the $$$ is at. I seem to be drawn to a certain classification. Motherless-child-of-cancer-who-has-many-regrets (read: Catholic Guilt)-and-is-stunted-therefore-never-learning-how-to-be-a-real-grownup! Lorrie Moore, Susan Minot, Sonya Sones …they nail it. Now I can add Julie Orringer to the list. She captures the little girl who is strong when she has every reason not to be. She empowers these girls. Not all are part of the above classification. Some are just young girls thrown into situations that shape them.. Show how fierce they can be. I so admire this. This was so not me. I was invisible. My mom was dying and I ignored it. I fought with her, I didn’t listen to her medical updates, I turned up my radio when she was crying in the next room. I was angry that her illness took over my life. I was forced to babysit and cook dinner and clean up. I was 12 and hiding outside until after dark so I wouldn’t have to deal with the sighs of pain or the blank look in her face. I was 13 and staying over at a friend’s house, pretending that I was a normal girl with a normal life. I was 14 and wretching as I cleaned her hair out of the drain. What a bitch.
The girls in these stories are who I wish I had been. Helena in ‘What We Save’ who watches her mom shrink away and assumes the role of caregiver. Mira, the strong artist with the supermodel cousin in ‘When She is Old and I am Famous’ who doubts her talents yet still doesn’t pretend to be someone other than who she is. Ella in ‘Pilgrims’-- silent yet always seeing, always aware even when her parents are grabbing onto whatever fad might help them. (I was 15 and being dragged to church to pray when we had never really prayed before and what the hell would God do now?) Maddy in ‘The Isabel Fish’ -oh, Maddy, you might just be my favorite.. With your inner monologue--such perception!
I was 17, leaving home as soon as the diploma was in my sweaty hands. Running away seemed the best choice. I hid behind a thin wall of pretend adulthood. Set my own rules, see what I want to see, no silicone breasts or wigs or bottles upon bottles of medications set out with such reverence. Cancer dropped from my vocabulary.
I was 18 and my mother was nothing more than a skeleton. In the 5 months since I had moved she had withered. I couldn’t look her in the eye. I couldn’t say I was sorry. I couldn’t admit that I was so very wrong in the way I treated her.
These girls… they are incredible and I thank Julie for putting them to paper, fleshing them out, giving me a chance to know them and pretend I had chosen a different path. ...more
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