From the Library of Randall Jacobsen
I own a copy of Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw from 1930 —a text that is much more fun to discuss and debate than to read. Concerned with the presence of ghosts in a large estate —fancy folk probably call this “gothic”— the language is vague enough to suggest that these supposed ghosts may not exist, and that in turn, the woman (“The Governess”) who is seeing them might just be crazy. Add in a couple of creepy kids, Miles and Flora, and you have checked most of the necessary boxes that the genre demands.
My edition is in mostly shabby shape, but I get a kick out of certain categories of antiquities. I don’t much care about owning an old Model-T, or a piece of clothing worn by a celebrity, but offer me an old book and it will swell up the warmest of internal sensations. I will set it proudly on my shelf and probably make you hear about it should you ever have the privilege of standing in its presence.
“Now, this book is from the ‘20s,” I would begin. “It’s not in the best shape, but I got it on the eighth of August a few years ago from someone’s estate sale. His name was Robert, died of cancer I believe. I talked to Billy, his son. Nice guy. Sold it to me for only six bucks. I was like, ‘Six bucks? Done!’” I would continue, like the worst kind of museum curator, one who adds more and more obscure details in the misguided belief that the hostage audience will suddenly awaken when drowned in minutiae.
Having someone pull a gun and shoot me, or themselves, in the face seems far more likely. And with the wide availability of assault weapons, it would seem as if it is only a matter of time before I attempt to drown the wrong person.
The depressing truth is that I am becoming more and more of an antique myself. This supposed unique warmth I feel toward old things is actually what everyone who has ever wandered into an auction house, or flea market, feels: That maybe this fuzzy feeling isn’t the self-satisfaction of being intelligent, wise, and smug enough to appreciate such things, but rather is merely a love for the things that are more and more like myself: Old, and getting older.
Opening that 1930 copy of The Turn of the Screw, one can find a specific thing that makes me stand apart from most of these other terrible museum curators: The glued label on the inside cover that reads, “From the library of Randall Jacobsen.” Apparently, it’s not enough to own a beautiful book. Instead, it must be marked for ownership, like a dog to a fire hydrant.
Perhaps I ought to give Randall a break. Maybe he lived his days in constant fear of home invasion, a time where the most vicious criminals of the day raided homes with well-manicured lawns and proclaimed; “Hey, Rocco, go for the books!” And on the day it would happen, Randall Jacobsen would be relieved that he had pasted his ownership onto the artifact, so the police would know just where to return the stolen merchandise when it was inevitably recovered.
Or maybe Randall Jacobsen had a penchant for loaning out his books and hoped there may come a time when some stray reader would open the cover, set eyes on Randall’s seal of ownership, and gawk, “Oh man! You have a Jacobsen! That guy’s taste in books was legendary!”
About ninety percent of my collection of books is second, or seventh, hand, and I would estimate that at least three-fourths of those books have the writing of their previous owners scrawled somewhere within the binding. Some have inscriptions from when the book was offered as a gift, which must have been from a time when inserting a note on a separate slip of paper was outlawed. Others have the aforementioned ownership decrees. Since we are needlessly devaluing our belongings, I am thinking that I ought to plaster my name on the side of my house: “From the real estate empire of Brian Davis.” Maybe that isn’t quite the same thing, as it is likely more difficult to borrow, steal, or steal through borrowing, a house as one might a book. But like Randall Jacobsen, I probably shouldn’t take any chances.
I may not agree with these practices, but I can at least excavate reasons as to why someone might do these things. The same can’t be said for the occasional book that someone has hastily scribbled their initials into. This artistic choice raises some real questions concerning general, baseline intelligence. The “MJ” scraped across the inside cover does nothing to illustrate ownership. The book may belong to a woman named Mary Johnson as much as it may belong to Michael Jordan. Maybe this person was hoping to craft the same sort of prestige that Randall Jacobsen was, only this “MJ” wished for this prestige to come through the lens of anonymity, like Banksy or something equally dumb.
And then I notice that “MJ” has added two additional mentions —one on the back cover, another on the final blank page. Now, I am truly confounded. With no other explanation, I am forced to believe that “MJ” was the literary equivalent of a toddler drawing on the walls, whose act was driven by nothing other than a blank canvass and the human urge to un-blank it. “See the pretty picture I drew, mommy!”
Mommy and I ruminate on the same tragedy: Nothing gets out ink.
Maybe “MJ” was a firefighter, or a famous basketball player, or a farmer. Had they been a museum curator, perhaps they would have left more details like Randall Jacobsen, the presence of a disinterested audience hardly a cause for a change of tactics. Instead, I only see “MJ,” a ghost described with just the right amount of vagueness. Whether that is enough to constitute real existence and ownership, well, that’s for the literary critics to decide.