My personal library

1/ As I consider buying a Muriel Spark omnibus, I’m idly thinking about the books I own. We all know reading and book buying are two different hobbies. As I’m not able to buy books often, most of the books I read I do not own—they’re usually copies from the libraries or ebooks from Gutenberg. Most books aren’t read more than once. Great books written in other languages should be read in multiple translations. 

So what books do I own? Shakespeare, of course: all the plays in 7 volumes, plus an Oxford book containing the sonnets and narrative poems (I’m a fanatic, of course, but does any English-speaking household not own any Shakespeare?). Jane Austen: 7 novels in one volume (great for anyone who wants to combine reading with weight-lifting). Moby-Dick, my Bible. The King James Bible. The Oxford Book of English Verse (my attempt to get into poetry beyond Shakespeare and Keats). No Charlotte, no Anne, but I do have Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. No George Eliot, if we talk about the books in my place right now and ignore the ones stored at my mum’s house in Leeds. No Dickens except David Copperfield, a rescue, though I sometimes feel an urge to buy Bleak House (but when am I going to reread it? I’m also unlikely to occasionally pick it up and reread chapters as I do with Moby-Dick). No Henry Fielding. No Edith Wharton. No Henry James. The books I own, I suppose, indicate my obsessions, especially if they’re right here with me. I have three books by Nabokov (Lolita, Pnin, and Speak, Memory) for instance, but they’re stored away in Leeds. No Alice Munro (I gave away my copy), but I have Flannery O’Connor. 

Beyond English? Tolstoy, of course: I read Anna Karenina and War and Peace twice, each time in a different translation, but a Tolstoy fan must have their own copies to revisit chapters (Anna Karenina by Rosamund Bartlett, War and Peace by Aylmer and Louise Maude, revised by Amy Mandelker); sometimes I feel an urge to buy Hadji Murad and the short stories. Chekhov: 2 collections in Constance Garnett’s translation (how many times have I read “The Bishop” or “The Lady with the Little Dog”?). Homer: next time I reread the Iliad or the Odyssey from cover to cover, it’s going to be another translation, but I need my own copies (Robert Fitzgerald) so as to easily revisit Akhilleus or Odysseus.

Clearly a lot of this is about how often I pick up the books. Value for money and all that, which doesn’t sound very romantic. But one needs to be practical and I need to stop buying books. Next time I move house, Don Quixote (Tom Lathrop) and The Brothers Karamazov (Ignat Avsey) might have to go despite my enjoyment, but Metamorphoses (A. D. Melville) might stay despite my indifference, because it’s more useful to keep a collection of myths (especially when it influenced my boy Shakespeare). Practical, practical. 

Then why do I own copies of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides? I’m contradicting myself. And I own Truyện Kiều mainly because I’m Vietnamese, the same way English speakers must all own some Shakespeare (I’d also love Nguyễn Du to improve my Vietnamese writings but isn’t it foolish, I don’t really pick it up). 

(I’m leaving non-fiction out of this blog post). 

2/ What do our favourite books say about us? 

Sometimes I try to find some pattern behind the writers who speak the most to me, but can’t find any. I like both sane writers (Jane Austen, Chekhov, Tolstoy…) and mad writers (Emily Bronte, Melville, Akutagawa…); both warm writers (Chekhov, Molière, Dickens…) and cold writers (Jane Austen, Flannery O’Connor, Muriel Spark…). I think I like writers preoccupied with the subject of death, but Jane Austen leaves it offstage. I think I like writers with a sense of humour, but does Tolstoy make anyone laugh? (Maybe twice in War and Peace). I think I like writers who see some goodness and nobility in humanity and don’t just depict us all as base and bestial, but why do I like Flannery O’Connor? 

3/ Russian literature ruined my life. 

In my younger and more vulnerable years, reading Tolstoy made me want to have compassion and seek to understand other human beings. In such foolishness, I put up with lots of things and lots of people I shouldn’t have tolerated. It’s Jane Austen who taught me to have more discernment, to look at things with detachment, to be more judgemental. 

I don’t read literature for self-improvement, but we love a book more than others not only because it’s masterfully crafted, not only because it’s enjoyable, but also because it speaks to us and stays with us over the years. Austen is a good guide because, whereas many 19th century writers tend to focus on compassion and empathy, Austen emphasises the importance of discernment, self-reflection, and balance or moderation (we know what happens when one has excessive empathy). 

Later on, during that difficult period of my life, I found solace in Chekhov and found myself moving away from Austen—she didn’t write about the subjects that were preoccupying me. But now looking back, I can’t help wondering if I was making a mess of things because I absorbed Chekhov’s pessimism and accepted that human relationships were messy and my life was over and there’s no happiness on earth. I was going through volumes and volumes of Chekhov—how many stories did I read?—Chekhov saved me but also ruined me. 

(Of course I exaggerate for dramatic effect: some of it is true, but I’m doing fine and more judgemental than ever). 

Interesting that now both my favourite male and female writers are English.