A Mimetic Tradition
The Prelude
Many people have inquired about the definition for the word mimetic. Etymologically the word comes from the Green word Mimesis and means imitation. In his engrossing novel, The Lost Steps, Carpentier captures the essence of the term with his description of a Venezuelan jungle. “What amazed me most was the inexhaustible mimetism of virgin nature. Everything here seemed something else, thus creating a world of appearances that concealed reality, casting doubt on many truths. The alligators lurking in the depths of the swamps, motionless, jaws ready, seemed rotten scale-covered logs”. This paper will use the image of the book to wrestle like Jacob with the universal philosophical issues of appearance and reality.
However, in proper British fashion, let me apologize for these remarks up front. In his Thoughts, Leopardi expresses so eloquently the perils of any such intellectual journey when he states: “I mean the vice of reading or performing one’s own compositions in front of others. This is an ancient vice which was tolerable in previous centuries because it was rare, but which today, when everyone writes and it is very difficult to find someone who is not an author, has become a scourge, a public calamity, one further tribulation for human beings”.
Man has for a millennia assembled libraries of various physical types and for sundry purposes. In the 15th century Gutenberg’s invention allowed printed books to be produced on an exponential basis. By the beginning of the 20th century, book publishers envisioned a future through roseate glasses. One century later Jason Epstein, former head of Random House, delivered a death knell for the book in a speech given at the Clark Library to the Fellowship of American Bibliophilic gathering. Sven Birkerts, in his Gutenberg Elegies, laments the damage to reading in our electronic age. He gave his college English students a reading from Henry James. His students were left totally befuddled. Why were his students unable to analyze this literary work? After his own probing and reflection, he concluded that he was dealing with an entire generation raised on rock music, television and videos. James’ work requires intense, focused, intellectual analysis. He cannot be understood instantaneously. Thus, tragically, most of James’ prose will remain a conundrum to these students. They will miss, according to Burton Rascoe, the disinterested pleasures of the mind. They will fail to realize that mental stimulation offers the greatest satisfaction of life – more than worldly power, passion or worldly success.
Birkerts gave another disturbing example of this electronic trend. He visited the home of an academic colleague. In the man’s library all of the shelves were barren. On his desk was the screen, keyboard and mouse. He proudly pointed to the machine and said that that was all he needed in order to complete his research. Is this library of emptiness our contemporary society’s imitation of the past? How hollow have our appearances become?
John Powis in Meaning of Culture, copyrighted in 1929, argued that people’s souls were becoming intellectually benumbed by the commercial onslaught in American society. The individual had to become a solitary person in order to protect his sense of cultural integrity. Hal Smith in On Gathering a Library, copyrighted in 1943, quoted the Saturday Literary Review’s study of people’s reading habits. According to the findings, only one out of every five people read one book over a one to two year period. One person out of a hundred was considered a habitual reader. Smith explained the results by arguing that 50 years earlier reading was a more common pursuit. Now radio and the movies were replacing the book in people’s lives. Logan Smith, in All Trivia, captures so well the frustration of the habitual reader. “All the books I have read and forgotten – the thought
that my mind is really nothing but an empty sieve – often this, too, disconcerts me.”
Given these disturbing trends of the 20th into the 21st centuries towards the book, has my life’s goal of developing an outstanding private library been a mistake? Do I have an antiquated fossil on my hands? Has my mind become ossified to the greater realities of our surrounding culture? Should I unload this dinosaur that I have created and reorient my being into cyberspace? After all, a few quick clicks of a mouse will instantaneously put whatever I seek on a bright screen in front of me. Why search books in such a time-consuming manner? Google will do it all. On the other hand, would I want to become another John the Book Baptist? I could wear my camel cloak and cry out my lamentations from depopulated book stacks. However, I would probably lose my head over the inevitable movement of society. Isn’t it better for me to visit all of these arachnid sites and be mesmerized by all of these interactive bouncing figures? Maybe a compromise lifestyle might be possible. In my high school history teaching, I am obviously forced to integrate a certain degree of technology into my curriculum. It did have an advantage last year. I was highly suspicious of a student’s history project.
Our school librarian confirmed my feelings when she pulled up the exact sources the student had copied. He had hit the mimetic ground zero.
However, outside of school Montaigne is my paradigm. He lived through a very miserable period of religious civil wars in 16th century France. He would retreat to his tower library in his chateau and peruse his great collection of classical writings. After many lucubrations he used these books to understand himself and put his ideas to print in what was referred to as The Essays. His accomplishment was monumental. It is extraordinarily difficult to analyze and to write honestly about one’s self with all the intimate details. Montaigne, in his essay Of Books says that “Whoever is in search of knowledge, let him fish for it where it dwells; there is nothing I profess less. These are my fancies by which I try to give knowledge not of things, but of myself. I do not take much to modern books, because the ancient ones seem to me fuller and stronger”. He also reveals his health concerns when he observes about doctors that the sun shines on their successes, but the earth hides their failures. This image of Montaigne’s retreating to his tower has become a mimetic tradition for my own existence. My own library has become my escape from the travails of this world and yet is additionally a place for me to contemplate and to unravel the mysteries of
life. These gathered volumes become my Virgil or St. Paul guiding me through the woods or a glass darkly into a light rather than more shadows in the cave.
The writer Roscoe analyzes what goes into the creation of a library. In Life’s Greatest Pleasure he reveals the essential joys of the collector. “Libraries are not made; they grow. Each volume has its own individuality, a history of its own. You remember how you got it. The man who has a library of his own collection is able to contemplate himself objectively and is justified in believing in his own existence. No other man but he would have made precisely such a combination as his. Had he been in any single respect different from what he is, his library, as it exists never would have existed. Therefore, surely he may exclaim, as in the gloaming he contemplates the backs of his beloved ones, ‘They are mine, and I am theirs’.”
My own desires for reading and creating a library were implanted very early in my life. My first collection of 450 comic books which, as a freshman in high school, I sold to the local pawn shop for five dollars – a big mistake in hindsight. My other book reading included Mad Magazine, Edgar Rice Burrough’s Tarzan of the Apes series, Oliver Twist, Poe, A. Conan Doyle, and Caesar’s Gallic Wars. My high school counselor suggested to my parents
and me that I should apply to the University of Chicago. In the fall of 1967 I left our Minnesota farm and entered the University to pursue a classical liberal arts education that would become my foundation for the rest of my life. In the highly intellectual atmosphere of Hyde Park, I gradually began to refine my book interests, tastes and judgments. In June of 1971 I graduated with my B.A. and by January of 1972 was studying the Platonic Dialogues in Berkeley. In June of 1972 I was back at the University of Chicago to do my M.A.T. in history. During my graduate study I developed a side interest in the Church Fathers, who had a major impact on medieval and reformation intellectual history. Also a good friend exposed me to a long term interest in art history.
After graduation I moved to the western suburbs. Initially I felt like a Hyde Park expatriate in a vacuous land. I did return many times to the University to audit classes and to immerse myself in the bookstores. My book collection started to grow rapidly in the areas of history, theology and art. In 1979 a carpenter built bookshelves and a storage unit for the living room. In 1984 I made my first original historical manuscript purchase from H.P. Kraus. It was a legal deed signed by Emperor Charles V and given to Admiral Andrea Doria in 1548. By 1986 I had built a private library on to my
home. It became my Montaignesque retreat from the world. There I would study some of the world’s best masterpieces and incorporate as many ideas as I could into my own life. I also joined over time 15 different cultural organizations in the city of Chicago. I would hear over 100 lectures a year. Just like Montaigne, I would travel even more extensively than him, thanks to modern technology. Domestically my studies have taken me to Princeton, University of Virginia, Boston, Carleton and St. Olaf. My foreign studies were at Oxford, Paris, London, Rome, Verona and Vienna in Europe; Kenya in East Africa; and in India and Nepal in Asia. This combination of serious reading, stimulating cultural events, and varied travel experiences has given my life a very rich depth. I have gone from the dung huts out in the African bush to a rowboat ride on the Ganges to a dinner party at Pamela Harriman’s residence in Paris. My reading and classical education has given me the impetus to explore all the many aspects of life that I can.
Over time I gradually sharpened the focus of my library. When I purchased rare original manuscripts, I desired documents that related to my history teaching. I would attend the medieval manuscript auction at Sotheby’s in London. Christopher du Hamil was the scholar responsible for writing the description of the document and suggesting the bid range. On one
occasion we had lunch together, and he told me a fascinating story about how he had sold a 12th century Henry the Lion Book of Hours for 11 million dollars to a group of German industrialists. After the sale I got to examine first hand in his office the oldest English manuscript from the 7th century. It had been purchased by the British Railway Pensioners Union and sold by the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C.
Bidding at these auctions was an emotional thrill. I remember at one point the great manuscript dealer and collector, H.P. Kraus, coughed. The auctioneer stopped and asked him whether that was a bid or not. His secretary then responded “yes, it was”. On another occasion a French book dealer who was from the Rothschild family purposely bid up an item just to tweak Kraus. I learned an important lesson from these auctions – never bring a noncollecting ex-wife. I was extremely interested in a 15th century Papal Bull issued by Martin V to a Benedictine Abbey. The document had been stolen from the Doge’s Palace in Venice during the Revolution of 1848, and there were historical documents associated with that event. The bidding war came down to a man from Quaritch and me. Each time I nodded yes to the auctioneer I got a louder no ringing in my ears. Needless to say, the other
fellow won the set of documents that I regret losing, but later I did add 50 new documents to my collection.
The goal for the other parts of my library became a collection that represented the best writing and thinking of scholars in that particular discipline. No pabulum was allowed to deface these volumes. Another key component was that it was an active working library. Books did not get into this collection simply because they had beautiful bindings. It was the content that was of ultimate importance. This meant that I spent years reading and studying in order to improve my own sense of taste and judgment.
I would spend time in bookstores during some of my travels searching for works that would qualify to be a part of my library. The prestigious academic presses were usually my favorites, but that was only one of a number of factors that influenced my choices. The focus of my readings would shift over the years from different periods of history to philosophy to theology and to literature. Before I would purchase a book, I would decide the probability of my actually reading that particular book in my life. Some books are read immediately; others in a few weeks; and many over the years. It is rare for a collector to read every book that he owns. In fact, the most
commonly asked question of noncollectors is “have you read all of these books?”.
The best method for determining the quality of one’s library is to invite other collectors and scholars to visit. Usually these moments result in some very interesting intellectual exchanges. The most memorable occasion happened in June of 2001. The German Consul-General Michael Englehardt visited my collection. He owned 7,000 items that were associated with Goethe. We first discussed some of the various German writers in my library. He gave me a very helpful literary analysis of some of the writers. He then told me about the different poetry readings that he had been a part of. Next I showed him the royal seal of the English King Charles I, and he said that the seal must have been done by a very important artist. We then looked at a manuscript of a 16th century French bishop. It turned out that he had the man’s portrait in his collection. We finished the discussion on the paleography of the 1720s. When he left, he said to me “This has been a most un-American occasion”. This comment pleased me greatly.
Just before the consul-general’s visit, the Fellowship of Bibliophilic Societies had sponsored a collector’s trip to Cleveland. We were visiting the 19th century collection of an important bibliophile. This gentlemen, who was
both a collector and medical doctor, and I went to view their important Tudor-style garden. As we were perambulating, I told him about some of my recent marital woes. He gave me some of the best doctor-collector advice that I have ever received when he said to me “It is easier to replace a wife than a library”. In the divorce I got the house with my library intact and my wonderful supportive new wife is here tonight.
The 1981 Nobel Prize for literature winner, Elias Canetti, has written the masterpiece Auto-Da-Fe for the serious bibliophile. He was a Bulgarian Jew, who published his work in 1935 in Berlin. The plot focuses on a collector who makes the unfortunate blunder of marrying his illiterate cleaning lady. Eventually she tossed him out of his library. If one is up for a grand Germanic brood, this book is for you. For example, here are some of the uplifting chapter headings: Death, Beaten, Petrifaction and Starved to Death. Other dark, pessimistic German writings are well represented in my collection. The classic Gothic story is the “Black Spider” by Jeremias Gotthelf. It begins with wonderful lightness before it descends into grim darkness. I would not want to commit the gregarious error of overlooking the attorneys in this audience. For you Christopher Wieland has written “The
Case of the Ass’s Shadow”. If you have had one of these days in legal land, you might turn to this significant 18th century case for your entertainment.
The 19th century Belgian writer, J.K. Huysmans, has one of the most overpowering dark literary styles. In Becalmed he graphically describes this country house that a young couple has just moved into. “In short, all the infirmities of a dreadful old age – the catarrhal discharge of waters, the blotched plaster, the inflammation of the windows, the ulcerated masonry, the leprous bricks, the slow hemorrhage of every form of corruption – had descended on this ruin which was expiring, abandoned and alone, in the desolate solitude of the woods.” Logan Smith’s remarks on his own edification are reminiscent of Huysmans’ house description. “I must really improve my mind, I tell myself, and once more begin to patch and repair that crazy structure. So I toil and toil on at the vain task of edification, though the wind tears off the tiles, the floors give way, the ceilings fall, strange birds build untidy nests in the rafters, and owls hoot and laugh in the tumbling chimneys.” Huysmans’ most famous work, Against the Nature of Things, is aptly named as it powerfully describes the decadent existence of a nobleman who has had pretenses to edification.
One of the greatest classics that has had the most influence on me is Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. It took me seven years to read the entire tome, and it should be read only by older people. As the writer recalls his past, the reader is forced to do likewise. One needs to have had jaded life experiences in order to appreciate fully Proust’s methodology. Fortunately, I have had a number of Proustian experiences. An author becomes exceptionally driven to a reader when the text reflects incidences in the reader’s life. The 1995 Friends of French Art party trip began in the Champagne region of France with lunch with the owners of the Chateau de Guermantes. At the reception in the ballroom I met the widow of the French Ambassador to the United States during the Reagan-Bush years. I picked up a glass of orange juice, looked at her, smiled and make a quick witted parody of Proust when I said “I prefer the orange juice to strawberry juice”. She gave me a knowing smile and wanted me to join her for lunch. Proust had gotten the names of his main characters from his stay there.
Another memorable Proustian moment happened at the Chateau de Reveillon, an early Louis XIII period building. The owner gave us a marvelous slide show on how he was going to restore his palace over the next 20 years. Unfortunately I got a severe migraine attack during his
presentation. I asked one of the ladies in our party for assistance, and she asked the owner’s wife if I could lay down. In the standard French way she said “no problem”. The ladies proceeded to take me upstairs in this crumbling chateau into this bedroom. One of the ladies said to me, “You know about this bedroom?”. I responded “No, I did not.”. She then told me that this was the room that Proust stayed in at this chateau. A bit later one of the ladies brought up linden tea. That pharmaceutical was what Proust would drink when he was sick in that room. The next day, after I recovered, I said to the lady who had been so helpful that, from my reading of Proust, the room had his design, but he never would have lived with the current color scheme.
The final Proustian moment took place on the far north side of Chicago in a large abandoned warehouse. The very talented Mary Zimmerman produced the Eleven Rooms of Marcel Proust. It was the only play out of many that I have attended where the audience moved to 11 different rooms. The bedroom scene between Marcel and Albertine was very powerful. Albertine literally was at my feet.
My library has become my autobiography. My copy of Homer’s Odyssey has been symbolic for my own journey through a life of appearance
and reality. My own wileness has had to meet the challenges of cyclops, circes, and sirens before I can land in Ithaca. The great insightful voices of the past guide me in my present course. I have been blessed by their wisdom and vision about life and have been able to drink deeply from their cups. In his Philobiblon of the 14th century, de Bury echoes a feeling about books when he says that “they are the golden pots in which is stored the manna”. Will future generations be able to supt on this ambrosia? As a historian, I hesitate to make predictions about the future. It is difficult enough to understand the narrow windows to the past and their effect on the complexities of the present. However, I do see some very disturbing trends.
Our country today has produced the most materialistic society in the history of the world. Most aspects of our lives have to be done instantaneously. Slow computers or snail mail are not an option. Life has to whirl by in micro seconds. Cell phones have to ring at every time or place. Otherwise, we are not truly connected. Who can out produce whom? Who has the bragging rights for the most hours worked in a week? Did the great thinkers of the past have their inspirations while running on a tread mill and listening to a walkman? Most of these great thoughts were produced in a quiet solitude that allowed for a very concentrated self-reflection. How can
we understand life in general and our own in particular without these moments of intense introspection in an environment of quietude?
Today’s high school student lives a very noisy life that makes any time for serious reflection very difficult. From a very early age they are pacified into a vegetable state with long hours of exposure to the wasteland of television. However, there are some students who are overbooked by pushy parents. They, too, have a hard time just engaging in their own solitary creative play. The movies that these students are shown drain their imaginations. The producers try to out special effect the other. I remember showing a World War I movie that used an Indiana Jones character. Some of the students found the movie boring. If it is not the right slam, bash, terminator formula – forget it.
In our school library – no longer referred to by that name – one notices that it is a popular place. The students either love to socialize and/or to stare into the screens of the computer, or, if lucky, to play a computer game. When I do try to integrate the book into my history projects, I feel that I am an outmoded reactionary. One cannot turn pages as quickly as one can click a mouse. When I have seen a student look at a library book, I crown them with the blessings of sainthood. Fortunately, Plato’s simile of the cave still offers
us hope for today. There are always those exceptions who see the light even though most live in the shadows. Thus most live a life of imitation, but a few might use the light to see ultimate reality in our existence. Such has been the nature of human society over the ages. As Voltaire’s Candide said, “We must each cultivate our own gardens”. I will maintain my own Eden to the end of my days and may be like Sam Rosenthal: breathe my last breath in my library, or Don Quixote did: “at nights he would pore over volumes until it was day; in the days he would read until it was night; and thus by sleeping little and reading much the moisture of his brain was exhausted to that degree that at last he lost the use of his reason”.
For you the audience, Diogenes the Cynic will be the closure. Diogenes was at a literary paper reading where everyone was dying of boredom and seeing at the end of the paper, which was in the author’s hands, a blank page appear, said, ‘Take heart, friends. I see land ahead’.