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Literary Review
ENDPAPER
The bookshelf
Pradeep Sebastian
NETRA SHYAM
FOR some time now I have been preoccupied with staring at my bookshelf. Not the books on the bookshelf but the bookshelf itself. I am not happy with the way it looks. The depth of each shelf is too deep — they look like pigeonholes. Besides, instead of running in straight rows, the shelves have three partitions, making them look like those pockets that you see in those glass showcases. I would have liked the depth of the shelf to be exactly the width and height of a book, no more, no less. And yet I was present when the carpenters built it. I allowed myself to be talked into the design the carpenter had in mind. In retrospect, I wish I had been more fastidious. Why aren't we so particular when it comes to bookshelves? It seems anything that will hold books will do. I seldom see a handsome, well-designed bookshelf here — in most houses showcases double as bookshelves, our educational institutions and libraries think nothing of using those metal, slotted angle shelves ( I am not reconciled to the slotted angle — they should be allowed to house only management and computer books. And perhaps all those writers we feel are overrated) and most furniture showrooms display ornately designed bookshelves that are more tacky than elegant.
Deep or Slim?
I was surprised then when a book-loving friend confessed to me recently that she liked bookshelves with deep pockets. Her own, she said, were remarkably deep. Nevertheless, I said, I preferred bookshelves to be slim and running in straight rows. (A terrible temptation with deep shelves is to have a second row of books. Once books get behind other books, you can never find them when you most need them. They simply disappear.) It was only when I finally saw her bookshelves did I understand why she liked depth: the books were all pushed right in. Mine — and most others I know — were all on the front edge of the shelf. When I pointed this out, she was astonished that books would be on the front edge. "But," she exclaimed, "the shelf will look too two dimensional. When they are in the back, you get a more three dimensional impression. I reserve the space in front for keeping pencils, bookmarks, my reading glasses, even books that I'm in the middle of reading. Also, the books are easier to pull out." Curious, I did the same, pushed them all back, and then stood a little away to appraise the effect.
The shelves indeed did take on a three dimensional depth I never knew they possessed. The books themselves looked more protected somehow and less ostentatious. And she was right: books can be retrieved more easily. This has always proved a problem, whether it is the bookcase at home or the ones in the library: removing a book when the shelf is packed tightly. You mustn't damage the book jacket or the spine — and yet browsers always pull out books by gripping the spine and pulling hard. Or they will hook their finger on the headband of the book and drag it out. When a shelf has depth, all you need to do is push the books in either corner inside, and then any book on the shelf becomes easy to handle. I don't think I am entirely convinced that books should be in the inner recesses of the shelf but I do like the effect.
I know at least one person, Siddharth, the travel writer, who loves bookshelves as much as the books in them. He is very, very particular about how his bookshelves look. The only really elegant bookshelves I have seen are the ones that house his books. When he has to get a new bookshelf made, he spends days on the design, the kind of wood to be used, and where it should be housed. The carpenter is briefed thoroughly before he begins work on it, and every aspect of the workmanship is carefully inspected. If the carpenter cannot meet his specifications, then he will not hesitate to dismantle the whole thing, and begin all over again by hunting for the perfect craftsman.
Pleasurable ritual
One of the most pleasurable rituals associated with bookshelves is taking the books off the shelf periodically to rearrange them. I go one step further and even move my bookshelves around. To do this, I have to first remove the books from the shelf, and once I've found a new place for my bookshelf, put them all back again. What I look forward to is the putting back — you remove them in haste but you labour over the rearrangement. It gives me a chance every few months to physically handle all the books, pause to look closely at the book jacket or read a passage that I remember. And then there is the anticipation of the new arrangement: how will I shelf them this time? Should I abandon the by-author arrangement and categorise them by subject instead? Where should I put the first editions?
In medieval times, books were chained to desks in monasteries and when it became possible a little later to privately own books, they were mostly placed horizontally on desks, windowsills, beds, chairs and all over the floor. It was only with the proliferation of bibliophiles who often had to step over books to reach their beds, and who were at a loss to contain their books, did bookshelves become a necessity, an invention. It is astonishing to learn that for the longest time books were not placed vertically on shelves, and that the spine faced inward! The spine didn't contain the title or the author, and so it didn't matter if you shelved it spine in and fore-edge out. From the most simply designed bookshelf to contemporary bookcases in bookstores (where the shelves are slanted and the bottom shelves flare out so that a browser can look at the titles standing up) bookshelves are a marvel of structure and engineering. Books live there, they sleep there, they hang out with each other there, and make their journeys (with us) back and forth from there. When I look at a book now, I also see a bookshelf.
pradeepsebastian@hotmail.com
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