The stories old books tell

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In one of her blogs a classmate described herself as someone who has “multiple orgasms whenever she sees a book sale” and though quite graphic, that could have easily described me too.

I therefore felt sinful after visiting National Bookstore in Cubao this week.

In the fourth level of the biggest bookstore branch of the biggest bookstore in the country, I found stacks, shelves, piles and bundles of old books ranging from flop bibliographies that are still displayed side by side, sometimes occupying an entire shelf level, to rare titles that perhaps the bookworms of old would recommend.

Although I indulged in the pleasure for about an hour, I felt dissatisfied and promised to return. I already gathered a pile of books that piqued my curiosity but dropped them at a text message.

When I came back at past 8 o’clock, they were already closing.

I hereby resolve to spend at least one whole day in the store soon. It takes patience to scour the shelves for titles that sound good or authors that ring a bell, especially because the books are not categorized or arranged at all.

The top floor is not book heaven where the Saint Peter of books can point you to a title you want or need. It is book purgatory: you need to pray for the books to find them.

But since I think one of the profound joys in this world is to buy a good book for less than the price of a snack, I can live there.

Most of the few books I own were bought from stalls in the University of the Philippines, where students refuse to buy books for class, preferring to photocopy the pages they need, but would kill for books they can read at their leisure. Contrary to popular belief, chemistry, physics or math books are not our ideas for light afternoon reading.

My favorite book, Robert Fulghum’s “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten” was bought after a Mathematics 17 exam during my freshman year in UP.

My heart heavy and my brain wrung dry after I submitted a bluebook that was good as empty, I passed by the gate leading to the AS Steps and thought about the book sale while feeling my wallet. I less than P200 in my pocket and doubted if I kept more cash in my dormitory room. Still, I spent it on a good title.

True enough, I got my money’s worth. The book preserved my sanity that dull and dreary weekend. Even now, I sift through the pages every now and then. I also bought two more copies of the book to give away.

I buy old books for practical reasons (read: this is being written by a student who subsists on allowance from his parents).

But talk about money aside, I buy old books because I am sentimental.

Whenever I buy books, I sign my name on the cover page or at the back of the cover itself, noting when I flipped the first page. I am acquainted with the joy in owning a crisp and clean copy of a book you loved.

But owning a book owned by someone before you, from someone you can never know, has its beauty. When I started buying old books, I stopped each time I wrote my name to wonder who held the book in their hands before I did.

Old books therefore tell more than stories written on their pages: they narrate by the scribbling on some corners, cracks on the cover or stains caused by tears or spilt coffee.

With an old book in hand you are not simply reading a story, you are holding one.

Image from here.