The other morning I was drinking coffee, minding my own business, when a message popped up on my computer screen — a friend had sent me a link to an ad for books. These weren't just any books, but "real authentic books" of "varying colors" that were "tastefully weathered"; books, in other words, not meant to be read but meant to be used as decoration.
For $65, the ad proclaimed, the buyer will receive between eight and 10 books weighing in at somewhere between 11 and 19 pounds. Titles? Not important. Authors? Not important. Subjects? Not important. These are "authentic books" and that's all you need to know.
That link led me to other links and I was soon down a rabbit hole — sites that sell books by the yard, by the pound or by the color (call before ordering if you have "specific color needs"); minimalist sites that sell only white, beige or black books; sites that sell books in lots of green, or red, or, for the daring, "mixed-color vintage." Like zinnias!
Comments from happy customers left me stunned. One wrote: "Love these books, they definitely added good pizazz to our study!" Another was happy that, serendipitously, the books she had been sent matched her bedroom's gold decor.
Another said: "Needed some shelf filler and these are perfect!"
It was that last comment that made me shut my laptop in despair. Books as "shelf filler." That hurts.
I've written here before about the concept of decorating by covering every book in glossy white paper (for that clean, matching look) or grouping books by color, or turning the books spine-in on the shelf.
Somehow, weird as they are, all of those concepts seem explainable to me — books with the spines turned in or wrapped in paper are no longer books; they have become anonymous design elements.
But lovely old books that could be picked up and leafed through and actually read? Bought in 10-pound lots to be displayed — unread — on shelves or mantelpieces? That feels less like a design decision and more like something akin to dishonesty. Because doesn't a display of books imply a love of reading? And surely someone who buys books by the pound without regard to title or author is not a reader.
There is no denying that old books can be beautiful. But that loveliness comes from their essence, from what they are — someone's thoughts turned into words on a page and still there for us to read a hundred years later.
The bookshelves in my house aren't pretty; they are a mess. They are stuffed with books of all kinds — paperbacks, old books, new books, books with broken spines. More books have been laid on top, horizontally, because there is no more room. Everything is dusty.
These books are not design elements; they are things that I use. Books that I read.
Would I hang shiny pots from the wall of my kitchen if I weren't going to cook with them? Keep a grand piano in my living room if I didn't play? (I don't, and I don't.)
Why would someone display books they have no intention of opening? Why would someone want to pretend to be a reader?
My suggestion is, do both. Buy a book and read it. And then display it. Beautiful or shabby, vintage or shiny new, in pride of place it now will have meaning.
Laurie Hertzel is the Star Tribune's senior books editor. E-mail: books@startribune.com.
