… the technique was not suitable to the acres of human skin now routinely disfigured as a means of individual self-expression, and those who had inscribed on themselves the name of their beloved, usually on a scroll wrapped around a heart, had to content themselves with a tattooed erasure of that name when it no longer corresponded to that of the current beloved, usually by blue lines. The names of children, by contrast, even when no longer seen or visited, let alone supported financially, were not crossed off or inked out. That would have been cruelty toward them in the same way that having their names tattooed in the first place was undying love for them. One didn’t just wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve; one’s sleeve was one’s heart.
When it comes to erasing from their skin names from the past, however, the tattooed are as nothing compared with some owners of secondhand books. They score through the names of previous owners inscribed on fly-leaves with something approaching vengeance, so that they are no longer legible. They are like Stalin in his desire to expunge a purged person, such as Yagoda, not only from the written record but also from the photographic record. The new owners of secondhand books not only do not want the name of the previous owners to be legible, it is as if they wanted them never to have existed. In the days before black felt-tipped pens, which can erase all trace of a person’s name at a stroke, or in effect throw him into an unmarked grave, the name was often scratched over repeatedly, with a strange assiduity, until no letter of it was legible. I have examples of this peculiar conduct dating back to the 18th century.
What does it mean, this fury against previous owners? I suspect that it indicates an attempted denial of mortality, an assertion that the book has now fallen into the hands of its rightful and final owner, that it will remain his (I think this is an almost exclusively male phenomenon) till the end of time. The evidence of previous ownership is thus a reminder of how futile such a wish is — a reminder that one does not own anything, certainly nothing of any value such as a book that one wishes to preserve, by more than temporary leasehold. We are keepers of our valuables rather than owners of them, at least if we feel it wrong to destroy them.
Theodore Dalrymple, “Tattoo Much”, Taki’s Magazine, 2017-06-10.
April 3, 2023
QotD: An odd habit of some owners of used books
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A depressingly shallow excerpt that makes me wonder if this person is literate. The reason for inscribing names in used books is pretty obvious to anyone who reads them: So that if they are borrowed or lost they can be returned to the owner. It has nothing to do with saying you’ll own it to the end of time or any such nonsense. It’s a simple matter of practicality. The author says he has examples from the 18th century. If he understood the culture of the 18th century he’d understand the value of this; books were more highly prized at that time than today, though less so than in the Middle Ages (where they were often literally chained to shelves), creating a situation where sharing of books was fairly common and knowing which book is who’s was important.
If anything, the list of previous owners shows how we are only stewards of this information, and places upon us an obligation to care for it so that one day our names will be crossed out with a neatly ruled line and someone else will take up the stewardship. To quote Kipling, it’s saying “After me cometh a builder; tell him I too have known.”
If this writer thinks putting names in books is problematic, I hope he never discovers marginalia. For a bibliophile such marginal notes are interesting because it shows the way the book was used; to an intellectual they are useful for showing someone else’s thoughts as they read, which can show a new perspective on the thing. But to someone who’s focused on some arbitrary idea of purity, as this author appears to be, they would be defilement. I prefer the first two views–a book as a living thing, a way for the author and reader to communicate (in fact, that was a common metaphor for reading in the past).
Comment by Dinwar — April 3, 2023 @ 07:56
I suspect you’re reading more into it than Mr. Dalrymple intended to convey. Yes, books in the past were literally more valuable objects than they have become in the modern era, and marking your books so they can be returned was a completely rational thing to do (although in my experience, it’s only marginally better than not marking in terms of getting your books back). His emphasis is on the surprisingly common over-doing of the task. It should be sufficient to line-out the name of the original or last owner and merely to write in your own (I date-stamp my books with the date of aquisition).
Comment by Nicholas — April 3, 2023 @ 09:35
Scribbling out is a human trait, nothing unique to books. Field geologists need to keep notes in bound log books, with specific requirements for how we make corrections (these are legal documents and can end up in court). One is to cross out with a single line, then initial and date. It takes a surprisingly long time to train people to do this; the natural tendency is to scribble it out.
I think (and this is from interviews with people who do it) it has to do with a desire to avoid confusion. If you make the previous writing illegible people won’t accidently read it. It’s misguided–everyone who reads understands what a line across text means–but it’s understandable. And certainly nothing like the idiotic motives the author attributes to these people.
Comment by Dinwar — April 5, 2023 @ 09:25