Books tend to outlive us. They also tell our stories in addition to the ones printed on their pages.The Family Book of Verse is a lovely hardbound book from 1961, edited by Lewis Gannett. I had read some of the poems before. But one day, as I flipped through it, looking for a short poem to read, I found a portrait. A small piece of paper with a portrait photograph and a name in print below. I didn’t know the name so I didn’t immediately realize why this piece was in the book. But when I turned the page, I saw the same name printed below the poem in the book. The portrait photograph was of the poet. I flipped through and found more: Edna St. Vincent Millay on page 3, Robert Bridges page 151, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow page 163. Someone had gone through the trouble of finding the poets’ photographs, cutting them out so carefully, so expertly, and placing them in between the pages that contained their words. It’s clear that these photographs are from the original publications, they’re definitely not photocopied. This person was a reader, loved poetry, and read about their favourite poets. They personalized their book by putting a face to the name. I imagined them leafing through poetry magazines and going ‘Ah, Millay! I can add her to my book.’ Then going to find scissors.
One of my favourite things to do is look for old, discounted books. I found a very yellowed paperback at the library, probably at one of their book sales. Fifty Great Short Stories from 1952, edited by Milton Crane. A fragile paperback, the pages feel almost too delicate to handle. Whenever I open the book to read it, I worry I’ll damage the spine of this seventy year old thing. The fact that it has lasted this long makes me wonder if it wasn’t read much or if it was handled with the utmost care the whole time. Leafing through the book one day, looking for the next story to read, I turned to the back, to the very last page, and discovered a note. A confession. A love letter. And the fifty-first story.
10 AM
5-28-2015
on a train, into the city.
I miss my love. I miss my friend.
I have seen three women after her.
still, nothing compares to her.
I love you.
Take it easy.
Jacob Patience Jake
Pretty soon, it’ll be nearly seven years since this fifty-first story was written. If I really wanted, I could attempt to hunt this person down. Based on the note and where I found the book, I have an idea of which neighborhood they likely lived in (or might still), the train they took and I know that they like short stories. And, while I’m no graphologist, Jacob is probably left-handed. How did his story end?
At the beginning of the book, the editor describes what makes a great short story. ‘The sudden unforgettable revelation of character; the vision of a world through another’s eyes; the glimpse of truth; the capture of a moment in time.’ I’d say this one checks all the boxes.
Mariam Sultan 