I hate more than anything my books higgledy-piggledy on the shelf: one book here and its sequel at the other end or several shelves down, books by a single author scattered through the collection, topic books in no particular location... When finding a volume is a matter of pawing through my entire library (modest as it is), I hate it.
Then there's the insult of the horizontals, books placed on top of the verticals beneath the shelf above. Books are not meant to lie flat on their covers but stand upright on their spines; they're books, for God's sake. Floor piles, unconscionable. Upside down volumes, an abomination. No! No! No!
I'm not a fussy man, ask anyone, except with regard to books. Mine are organized by author or theme and date of publication. Books that touch each other are related in some way. The whole is an expression of my mind--from the words I've read in individual works, to the selections I've made in possession, to the logical and aesthetic order in which I present them. I don't have that much space, but I use it judiciously, and the result, may I say, was elegant. Then came Sophronia.
My wife swears by her because 'she cleans, really cleans like nobody has ever done.' She's not a kid, nor a matron, not plump nor angular. She has thick, black hair, a lower lip that juts out just beyond her upper, something like dimples at the corner of her mouth, and an eye that, turned on you, pierces or twinkles, and sometimes both at the same time.
I knew something was wrong from the moment I walked in the door. What was it? I turned into my study and stood in shock. The books which had been in their assigned places had been moved. In place of the 'skyline' that I admired and readily navigated, the books had been reshelved by size: the tallest ones on the end and the shortest in the middle, a sort of catenary.
Storming into the kitchen, I got the complacent reply: Sophronia's been getting rid of the dust. You know how sensitive I am to it. What a dynamo she is.
Dynamo. With my books on my shelves. If there's a problem with dust, I would have said something. But I hadn't said anything. And yet my book collection had been rendered as chaotic as rubble after a bombing.
She came twice a week so she wasn't to be back for a few days, which is what I needed to restore a semblance of the order she'd thrown to the winds, and leave a conspicuous note saying that dusting the books and the shelves was unnecessary and would she please not do it.
The note disappeared and a month passed without incident, until, coming home one Monday a few weeks later, the books were now in a new order: the tallest books at the middle of the shelves, and shortest on the ends, like hyperbolic curves.
And a note: Sir, there was dust, and it's gone now.
No sympathy in the kitchen. None. 'Don't say a work about Fronia, I'm in awe,' said my wife. 'I've wanted this house really clean for a long time and now finally I've found someone who'll do it.' She turned on me, 'Don't say anything to make her angry, do you hear me? She can go anywhere and I don't want to lose her.'
'Well, if she touches my books again...' I blustered as I went back to reorder my jumbled library. It would probably be a few weeks before she dusted again, so I got ready to move my easy chair and a small but solid desk in front the the bookcases to block access and to tape onto each item a stern: 'No dusting.'
But she caught me flatfooted. The day before I thought she would be dusting, she dusted, and this time the books were arranged like smooth waves, up and down across the shelves, novels next to histories next to philosophy, no system, no order.
I was furious--fascinated, but still angry enough to try to booby trap the shelves. My idea was that when she took down one book, it would be attached by cords to others next to it so that books would avalanche onto her. I know, it's a desecration to treat books that way, but she was asking for it. I'd met her leaving a couple of times as I came home, and she had given me a corner of the mouth smile and quick look that said she wasn't anybody's person but her own. Well, nor was I. My bookshelves the way I wanted: that's that, even if she pulls the OED down on her head.
What did I find one day coming home? The books in square waves moving across the shelves, and the cords neatly coiled on my desk. 'You're not making Fronia upset, are you,' my wife asked strongly. 'What about me?' I asked. 'What about you?' she retorted.
Then I had a brainstorm. When she came the next time, I'd arranged the bookshelves into sawtooth forms, lines sloping gradually up to the tallest book, then dropping straight down the shortest, over and over. Had she dusted? I wondered, as I look at the shelves seemingly untouched as I'd left them.
The next time, I arranged the books into pulses--short, short, short, tall, short, short, short, tall--from left to right, and left them for her to admire. But when I got home, my wife flung herself at me. 'What have you done? Fronia's given her notice. You did it, I'm sure. I'll never find someone like her again.'
When I went into my study, I found that, using books from other shelves, she'd lain books across the tops of the pulses I'd created, and there, just a little beneath the ceiling--she must have stood on a chair--she had stood my shortest volumes in a row close together but not touching, like dominoes ready to fall in chain reaction.
I got the message.
Then there's the insult of the horizontals, books placed on top of the verticals beneath the shelf above. Books are not meant to lie flat on their covers but stand upright on their spines; they're books, for God's sake. Floor piles, unconscionable. Upside down volumes, an abomination. No! No! No!
I'm not a fussy man, ask anyone, except with regard to books. Mine are organized by author or theme and date of publication. Books that touch each other are related in some way. The whole is an expression of my mind--from the words I've read in individual works, to the selections I've made in possession, to the logical and aesthetic order in which I present them. I don't have that much space, but I use it judiciously, and the result, may I say, was elegant. Then came Sophronia.
My wife swears by her because 'she cleans, really cleans like nobody has ever done.' She's not a kid, nor a matron, not plump nor angular. She has thick, black hair, a lower lip that juts out just beyond her upper, something like dimples at the corner of her mouth, and an eye that, turned on you, pierces or twinkles, and sometimes both at the same time.
I knew something was wrong from the moment I walked in the door. What was it? I turned into my study and stood in shock. The books which had been in their assigned places had been moved. In place of the 'skyline' that I admired and readily navigated, the books had been reshelved by size: the tallest ones on the end and the shortest in the middle, a sort of catenary.
Storming into the kitchen, I got the complacent reply: Sophronia's been getting rid of the dust. You know how sensitive I am to it. What a dynamo she is.
Dynamo. With my books on my shelves. If there's a problem with dust, I would have said something. But I hadn't said anything. And yet my book collection had been rendered as chaotic as rubble after a bombing.
She came twice a week so she wasn't to be back for a few days, which is what I needed to restore a semblance of the order she'd thrown to the winds, and leave a conspicuous note saying that dusting the books and the shelves was unnecessary and would she please not do it.
The note disappeared and a month passed without incident, until, coming home one Monday a few weeks later, the books were now in a new order: the tallest books at the middle of the shelves, and shortest on the ends, like hyperbolic curves.
And a note: Sir, there was dust, and it's gone now.
No sympathy in the kitchen. None. 'Don't say a work about Fronia, I'm in awe,' said my wife. 'I've wanted this house really clean for a long time and now finally I've found someone who'll do it.' She turned on me, 'Don't say anything to make her angry, do you hear me? She can go anywhere and I don't want to lose her.'
'Well, if she touches my books again...' I blustered as I went back to reorder my jumbled library. It would probably be a few weeks before she dusted again, so I got ready to move my easy chair and a small but solid desk in front the the bookcases to block access and to tape onto each item a stern: 'No dusting.'
But she caught me flatfooted. The day before I thought she would be dusting, she dusted, and this time the books were arranged like smooth waves, up and down across the shelves, novels next to histories next to philosophy, no system, no order.
I was furious--fascinated, but still angry enough to try to booby trap the shelves. My idea was that when she took down one book, it would be attached by cords to others next to it so that books would avalanche onto her. I know, it's a desecration to treat books that way, but she was asking for it. I'd met her leaving a couple of times as I came home, and she had given me a corner of the mouth smile and quick look that said she wasn't anybody's person but her own. Well, nor was I. My bookshelves the way I wanted: that's that, even if she pulls the OED down on her head.
What did I find one day coming home? The books in square waves moving across the shelves, and the cords neatly coiled on my desk. 'You're not making Fronia upset, are you,' my wife asked strongly. 'What about me?' I asked. 'What about you?' she retorted.
Then I had a brainstorm. When she came the next time, I'd arranged the bookshelves into sawtooth forms, lines sloping gradually up to the tallest book, then dropping straight down the shortest, over and over. Had she dusted? I wondered, as I look at the shelves seemingly untouched as I'd left them.
The next time, I arranged the books into pulses--short, short, short, tall, short, short, short, tall--from left to right, and left them for her to admire. But when I got home, my wife flung herself at me. 'What have you done? Fronia's given her notice. You did it, I'm sure. I'll never find someone like her again.'
When I went into my study, I found that, using books from other shelves, she'd lain books across the tops of the pulses I'd created, and there, just a little beneath the ceiling--she must have stood on a chair--she had stood my shortest volumes in a row close together but not touching, like dominoes ready to fall in chain reaction.
I got the message.
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