I.

rphaned by old November, winter's frosty impresario, and now removed of any sense of moral obligation to pilgrims, Indians, turkeys, cranberry sauce, yams and pumpkin pie —indigestion briefly was our national pastime—and now largely inconspicuous in the company of December, a month in which mankind is besieged by an excess of merriment, generosity and good will, not to mention the sniffles, the kerchooing left and right, as the indomitable flu bug buzzes about, and the national debt haunts the country like a mad ghost, and the homeless walk the streets of our cities, hungry and cold, shameful testimonies to the corruption of the human heart, I am compelled to read Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

Not in the least is the book diminished by my familiarity with it. On the contrary, it improves, grows more spontaneous, more delightful with each new reading. I can't explain the book's hold on me. But here I am again reading up on Bob Cratchit and Ebenezer Scrooge. And again, as I was last year and the year before, I come away astonished, a perfect fool, mouth agape over its splendid narrative. At a loss to predict its preposterous events. Haunted by both its grotesqueness and beauty, the ghostly face of Jacob Marley pops out at me from doorknobs. At night, the lights out, in bed I hear the rattle of chains, the footsteps up the stairs.

The book has sharp teeth. Have it a go, if you've half a mind. Let the tale have its way. And know that Mr. Scrooge is ever himself. He hasn't changed a lick. Grumpy and stingy and glaring at the world. A despicable old curmudgeon. Though much of him is tempered by our seasonal benevolence. So much so his humbug tickles the mind. His ghosts haunt us, frighten us with their antics, howl and rattle their chains in the night. The moon up there, the next time you see it, that's Mr. scrooge's moon, and the stars are the stars of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. Brighter and more beautiful with each new reading. The scents of a Christmas dinner are from the kitchens of Victorian England. We can almost taste the chestnuts, the goose, the oysters and plum pudding.

And the voices in the story are the voices we hear on subways and buses. They charm us, excite our sense of imagination. The words intermingle with our own thoughts. And at some turn, when we least expect it, the words become our thoughts. Change us in a way we never thought possible. And isn't that what we want out of this little book, this miniature classic of literature? isn't that why we can't put it down?

How it holds us close and whispers in our ears the secrets we want to hear. Confesses our sins. Cries in the hand like a bird with a broken wing. Or murmurs some sweet nothing which takes our breaths away. This tiny book which each year comes alive. Feels warm to the touch when we lift it off the shelf. A tinge of bliss renders the hand numb.

The opening of the book, like an old creaky door swung wide by some unearthly wind, delights as nothing else. And as we read, gently turning the pages like the hands of an antique clock, just to determine if its inner workings are functioning properly, the book squeezes our hand. The words peer inside us.

The chapters at times resemble a long winding staircase. The words bite us like spiders. Their venom the ingredients of a truth serum. Under our noses, the original impulses which gave birth to this remarkable work beat their wings like birds and shriek at us.

If we were to run to the window and look out, we might see the sky darkened, the streets deserted. Everyone inside their houses for fear the words might overtake them.

II.

My copy stands on my topshelf among a half-dozen other favorite volumes, all good reading. A row of splendid companions delicately held upright by two ivory-white elephant-shaped bookends. Though the Dickens book stands out from all the rest.

It is my favorite book of all the books in my collection. A 1938 deluxe boxed edition, gold-trimmed with brazed lettering on the front and a blue velvet ribbon for a bookmark stitched to the spine.

The book once belonged to my father. Indeed, it was one of his favorite books. He presented it to me on my eleventh birthday. A memento of my childhood, it has survived the rigors of weekend camping trips, long rides to Grandmother's house, picnics in the park, cramped airplane rides and nights sleeping in the backyard with friends, counting stars for good luck. Once while taking a bath I dropped the book into the tub, and once the book disappeared for an entire month and turned up in my locker at school.

And once I left the book on a bus and had to journey all the way back into town to retrieve it. A fellow from the bus depot watched me frantically race from bus to bus as I searched for my favorite book. I sped through fifteen buses before I spotted it. That mystical flash of gold spun my head around. It was as though I had lost my soul and then suddenly been given it back.

A second chance I did not deserve. Had no business of accepting. How fortunate I was. The event seemed so incredible I was dizzy for weeks afterward. I bumped into things.

Somehow the book for all my carelessness survived and flourished, shone brighter with each passing year. Bloomed each spring like a perennial as though it was immortal. The book endured each calamity and emerged from my childhood unscathed. It proceeded to follow me in good faith into my adolescents in perfect condition. It wasn't until my college years, until I was seized by a wild and ruthless spirit which wrested itself inside me and made me addicted to pizza and beer that the book succumbed to imperfection, from exhaustion. Sprouted a heart-shaped bruise on the spine.

Notwithstanding, it had all the earmarks of a healthy book. One in mint condition. If I held it with my thumb over the bruise, it took on its former beauty, winked at me.

III.

It wasn't until much later, after I had begun working for a living, when the volume mysteriously arrived on my nightstand sans dustjacket condition which has tarnished it considerably, yellowed its pages.

All I suppose is punishment enough. I dare not play rough with the book for fear of a page loosening. Once a tiny thin string dangled from the spine brought tears to my eyes. I immediately performed minor surgery. A sort of bizarre appendectomy. Quite successful. And there's the volume's weather-beaten clothcover, frazzled and dappled with orange specks, such that its texture resembles that of a butternut squash. One plucked off the vine and left out in the sun to dry. If picked up and shaken, you might almost expect to hear the rattle of seeds inside.

Despite these minor injuries I feel most fortunate to have my copy. As often as possible I show it off to visitors. I gloat over having it in my collection. My voice rises an octave or two when I express my affection for it. This exquisite fellow, this rare, out-of-print volume. I point with pride at the book high on the topshelf. I keep it on the topshelf for good reason. I don't want anyone to touch it. Looking is perfectly acceptable. But I get jealous when someone else holds the book.

Perhaps I'm a prude. A selfish fellow. I cringe at the thought of my book being in anyone else's hands. It offends me. Hurts. I am bruised when someone even reaches upward toward it. And have been known to stand between my visitors and the book. A sort of tricky maneuver. Guarding the book. My vigil against attackers. At any motion of advancement I am quick to point out the delicate nature of the book. How it might crumble to dust in the hand. An exaggeration, of course. However, it inhibits my visitors from any further assaults.

Its mere presence in my library suggests I lead a charmed life. Though almost any favorite book on the shelf might imply that.

IV.

Imagine my horror last week when I discovered two tiny holes bored into the book. It appeared as though someone had taken an electric drill to it. My favorite book, my most prized possession. Punched like a timecard at a shoe factory. The holes neatly rounded as the cavities which screws leave behind in hardwood. It gave me no satisfaction to know the damage had been done by nature.

A bookworm had done the terrible deed. Such a blundering parasite. An idiotic gesture by mother nature left me aghast. I could scarcely imagine a more horrible fate? What worse thing could happen to me? A bookworm had paid me a visit. Come calling with its outrageous feeding habits to raise hell. Take from me my baby. Scar it for life. A tattoo here and there. Behind my back, perhaps while I slept, gnawing on the pages.

I cringed the moment I spotted the holes. It was though the bites had been taken out of my own flesh. My arm nibbled off. Well, perhaps not my whole arm. But at least a finger or a toe. I don't want to exaggerate my condition. I only wish to state the extent of my anguish. My disappointment was acute. My head throbbed. I hurt all over. But what hurt most of all, what really hit me was knowing how much the damaged book would have disappointed my father.

V.

He died in an automobile accident in 1956. I don't remember much about that day. I was too young to understand what had happened. My Aunt Kay broke the news to my sister and I in the backseat of our old Plymouth. The revelation came outside a Dairy Queen. We licked cones of vanilla custard as she spoke in a sad, trembling voice. It frightened us to hear her talk that way. The words came out spooky as though she was telling us a ghost story. She held our hands and sighed. Her hands trembled and were cold as ice. She seemed far away.

She said we should always remember the good things about someone when they left us. It was very important. And we should never forget, not for a single moment, who they were and what they did for us.

What I remember most about my father was that he loved books. All kinds of books. His affection for them seemed second nature. As genuine and unconditional as his love for my mother, my sister and myself. He was always reading. He found in books a certain generosity. A refreshing candor and charm which perhaps was denied him in the real world. He was happiest when he was by himself, reading. We knew this about him. Yet not once did we think ourselves cheated on or defrauded of his love.

There were books everywhere in the house. Boxes of books in the basement. I recall a bag of books hung on the backporch door. A dictionary in a flowerbox in the corner. Books in closets and books in the cupboards. And piles of books and old magazines in the attic and garage. In the den, a row of three shiny mahogany bookshelves hugged the walls and almost blotted out the sunlight. He was always upstairs in the den, sitting in his reclining chair, reading a book.

He loved to visit the public library. For him, it wasn't just a place to go and borrow books. It was an expedition. And he was its leader. A courageous man who arrived to explore the New World and exchange trinkets with the natives. Learn their language and customs. He walked up and down the aisles, awed by the rich spectacle of rows of unread books. He was crazy for libraries. He had met my mother in a library.

My father carried in his wallet a newspaper clipping about an expectant mother who went into labor at a public library in Rhode Island. It all happened—where else—in the poetry section. By the time the doctor arrived, the head librarian, a person who had obviously read up on the subject, had delivered the baby. Six pounds, four ounces. A baby girl. Whew! A library card for the infant was issued on the spot.

Books were lucky, he'd say. Good as horseshoes and four-leaf clovers and rabbit's feet. On the other hand, if someone dropped a book it was unlucky. Certain to bring misfortune as a broken mirror or a stroll beneath a ladder or the sudden appearance of a black cat. And there were other consequences to consider. For example, a book unreturned to the public library suffered the same fate as a fish out of water. It could die a horrible death, if not suffer some other indignation at the hands of the careless reader.

VI.

My father's love for books rubbed off on me. Today in my home library, over a thousand books crowd the shelves. A stack of books three-feet high stand by the door. A monument to my affection for literature. And in my closets, there are books, and beneath my bed there is a box of books. And there are books in my basement and closet. Books in the cupboards in my kitchen. Books in the bathroom. And books in the hallway. And books in the dirty clothes hamper. And books on the mantle. And books on the coffee table.

And in the refrigerator, I once found a copy of Nanook of the North. And in my car, there are books. And I am somewhat embarrassed to mention it, but last summer I came across a Webster's dictionary while fixing a leak on the roof of my house. How it got there is beyond me. There might even be a few books in my chimney for all I know. The need for book space has no end, no sense of shame.

My life revolves around reading books. My affection for books amounts to an obsession. I read everywhere I go. I have missed stops on trains and buses because I was caught up in reading. Once while dipping into Marcel Proust I missed a flight at Kennedy Airport. Once I start reading a book, I'm lost to the world. Good for nothing. It's a risk every reader takes. We are such divine casualties.

I read David Copperfield while riding in the backseat of a car to my grandfather's funeral. I didn't think anything of it at the time. And no one thought me disrespectful for it. Not once did anyone suggest I was being rude. It was perfectly natural thing to see me reading. Everyone knew I was a bookworm.

For the record, I find the bookworm a lovely creature. I have much in common with it. I find it an enigmatic and charming bug. As bugs go I should say it is a creative artist in its own right and a gifted species. One to watch in the coming millennium, if evolution amounts to a hill of beans.

The bookworm was my hero. An insect larvae tiny as a breadcrumb, it feeds on the paste and binding of books. A hungry fellow little more than a speck of dust. Literary without being pedantic, it is something of a pig, a near-sighted parasite nourished by the pages of a book.

Bookworms snuggle up inside books. Safely tucked away, hidden from the world. As much time as they spend with their noses in books you would think they would require eyeglasses. Thick lenses, horned rims. The sort that would lend them a bookish look. An owlish quality. They couldn't stop themselves from what they were born to do. Which is why I could forgive the bookworm for its attack on my favorite volume.

VII.

Little wonder each year at this time I return to A Christmas Carol. It's a terrific read. A slice of mince pie. The reunion with the characters brings a bit of wisdom, a touch of kindness. And the cycle of rebirth which Christmas represents bears me away. Rescuing me from the decaying year, dragging along like some wounded beast come to devour me. When suddenly the new year arrives to liberate me.

And new as a baby, new as the first child born on the first day of the new year I feel as though I can endure most anything. Even holes bored into my favorite book. For the pain and anguish of living is at once a palpable pudding. Sweet on the lips. And January hasn't an unkind word to say. It's well-mannered, affable. A wellspring of days. Immortal harbinger. January. The very essence of the future. A budding entrepreneur and good neighbor. Hardly the sort that would take us for granted. Charles Dickens trumpets in the new year. Reborn we scurry from one year to the next. The aperture we escape through at first no bigger than the tiny holes left behind by a bookworm. And once through we are someone else. Taller, slimmer, somehow more fulfilled for surviving the passage.

Yet we wish to be reminded of those we miss. What could've been, yet for some inexplicable reason never came to pass. Perhaps we love this book because it knows us. Believes in us more than we do. Because we have no choice but to turn to it as the year deserts us. We need its kindness and thoughtful manners to lead the way.

(from Dream Forge)

© Ernest Slyman