The Willson System

Almost every library is ordered (if it is ordered at all), alphanumerically by author's last name. This is the most streamlined categorization, employed the world over, alpha to omega, left to right - even the dewey system is secondary to this natural method of ordering books. Who are any of us to really balk at this or challenge it? We must accept the order, and be content that there are far less restrictive elements that we have more control over.

Spatially, for instance, the left to right can be labyrinthized, so that the pursuant is forced to continually switch direction and double back to find the end of the alphabet, following a faint thread and his own curiosity. It can be radialized, so that A,J, and R launch off from the center rows of Bs, Ks, and Ss simultaneously (each radial row like a newborn suckling pig, and the central nexus, the life-giving nipple of a sow). The library can be circled, so that the omegas meet with the backside of the alphas, and goad it on with affectionate smacks.

And then there are the categories. We have control over that! The typical model is Natural Sciences, Liberal Arts, Health, Computer Science, Fiction, &c. Depending on the size and scope of the library, a literary fiction section (and literary nonfiction, for that matter) may be in order, or even a taxonomy subcategory within the Sciences, where you can bury your books on Linnaeus.

Some libraries categorize by author's nationality. This is probably only remotely applicable to fiction, since most other fields are universally born. McNally Jackson in Soho orders their European Fiction wing by author's country. I confess that at home I have a small selection of African literature set apart from the rest, because for me this is a novelty and a treat that I enjoy taking in at a glance. This categorization, however, can pose serious problems: indeed, I believe that Vladimir Nabokov took it in his mind to defy this method of grouping.

I would like to propose a new method of categorization for your home libraries, a more personal one and also perhaps a more scientific one. There are really two categories of books: those I've read, and those I haven't. Think of the read items as animals, if it's easier, and those unread as plants.

Both kingdoms ramify in a network of yeses and nos. The animal-books are either of one type or another: either this animal-book bears a second-reading, or it doesn't - a first and sole reading is satisfactory, and I can move on. If it does invite further perusal, this is because of 3 different motivations: 1) While I did in fact read the book, and maybe even understood the plot-points, I really didn't understand more than a bare gist of its overall meaning. For me, John Hawkes' Travesty is like this, so is Robert Musil's Torless. The confusion often arises, when philosophical exploration meets literary device. 2) While I did in fact read the book and feel I derived much pleasure and enlightenment from the book overall, the book's vast scope and breadth prevented me from being able to see all of its world at once. War and Peace, Don Quixote, Julio Cortazar's Hopscotch and all other so-called "baggy monsters" fit into this category. Rereading these might seem more like a chore than the others, but we all feel we must read them again - it's a necessity. 3) While I did in fact read this book and understood nearly everything it presented, I can't help but want to read it again, if only for pleasure's sake. We all have those books we cherish, whether because they're crucial at certain points of our life or just damned good books. We will always have our favorites. The books that I will never tire of reading are Salinger's Catcher in the Rye, Flann O'Brien's At Swim Two Birds, and H.P.Lovecraft's Dream Quest for Unknown Kadath.

The kingdom of plant-books is perhaps a little subtler, but adheres to the same binary branching - either I will read this unread book, or I won't. The motivations being: 1) I haven't read this, but because of some initial glimpse and irrational faith, I feel I would like it, despite never having read the author before, and not knowing much at all about the thing. A great portion of my books at home are like this. I do so look forward to reading Billiards at Half-past Nine by Heinrich Boll (I have for years). I feel I must read The Obscure Bird of Night by Jose Donoso, I know it'll suit me. Herzog by Bellow, Potocki's Manuscript Found in Saragossa, DeLillo's Underworld, Cela's The Family of Pasqual Duarte, Love in a Cold Climate by Nancy Mitford - all these fall into this first order. It's almost impossible to account for this desire for books never yet experienced. Call it an air, an atmosphere. Am I required to explain why this or that smell of amber transports me to an unplaceable memory of my youth?  2) I haven't read this book but plan to, either because I have met the author before and have enjoyed his company, or I have met some of his friends and like the world in which he operates. I will continue to read Laxness and Perec, Cortazar and Hamsun, Huysmans and Fowles; and as long as Krzhizhanovsky is translated, I will continue to attend his soirees. I have recently been introduced to Bohumil Hrabal, and I say, "Very well met, old chap. Let's have brunch." Sometimes a train of allusions blows its whistle and takes me off, much to the neglect of my pressing loves. Recently having read Au Rebours, I couldn't sleep until I had a copy of Les Contes Cruels in my clutches, as well as The Eve of Tomorrow, and a collection of Gautier's stories - finding The Sentimental Education for $5 at a book stall was a bonus thrill. Before that, it was Ionesco, Cocteau, and the absurd dramatists - and long before that: Ousmane, Beti, Achebe, and their fellow West African pensmen. I get lost in the tangled train systems and often find that I have to fly myself back halfway across a world. 3) I haven't read this book, but I feel compelled to, as it behooves all literary enthusiasts and scholars to have certain canonized classics under their belt. I have never gotten around to Crime and Punishment or The Stranger. I have tried my hand at Hesse, but have resisted his acquaintance. Vanity Fair, The writings of Dumas, pere, The Sound and The Fury, even (I dare say) Pessoa's Book of Disquiet, and several other saints whose altars I have avoided, whether for lack of time or defiance, must be honored in the end, must have some hecatomb or another burned for their favor. 4) This book I haven't read, nor will ever read, as long as I live. There are few books or authors who raise my hackles so and fill me with the worst indignation - but they exist. Theodore Dresier is evil. He sets his characters, settings, themes, motifs, and all up like little porcelain dolls and then whisks his hands away, abandoning them to the terrible gravity of his bored and boring style, where they get shattered or worse. He tells you and me nothing, and then asks what we think about it - this haphazard nothingness of his prose. It may just be - though I hope it's not - that Dreiser's yawning prose is indicative of the period and region in which he wrote - the American Naturalist school. I still have yet to read Sinclair Lewis - partly because I begrudge him for absconding with a Nobel Prize, when it was probably better deserved by someone else - but if he writes anything like his contemporary (whom he sometimes lauded, sometimes scandalized), I will drop him like a hot turd.

You may find it strange - certainly it is very strange - to keep books in your library that you will never read (I do still own a copy of An American Tragedy). But it's very necessary. Just as every voyaging vessel must have ballast, libraries also cannot do without those books which merely take up space. If for nothing but to provide extra wiggle-room for their superiors. Besides, how do you know a book is worth reading if you cannot have a look at the entire spectrum?