Where Is My Book?

Where Is My Book?

By Kongyin

          The French poet Anatole France says: “Never lend books, for no one ever returns them; the only books I have in my library are books that other folks have lent me.” 

Little have I in the bank, I don’t even seem to remember the exact amount; nevertheless, I always know exactly how many books I should have on my bookshelves. I feel richest when curling up by the fireplace with one of my favorite books in hand, looking up now and again only at the faraway sky and solitary woods.

I cringe every time someone, especially a Canadian, asks to borrow a book of mine. I am most reluctant to loan books, not out of stinginess but of dread, for based on my experience, ninety percent of my lent books never have returned to my hands.  Although I have not completely given up on them yet, my instinct laments that they may never find their way back home again. I bet for those who don’t favor books as much as I, these pangs are seldom felt when a book strays.

Oh, yes, I did summon enough courage to confront a few culprits, but all I got was:  “Oh, I thought I had given it back already.” Or “Sorry, I’m not done with it yet (after a year or two).” Or “It’s such a great book, a friend of mine grabbed it when I wasn’t noticing…” Then they looked at me with an air as natural as life, as if saying: “So what’s the big deal? Why so anal about it?” Following that, normally was silence, from both the book and the borrower. After all, it is just a book. To pester someone for a book makes you look cheap and unkind.

I remember once I lent a book to someone, E, who came with a friend of mine to my home. He awed at the books on spirituality I collected and expressed a wish to borrow one on health and self-healing. It was pretty hard to deny E’s request in front of my friend, especially when what he wanted was a book to improve his wellbeing, so I lent to him, but out of my usual caution, I warned him to return it sometime in the near future. He assured me he was definitely one of those who always returned borrowed books in a better than original condition.

But sure enough, the book is still out and about. I waited for three months; after all, even a library allows extended renewals. Six months went by, still no book, so I became a little worried, but too reluctant to write it off. A whole year crept by, I threw a tea, inviting my friend who had initially introduced E, urging him to bring E along. To my great relief, E emailed, saying he would not only come, but also with the book he had borrowed, though he had only read one third of it.

Taking a year or so to finish a book seems like the Canadian style, and I have become accustomed to it. I was just thankful and even moved that E still remembered my book. However, on the day of my tea, an email arrived from him, apologizing he could not come after all due to some unexpected commitment. Not a word did he mention pertaining to when he would come again, or when my book would return to its rightful place on the shelf. I am still waiting, three years after seeing him off, for the irreplaceable book I stumbled across in a second-hand book store in Montreal.

A friend jokes that from now on I should hand each borrower a home-made library card and charge fines on overdue or lost materials, but what she doesn’t know is that it’s the books, not the money that I care about. Money can replace a book, but it cannot replace the fond memories associated with it.

Again and again I keep telling myself: never shall I lend another book to anyone; however, whenever someone’s face brightens as their eyes alight on my books, compassion  arises in me and I relent, and then, the same old fate befalls the woeful me.

  Jorge Luis Borges said, “I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”  To envision Paradise is a library may disappoint many people, but if there is a library in Paradise, I cannot help but wonder, what might the fine be for those who fail to return a book.