Ｉｔ Ｔａｋｅｓ Ａｌｌ Ｄａｙ ｔｏ Ｄｕｓｔ ｔｈｅ Ｂｏｏｋｓｈｅｌｖｅｓ 書架人生

My bookshelves are dust-laden--and with good reason. When itcomes to cleaning that part of my home， I suffer from the.most tenacious case of avoidance.

The thing is this: On those very rare occasions when I do set out toclean and rearrange my books， I invariably become hopelessly mired. Nosooner do I take a title from the shell blow off the dust， and wipe downthe cover than I find myself plopped on the floor with legs crossed andmy back against the wall， forsaking other responsibilities， and oblivious tothe world at large. Pretty soon my lap is overflowing with volumes as Ibecome reacquainted with old friends.

It is as if these books have voices， and each wants to say its piece.\"Remember me? I was given to you when you went into the Navy， so thatyou would never lack for companionship.\" one recalls. Another pipes tip，\"I was your first book of poetry given to you before you learned to lovepoetry.\" And a third: \"I was the book that made history fascinating to you.\"

In short， I dare not attempt to clean and organize my books unless I amprepared for the long haul. I cannot have anything else on the day's docket.It's got to be a clear shot7 from beginning to end， dawn till dusk. Once I getgoing， it's necessary to give in completely to the experience. It's like a weddingreception or Christmas dinner. One cannot say， \"I'll do this for an hour andthen move on to something else.\"

Perhaps the greatest pleasure of re-arranging and sprucing up my booksonly at long intervals are the surprises-or better said， reunions that occur.

Thanks to my inability to get rid of books--any book including my BoyScout Handbook， copyright 1964-titles surface like long-lost relatives showingup on one's doorstep.

During my latest book-cleaning expedition， I found one that had fallenbehind the shelf: Tales of Edgar Allen Poe. Not a unique title， but its inscriptionmade it irreplaceable: \"With Love from Morn and Dad， Christmas 1965.\" It wasmy first \"grown-up\" book. (I was 11.)

I recall beginning with The Pit and the Pendulum and becoming an immediatedevotee of Poe. That book， more than any other， made me a reader. The gift ofPoe's work was all the more remarkable because neither of my parents werereaders， yet they recognized the value of the practice.

There were other finds. The Exploring Science in Your Home Laboratorypaperback， now yellowed and crumbling， was the book that inspired me tomake a stink bomb in our basement. I tried to get it outside before it wentoff， but...

Piranhas as Pets is a slim volume， which belies its power to influence a 15-year-old in search of something different. I did buy that piranha (its name wasJoe) and immediately became the most popular kid on the block.

And what's this? A book on the physics of laser. Filled with indecipherablemathematical equations. I had bought it at a library sale when I was 12， notlong after the laser had been invented. I couldn't understand a bit of it， but I didlearn what \"laser\" meant (\"Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission ofRadiation\").

I even made several attempts to build one， going so far as to order the \"plans\" for $4.95 from an ad in the back of a Science and Mechanics magazine. The plans arrived， but my heart sank when I read the list of required parts: a ruby rod， a TV set (which I would have to break up)， neon， and helium.Iremember thinking， \"Where am I going to get a ruby rod?\" Andthat was the end of that. But I could dream， couldn't I?

What I wind up with when I empty my bookshelves is a crosssection of my personal history. It's like a road cut where onesees all the layers of rock going back through time to the origin ofthe simplest life forms.

Standing front and center are my current tastes， but as I peelthe titles away， I see the path down which I came: myundergraduate fascination with horror and fantasy， my fleetingdalliance with the pop poet Rod McKuen， my high schoolassignments (Shane， Ivanhoe， The Yearling)， and that Poe book untilI arrive at the few existing remnants from my early childhood(my gosh， I've even saved The Pokey Little Puppy).

The books I've read--and kept--are not just old friends. Theyare my resume.