My wife and I had just returned from graduate studies in Scotland in 1975 when I was offered a job working with troubled teenagers at a hospital in the Chicago suburbs.
I remember being astonished when I learned that my salary would be $11,000 a year, far more than anything I’d earned before.
It didn’t take my wife and me long to realize that eleven thousand didn’t go very far. After paying the rent, the car payment, the grocery bill, other bills and the too-frequent car repairs, we didn’t have much left at the end of the month.
In our budget, there was nothing set aside for books, but my wife and I had always been avid readers. From college, my wife had her books on English and American literature and I had my books on Biblical studies. To those, I’d added the books essential for my graduate work, but I’d read all those, and my wife would have found them boring.
We immediately went to the local library to get our precious library cards, which meant that every two weeks we brought home the maximum number of books allowed.
But like other book lovers, my wife and I wanted to build up a personal library. Birthday and Christmas gifts to one another were usually books, but both of us were on the lookout throughout the year for books that wouldn’t exceed our budget.
One day, I found myself perusing a table full of used books. My memory is foggy about the location of the book sale. Maybe it was at the local library or maybe it was set up by the hospital auxiliary. What I am not foggy about was the book that caught my attention and its price. It was a book by Iris Murdoch about early 20th century Ireland.
I’d like to write that I had a keen interest in Irish history, but I didn’t. When we lived in Scotland, Ireland was just a ferry ride away, but the bombings occurring there in the early 1970s meant we didn’t chance a visit.
The real reason I bought the book was its price — 10 cents. Even on our budget, I knew we could afford that. The book was clearly used, but it was in reasonably good shape. I began to read it immediately, and that was when the unexpected happened. The characters in the book drew me in, and they quickly became quite real as they struggled to know how to help Ireland achieve independence from Great Britain.
My work with troubled teenagers was challenging and absorbing in its own way, but the book was absorbing in another. Through Iris Murdoch’s genius, I was transported from the Chicago suburbs of the mid-70s to Ireland at the turn of the century. And always in the back of my mind as I was reading the book was a voice saying “and you got all this for a dime.”
Now, 45 years later and in a house that is overrun with books, I realize the lesson the book was offering wasn’t about the price. The wisdom of my used copy of Iris Murdoch’s book was no less than the wisdom it held when it was new. And as this was long before the advent of magic markers, I rather enjoyed reading what previous owners wrote in the margins.
Yes, there are many things we must buy, such as cars, which depreciate. No trick of wording, such as “gently used” or “pre-owned,” can hide the fact that a used car is, well, used.
But a book is not like a car. A book is like a painting. We don’t describe a masterpiece of art as “used,” even though it has probably passed through more owners than any used car we might buy. If the painting has been treated with respect and love, its beauty doesn’t diminish with time.
The same is true of a good book, because like a beautiful painting, a book is a work of creativity. A book is art.
And by the way, a person can still find used books in libraries and thrift shops for a under a dollar, even a dime.
Maybe the one that will change your life is waiting for you.
David Carlson of Franklin is a professor emeritus of philosophy and religion. Send comments to [email protected].
