A Mania for Cloth Bound Collectibles

Title page from Volume I of an Earl's Edition
of the works of Benjamin Disraeli  

When I was eight years old and the family hired movers to help us relocate, my father’s personal library was catalogued and found to number over 5,000 volumes. I inherited a portion of these in 1989, and donated some to Casa Loma, whose library shelves—believe it or not—were filled with wooden replicas. (I discovered this while mounting an exhibit of 20th century wedding gowns at the famous location.) I have carefully stored many of the remaining books, displaying and enjoying them by rotation. 

Recently, feeling the press of post-holiday excess and frightened by an episode of Hoarders, I attempted a purge of my 19^th century book collection, but instead, I ended up adding to my library of second, third, and special edition classics. As I reacquainted myself with these cloth-bound beauties—running my fingers through deckled, slightly yellowed pages, and lifting the occasional translucent sheet to gaze at hand-colored illustrations—I fell in love all over again. The marbled endpapers of one volume alone reawakened my passion for such literary treasures.

Alison Hoover Bartlett, author of The Man Who Loved Books Too Much, (a fabulous read) believes “the allure of any book is in large part sensual.” Indeed, the thingness of books has appealed to collectors long before digital technology threatened to make bound paper obsolete.In a dedicated search for first editions, collectors and bibliomaniacs often overlook later edition classics, but these are often the very books with the most decorative covers, as publishers were often more willing to cover the extra cost of decorative bindings once a particular title had become a sure thing. 

The purge will have to wait. I love books too much not to bring them along with me into my sixties. 

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Back to the Future

Norma at Six Months 

I've decided to take a look back before going forward. Check me out. This was me at the same age my granddaughter is now.

There are no props to look at, no context really. This diaper-clad cutie is not surrounded by hats and books, cameras and computers, dolls and dresses, as I am now. Just Norma; just her, just me.

I recognize the eyebrows, the lips, and the long waist.  I've still got the cleavage, and can pick things up off of the floor with my curly toes. All good stuff. The pinch-able upper arm flesh is kind of back, though, so I'd better get to those push-ups.

As babies go, there's not much of a bum there. Still isn't. In our family, we call that particular genetic trait "The Thomas Bottom". Distinguished sounding, don't you think? It comes with great legs, so I've never really minded not being able to properly fill out the ass of my jeans.

That's a happy-looking baby, with no idea of what lies ahead for her. I think I'll try and recapture some of that, starting today.

It's hard to believe I used to inhabit her little body. Is reincarnation just a gradual process?  What do you see when you look at your baby pictures?