Michael McGrorty writes: “Today they sent out a crew to whitewash some of the walls of our little library. I say ‘they’ because I have no idea who gives the orders for such things-being a mere intern, I am not in the decision-making loop of the organization. This does not bother me. It means that I am able to avoid going to meetings.
During a lull in the flow of patrons I took a stroll about the library, ending up in front of the Friends’ sale shelves, where I just happened to run into an old companion. It was the Modern Library’s ‘Great Tales of Terror and the Supernatural;’ I didn’t recognize it at first because the spine had faded; in fact, I only knew what I had in hand when I thumbed its pages and found a story that brought sunbeams to my heart.
Michael McGrorty writes: “Today they sent out a crew to whitewash some of the walls of our little library. I say ‘they’ because I have no idea who gives the orders for such things-being a mere intern, I am not in the decision-making loop of the organization. This does not bother me. It means that I am able to avoid going to meetings.
During a lull in the flow of patrons I took a stroll about the library, ending up in front of the Friends’ sale shelves, where I just happened to run into an old companion. It was the Modern Library’s ‘Great Tales of Terror and the Supernatural;’ I didn’t recognize it at first because the spine had faded; in fact, I only knew what I had in hand when I thumbed its pages and found a story that brought sunbeams to my heart.
In December of 1938 Esquire magazine published Carl Stephenson’s ‘Leiningen versus the Ants.’ Though nothing else by Stephenson has since crossed my radar, the piece certainly made his reputation among the cleverer boys of my generation. That story found a second life anthologized in collections of similar tales, which is how I discovered it, waiting to seduce me on the shelves of the County Library, and succeeding grandly.
“Unless they alter their course, and there’s no reason why they should, they’ll reach your plantation in two days at the latest.”
Thus begins the tale, and if I don’t know it by heart, it’s because my brain is losing function. The thing is a gem of old-school pulp storytelling, but it rises considerably above that level owing to a certain spare elegance, and certainly deserves the place it finds among the works of H.G. Wells and Poe and O. Henry.
Overall it is a very good collection of stories and an excellent book for any library. But it will not be a book for our library. It is a donation, probably from somebody’s estate; though the book is in fine shape and unmarked, it rests here on the ‘last chance’ shelf, either to be bought on impulse or sent to the refuse bin. The price of its rescue is a mere quarter. I set it back to see if some other grown-up boy will take the lure, then return to the reference desk to finish my shift.
I am familiar with the tendency to edit the experience of one’s youth to suit adult prejudices, but I believe I am on safe ground when I contend that the general run of young adult books differs considerably from those of my own time. Permit me to suggest that the change has not been in the direction of good.
The Modern Library’s little collection of stories will not find a place in our Teen Room. The reason for this is because the philosophy of what constitutes quality reading for that segment of the population has changed over the years. If I had to give analysis, I would say that there was a tug-of-war between youth and age, and the kids won, or at least the folks in the book industry who make a profit out of extending childhood into the high school years.
In point of fact, Stephenson’s little story is the lightweight of a collection which includes Edith Wharton’s ‘Afterward,’ Faulkner’s ‘Rose for Emily’ and similar stuff. I recall the book getting good use in the collection of my junior high school’s library; I recall this because it wasn’t always there when I wanted to borrow it.
We don’t throw a lot of Wharton at our youth. We select only those who are definitely college-bound for that torment, then surround Edith’s simpler fare with crib books designed to prevent the formation of independent opinions or the burning of midnight oil. Cliff’s Notes (!)-I never saw them in any library until this one; in my time they were considered shameful, a cheat if not an outright fraud. Your modern library embraces them; they are no longer a crutch, but merged to become one with the leg. As the wag says, what were once vices are now habits, and oh boy do I sound like an old man-like my Old Man, to be precise. I don’t mean to. Maybe it’s just that I hate seeing good books go to the knacker’s.
An older man saunters over to the shelves where the sale books rest. He fingers a few volumes; pulls one from the shelf; puts it back. No sale for him today. The rest of my reference shift goes as they usually do, quickly enough, punctuated with a few interesting moments, here and there a laugh. Too soon I am finished with the shift and the day.
I walk past the sale shelf on my way to the street, but turn away from the books I will not buy. There are so many there that call to me, always, but I have so many others waiting at home. It is all a matter of numbers and common sense.
Outside, my motorcycle comes to life with a twist of the throttle, but the engine is cold and sputters. I pull the choke and give her some time to warm up; while she is clearing her throat I head back into the library, pull down the book of stories from my youth, toss a quarter to the clerk at the desk, then tuck the thing in my jacket for the trip home.
Tonight, just before lights out, I will crack open the old story-book and return to Leiningen and the terrors of the Brazilian jungle. All that for two bits.
Michael McGrorty
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