The above is the title of one of the twelve volumes in a series by English author Anthony Powell, published between 1951 and 1975. The stories offer a comical examination of movements and manners, ideas and behavior, of people among the upper crust in England. I read each it them when they came out, and since AbeBooks has some very inexpensive ones, I think I’ll order them. Perfect reading project for this isolation!
All members of my own family and also the extended family believed that books do indeed furnish a room. Every home had book shelves filled with books, from picture books for children to fiction for adults.
I had always thought shelves of books revealed interesting information about the owners, as well as being the foundation for discussions about them. I belong to a book club that meets nine times a year, and hearing the opinions of the various books has always given me new insights and food for thought. It is on hold, of course, and I look forward to the day when it’s safe to meet again.
When my first husband and I moved to Baton Rouge, we rented a house on LSU Avenue, a wonderful two story house with French doors in the living room that opened to a screened porch. It had a bedroom and bath downstairs, and two large bedrooms and a bath upstairs. It also had built in book shelves on either side of the French doors, which were a gift to a book lover like me.
One afternoon, when my fifteen month old daughter was napping, I began putting books on the shelves, sorting them first by genres and then alphabetically by author. I heard the doorbell ring, and when I answered it, found a woman from the house across the street on the steps, a cookie tin in her hands. “A welcome to the neighborhood,” she said, and I asked her in.
I saw her taking in the furnishings in the living room and adjoining dining room, the rugs, the curtains. Then she saw the book shelves. “What in the world are you thinking, putting books on those shelves? You should have something pretty there.”
“Where else would I put them?
“Out of sight.” She headed to the door, shaking her head. I stood there, thinking about the Great Books Club I’d belonged to in Lake Charles. Edith Gibson, a former librarian, had married Joe Gibson when he was a policeman. They lived in Jennings, but then oil was struck on property he owned, and they moved to Lake Charles.
Edith settled in and then began forming book clubs whose members would read classic books and plays, beginning with Aristotle and Socolese. Each club had twenty members, and the same rules, which included the one that said if a member arrived at a meeting in time to get coffee or a Coke from the hostess’ kitchen, well and good. Otherwise, no.
If a member missed three consecutive meetings without cause, she would be asked to resign. All the members in our club were mothers, so if a child were ill, that was considered a cause for staying home.
Another rule was that members had to read the entire book, not just skim over it. Even if they didn’t enjoy it, their negative comments would enhance discussion.
Edith Gibson had established forty of these clubs before I moved to Baton Rouge. Hoping to find the same sort of club there, I checked with every library and asked people I knew if there were, but the answer was no. The Main Library used to have a book discussion club, but there weren’t enough members to keep it going.
I truly felt like a sailor on a desert island, and began dropping Thomas Hardy’s name into conversations at parties. Why I chose Thomas Hardy I’ve no idea, and I was about to change to someone else when a woman, hearing his name, said, “Do you mean the writer?” I said yes. “I guess you read him in college.” “I still read him.” We stared at each other and she said, “What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?” “Nothing I can’t change.” That began a lifelong friendship.
I don’t expect everyone I meet to have the same passion for reading that I do. But what a gift it is to find another person who does.