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Oh let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast

I think I’ve always known there would be trouble -I mean I’ve got too many of them hanging around the house. With the exception of my airtight stove, there isn’t a flat surface that doesn’t support a passel of them huddled together in untidy disorganized piles. Once acquired, never relinquished -I think my father taught me that about knowledge… or maybe it was my mother (she was a teacher), not my father (he was only an accountant).

At any rate, both of them were book lovers, so my biblio-acquisitive tendencies were no doubt genetically solid. The only difference was that with me, it started with a collection of tutelary Reader’s Digest magazines in the bathroom, and only later spread to the National Geographic magazines that self-collected for quick reference in a wicker box beside the coffee table. Apart from a hefty dictionary, the only hard cover books I remember in the house were the 12 volume encyclopedia set my mother added to each month as a reward from some store downtown where she shopped. Of course I’m not sure if they also read paperback novels and hid them from me somewhere…

I’m just trying to explain why I don’t think I have ever thrown away a book -two marriages perhaps, but never a book; I don’t suppose there’s any connection with that, but then again I don’t think books came up at any of the counselling sessions.

But lest my eloquence about the subject be mistaken for the point I am trying to make, I hasten to add that it is fear, not pride which has pricked my interest. It has recently come to my attention that some of my books may be members of a dangerous fifth column. I learned this from the contents from an app on my phone[i], and not from one of the miscreant books, I hasten to add.

As I was wandering lonely as a cloud through the app’s repository as it were, I began to wonder about all the sneezing that happens whenever I go searching for a particular book I haven’t seen for a while. I know most of them by their spines, but like most skeletons, the old ones are buried the deepest. Finding some of them is akin to unguided exhumations, strangely enough. The evil they do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones: unremembered knowledge, remembered and beloved characters, wit, humour… disease…

Who would have thought malevolent spirits could still reside within their innocent skins? And if they didn’t kill me long ago, why do I care? I mean, I’ve had all my vaccinations.

Actually, much of the danger lies in historical practices: to wit the bookbinding. I have the parsimonious habit of buying books to read, not devour however; I do not mean to show them off on the shelves; I seldom taste them, so I doubt that my liver, or whatever, is at risk.

Green seemed to be a favourite colour in the olden days, and more often than not, the dyes contained arsenic: ‘The frequent reports of green candles poisoning children at Christmas parties, factory workers tasked with applying paint to ornaments, convulsing and vomiting green water, and warnings of poisonous ball dresses raised serious concerns about the safety of these green dyes… The harmful effects of these pigments have even been implicated in Napoleon’s death from stomach cancer. Napoleon was particularly keen on the new green colours, so much so that he ordered his dwelling on St Helena, where he was exiled, be painted in his favourite colour.’ I’ve never worn much green anyway, so I suppose I’ve lived a charmed life.

But wait, green isn’t the only culprit: ‘brilliant red pigment vermilion was formed from the mineral cinnabar, also known as  mercury sulfide. This was a popular source of red paint dating back thousands of years… Vermilion red sometimes appears on the marbled patterns on the inside of book covers.’ I did a quick check of mine, but the only red that I could find on the inside covers was the red ink of my signature to warn any people to whom I might lend the book that it might be dangerous to keep it. Oh, and I remember having a nosebleed on one of them years ago, but that was on the outside cover and I wiped most of it off.

And then there’s yellow, an all-time favourite of mine. ‘The bright yellow of lead chromate was a favourite with painters, not least Vincent van Gogh, who used it extensively in his most famous series of paintings: Sunflowers.’ I quickly checked the fading Sunflower poster on my bedroom wall, but it was only paper, not canvas and the article didn’t mention cheap poster reproductions as being dangerous. In fact, I’ve never liked the poster so I’ve put it in the guest bedroom. I never have guests, but if I ever get lucky, I suppose I should warn them about it in case they’ve read the same article, eh? Anyway ‘Lead chromate is not particularly soluble, making it difficult to absorb.’ They can’t sue.

But I’m not worried -I mean not really: ‘You would probably have to eat the entire book before you’d suffer from severe arsenic poisoning.’ I usually order in, so even guests would be safe for dinner, and I only offer bagels and peanut butter for breakfast, if they stick around that long.

At any rate I do have old books, to judge by their torn covers, and famous books whose covers seem to have hardened with dust, but none that present a clear and present danger (or does that only apply to a rationale for the limitation of free speech in a majority opinion written in 1919 by Supreme Court of the United States…?) I get confused about stuff that happens across the border. I’m not sure where my used books originate, I have to admit, but anyway I don’t think I have any illegal migrants on the shelves.

The danger is more of a concern for people who may regularly handle the offending books where frequent contact could result in more serious symptoms. Therefore, anyone who suspects they might be handling a Victorian-era book with an emerald green binding is advised to wear gloves and avoid touching their face. I usually offer the same advice to friends who may want to borrow one of my books; they often change their minds for some reason.

Me? I sometimes wear a mask, because with shuffling through the untidy piles, it’s the dust rather than the colours that becomes an enemy. And anyway, I’ve got a lot of masks lying around from a different enemy. You’ve got to extemporize nowadays, right?

[i] https://theconversation.com/many-old-books-contain-toxic-chemicals-heres-how-to-spot-them-228834

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