Is that it, then? Stress? Even though he never felt it as such, and despite his reputation for having a temperament immune to everything (someone once asked if he’d been “operated on his nerves”), it’s likely that the accumulated tensions of recent years, with the projects he had taken on, had pushed him towards the need to take stock — without knowing how, nor when, nor where to begin.
Was he postponing?
Did the lift decide for him?
Some questions simply hang in the air.
Before the accident, he had taken up reading again. He had begun taking a book to bed every night, even if only to read a few lines — always after reading something to the children. And a book was almost the first thing he asked his daughter to put in the rucksack when they took him to hospital.
He remembers it fondly now: The Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger. The copy had belonged to Jennie as a teenager, from 1953 (the year she was born). Like many of the books that now fill the house. Books she bought before they met, during her studies and her years in a bookshop; and books they later bought together, across years of literary, artistic, historical and photographic wanderings. And physical travel too — through far and not-so-far lands.
Why did he choose that book among so many on the shelves? He had been trying to organise books still in boxes: dusting them off, grouping them according to his mood and the memories they stirred.
Not a library’s order.
Memories: that is why he never wanted to get rid of most of his books. Just by looking at a full bookshelf, he was already travelling.
Leave a Reply