am what I have read
far more surely than I am
what I have eaten

Ms. Margaret Renkl, a contributing Opinion writer for the New York Times who covers flora, fauna, politics and culture in the American South, in a love letter to books titled, My Bookshelf, Myself, writes:

For me, a book made of paper will always be a beautiful object that warms a room even as it expands (or entertains, or challenges, or informs, or comforts) a mind, and a bookcase will always represent time itself. I walk past one of our bookcases, and I can tell you exactly why a particular book is still there, never culled as space grew limited, even if there is no chance I’ll ever read it again.

I could have written this piece.

I know a lot of people who could have written this piece.

I also know a lot of people who won’t understand the line “I walk past one of our bookcases, and I can tell you exactly why a particular book is still there, never culled as space grew limited, even if there is no chance I’ll ever read it again.“

Why would anyone keep a book they’ll never read again?

It is a good a question and I don’t really have a good answer.

It is somewhere along the lines of a quote in the 1983 documentary, Ansel Adams: Photographer.

At the end of the film, the scene depicts Mr. Adams walking through a flowering field and the narration says, ” … in 1938 Alfred Stieglitz wrote in a letter to Ansel Adams that ‘it is good for me to know there is an Ansel Adams loose somewhere in this world of ours.'”

It is good for some folks to know that certain books are there, still there, close by, even if there is no chance that book will ever be read again.

Ms. Renkl continues, “When I reread a book from my own shelves, I meet my own younger self. Sometimes my younger self underlined a passage that I would have reached for my pencil to underline now. Other times she read right past a line that stuns me with its beauty today. I am what I have read far more surely than I am what I have eaten.“

I love that passage though in some ways its brings to mind the Jim Harrison character in his book, The Road Home, who re-reads his own 50 year old journals and keeps thinking, “What will this fool going to do next?”

Books, books and more books.

As I would say when I worked in a bookstore, books are like jello, always room for more.

I spent my life with them and they are, until you move cross country, a necessity.

When you move, they become a luxury.

To be sure I have two book cases of books I really want, want enough to move with, but I wonder if they will make the next move.

I still look at them and feel good knowing they are there even though I know I most likely won’t read them again.

I have three devices filled with books and I can still get that feeling of pleasure of knowing I have these books on my devices.

And I cannot agree more that I am what I have read far more surely than what I have eaten.

I remember my good friend Gerald Elliot, who over his long life, was an editorial writer for the Grand Rapids Press among many other things.

Late in life he had accomplished two interesting things.

First, about 10 years before he died, he gave his personal library to the Grand Valley State University Library.

Jerry not only wrote editorials but had been the book reviewer for the Grand Rapids Press for decades and was pretty much understood to be the area’s man of letters and his collection was impressive.

He had thought the books would go into the general collection of the library but instead were dumped into the library fundraising book sale which made him so mad that he vowed to me that he would never do that again.

And the second thing was that in the 10 years since giving away his library, he had acquired as many books again as he had given away.

He told me that story at the bookstore where I worked as he picked up the two bags full of new editions he had just purchased.

He looked at me then he looked over at his wife then he looked at the bags of books and back at me.

“Can’t go on forever I guess,” he said.

He looked at his wife and said, “Then it will be her problem of what to do with these damn books.”

dark material
with a bright impasto of
playful irony

Reviewers, whether for food, restaurants, books or movies, seem to get the best words and word play into their writing.

In his review of How Tyrants Fall by Marcel Dirsus, Pratinav Anil writes:

Since the second world war, 23% of the world’s rulers have ended up exiled, imprisoned or killed after leaving office. For dictators, though, the figure rises to 69%.

This was impressed on Robert Mugabe not through statistics but by seeing what happened to his friend Taylor.

Subsequently, he let it be known there was only one way he was going to leave Zimbabwe – “in a coffin”.

How Tyrants Fall arguably belongs to the genre known as “mirrors for princes” – manuals for monarchs – whose exponents include Al-Ghazali and Machiavelli.

Dirsus is a worthy heir to that tradition.

He wears his research lightly and ranges widely, lathering his dark material with a bright impasto of playful irony.

If, back in the day, one Professor had written your wear your research lightly and ranges widely, lathering your dark material with a bright impasto of playful irony on anything I wrote (well, I guess one Professor DID say that but that’s another story and it was another story, a love story I wrote for a creative writing class for my Jimmy Carter era Senior Writing Requirement not a research paper) I would have rolled up and died a happy person.

I recall the story told by Stephen Ambrose (and yes I am aware of the danger of even bringing Mr. Ambrose into a story today) as a student at the Univ of Wisconsin.

Mr. Ambrose tells how he went to see one of his Professors and low and behold, one of Mr. Ambrose’s papers was tacked to the Professors day.

Mr. Ambrose writes that he was about to bust and walked into the Professor’s office all aglow.

Instead of papers, the Professor asked Mr. Ambrose if he knew about rattlesnakes and the western culture.

“Out west,” the Professor said, “Folks will kill a rattlesnake, skin it and nail the skin to door to keep out other snakes.”

Then the Professor stared at Mr. Ambrose for a good long time until Mr. Ambrose pieced it all together and figured out WHY his paper was tacked to the door.

I would say that that Professor wore his messages about research lightly and ranges widely, lathering dark material with a bright impasto of playful irony.

our diet reflects …
food tells us where we came from …
who we have become

The sad theme of loss runs through all of Southern culture from way back. The black spirituals and blues are its musical expression. But its countertheme is endurance. Today, Southerners are more and more aware of their traditional foods as the rest of their culture blends into that of the nation as a whole. Certain dishes give identity to entire communities. Yearly, thousands of people flock to small towns all over the South for festivals in honor of such lowly foodstuffs as chitlins, ramps, and collards. A few years ago, most Southerners wouldn’t admit to still eating these foods. Now we see bumper stickers directing us to “Eat more possum.” It isn’t just a joke. We know we are Southerners because we do eat possum and grits and okra. When we no longer eat these foods, we no longer will be Southerners. Our diet reflects the history of the region and its people: Native Americans, Europeans, and Africans. Our food tells us where we came from and who we have become.

From Biscuits, Spoonbread, and Sweet Potato Pie by Bull Neal, Alfred A. Knopf. Inc., 1990.

I have lived in the south now for 15 years – 11 in Atlanta and 4 in the low country of South Carolina.

Sorry to say that it is easier to read about southern cooking than it is to find places that serve traditional southern food.

I know a place in Gainesville, Georgia where if you order a burger with everything, be prepared to see the burger arrive covered with coleslaw.

We found several places in the ATL area where you had a wide selection of boiled veggies like Okra or squash or black eyed peas along with collards.

Here in the low country the emphasis around here is sea food and what you can do with shrimp.

Happy to say that my wife can now turn out any number of shrimp dishes that will match whatever you can find in a local restaurant.

But the reading, boy howdy, do southerners love to write about the food they used to cook.

This cookbook is worth reading.

It has several recipes that I have used.

One for three layer cake, that has become a staple of the southern branch of the Hoffman family tree.

But I read it, and I read a lot of southern cook books and book about southern cooking.

And much of what is written about is wonderful to read, but hard to find if you want to eat it.

I want to eat it.

I love to read it.

I wish I had time to create it.

I talked with one local chef and told him that when I retire I want man the grill at a waffle house.

He looked at me and offered to let me come work with him and really learn to cook.

But when I said it was the speed of the lunch counter grill I wanted to master, he nodded his head and looked me in the eye and said, ‘Understand that … I understand that.”

Our food tells us where we came from and who we have become.

ask people to tell
about one activity
not do for money

Based on the phrase, “When you ask people to tell you about the one activity they do not for money, not out of necessity, but to indulge their deepest passions and their wildest curiosities, well, you’re in for an intimate conversation“, quoting Amy Stewart in Fifty Shades of Trees, a review of her book, The Tree Collectors: Tales of Arboreal Obsession (Random House, 2024) in Scientific American, Jul/Aug 2024.

The reviewer writes:

Initially, trees struck Stewart as an odd thing to collect—trees being, for the most part, large and difficult to sell or tuck into a suitcase the way philatelists might their beloved stamps and brandophiles their cigar bands. Intrigued by this community of enthusiasts, she discovered educators, preservationists and visionaries, all hooked on a kind of curation, motivated by reasons as diverse as their projects. They plant trees in public and private spaces both modest and expansive, nurturing their collections to honor beloved dead, attract wildlife, preserve rare species, connect to history, invest in the future, grow food and create beauty. “When you ask people to tell you about the one activity they do not for money, not out of necessity, but to indulge their deepest passions and their wildest curiosities,” Stewart writes, “well, you’re in for an intimate conversation.”

Like all collectors, her subjects express a zeal for aesthetics, preservation, curiosity and delight. But it seems they know something else, too, something echoed by the recent rise in popularity of shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing, the Japanese practice of spending time in the woods: being around trees simply feels good.

I am reminded of the old saying, “Blessed is he who plants trees under whose shade he will never sit.”

Why?

Because being around trees simply feels good.

For that saying about planting shade trees and who said it, the Quote Investigator is worth checking out.