The lost history of library books

I’ve recently finished reading a 1970s, much-cited history book that I borrowed from my university library.  It was on the shelf for borrowing, rather than being superannuated off into the CARM centre, a “repository for low-use and last copy research publications and artefacts” that is located somewhere at La Trobe.  I don’t know exactly where on campus it is located: the librarian I asked came over all shy and evasive- it’s all a bit mysterious and reminiscent of the Cemetery of Lost Books in Carlos Ruiz Zafron’s  Shadow of the Wind.

But this particular book was sitting there on the shelf, still optimistically expecting to be borrowed. When I turned to the back of it, I was delighted to see it still had the date stamp pages from its many, many borrowings- in fact, it had eight sheets of them!

The book was first borrowed in September 1976, when it must have been relatively hot-off-the-press, as its publication date in England was 1975.   It was borrowed at least once every year between 1976 and 1996, with particularly heavy borrowing in 1981 and 1982 when it was put onto the reserve desk for three-hour loan.  But alas, the trail grows cold after 2001 when the library decided to no longer date stamp books but to issue a receipt instead.

I’m nosy enough to always scrutinize the receipts I find in the books I’m borrowed, to check out what other books other anonymous patrons have borrowed along with this one.  It’s an ephemeral pleasure though, because the receipt I found in this book, from July 2007 had faded so much that it’s barely legible.

But this book yielded another little treasure- a Call Reserve slip.  I haven’t seen one for years (although this one hasn’t been filled in correctly).

Reserve fines 60 cents per hour eh? They’re now $2.50 for any part of the the first hour, then $1.00 an hour after that.

The $10.00 accrual limit still stands. I have reached it -ahem- once or twice.

I always loved the paraphenalia of the library borrowing process.  My library card was a treasured item- in fact, my local library FORCED me to finally change to one of their swipe cards just recently, but I still kept the original card.  I used to love being on lunchtime library duty in primary school, and being a library monitor who covered the books and got to paint the call number on the spine after the beautifully coloured dustjacket had been taken off  (why, oh why?) and stored in the map drawer.  I didn’t possess all that many books of my own- probably only one shelf- but they were all in alphabetical order by author, adorned with a call number, with a catalogue card in a little tin file.  All my dolls had a library card and were issued with loans, with the due date stamped onto a page glued onto the back just like the book I borrowed this week,  and they were all duly fined when they failed to return them on time (no doubt because they were such party animals).

When it came to choosing a career, there was no question of going to university unless I received a studentship, which suited me fine as I couldn’t decide between teacher/librarian or classroom teacher. But I had to designate one or the other on the application form, and so I did- then changed my mind, took the form back and altered it to the other- changed my mind again- and- again.  Eventually the form was sent off and my fate was sealed- classroom teacher.

I love being able to search catalogues on-line, and databases are things of wonder (and hours of lost time).  It’s great being able to renew your own books over the internet, and to put a hold on books you notice while browsing the catalogue- an activity you’d be unlikely to undertake with the old card catalogues.  But sometimes I miss the knowledge that the book I hold in my hand has been held by nameless others, and that I’m just one in a long line of borrowers.

Reading and place

At the moment I’m reading Davidoff and Hall’s book Family Fortunes: Men and Women of the English Middle Class 1780-1850. You may wonder what the connection is with Port Phillip of the 1840s, but I’m interested in the values and mental baggage that this largely immigrant population brought with them from England.   The attitudes, fashions and values of British society ‘back home’ was reinforced with the arrival of each ship, spilling forth people who had recently departed England, Ireland or Scotland and the letters from family members they carried with them.  Events and feature articles would be lifted direct from the newspapers from Britain, America and other British colonies and republished in the local press, constituting almost a quarter of the newspaper.

Hence, this book.  I started reading it in January, down by the beach, sheltering under the trees to escape the oppressive heat.  It was high summer, but before the bushfires.  I put it aside for some months, but have picked it up again over the last few weeks. And here I am still  reading it in May,  the frost burnt off my now-green lawn by the weak autumn sun, with the heater purring away in the background.  But mentally, I will always be reading this book by the beach.

Which started me thinking about the way that particular books are linked in my memory with where I read them.  For example, Lord of the Rings will always be associated with lying on the grass in my parents’ very small backyard in summer in the 1970s after finishing VCE.  Crime and Punishment evokes a wintry afternoon, listening to Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” and thinking about the funeral of a 16 year old classmate that morning- he had been killed by his younger brother in a fit of rage with a billiard cue in their rumpus room.  Sue Miller’s The Good Mother will always be entwined with memories of an autumn by the Murray River, lying on a rug with a glass of wine as the sun slipped behind the trees.

I notice that most of these books were important to me, and heaven knows that there are hundreds (indeed thousands? I wonder?)  that I’ve read with no clear memory of ever having read them.    Do you have particular associations of a book with a specific place and time?