Two and a half years ago, my library of approximately 1000 books was besieged by tiny insects. I woke up one morning to find miniscule, barely visible bugs crawling over the spines of my books, diving into the infinitesimal space in between pages like divers into the sea. Even now, the thought makes me shudder. These pests would grow into white, near transparent ant-like creatures native to the tropical island on which I then lived. I never learned their exact scientific names, but these insects brought about important changes.
I’ve always had a severe case of entomophobia – the irrational fear of insects that persists in spite of the knowledge of my ability to terminate them with ease. En masse, they are terror embodied. To tackle the invasion, I took time off work, and for 3 days and nights, with scarcely any sleep, I removed as many insects as I could, straining my eyesight to catch them in the hinges of the spines or in the crevices between pages. In Buddhist terms, this amounted to a form of massacre, and though I am not religious, the experience did prompt me to become a vegetarian – that was the first significant result of the infestation. Painstakingly, I bagged all the books individually in zip lock bags (according to book conservation websites and the local librarians, this is an effective way to limit the spread of the infestation), and sealed the bags with tape. All throughout the laborious process, I lived in fear and revulsion at the thought of these miniscule entities in close proximity to my skin. After packing all the books, I moved 300 of the most severely affected ones to the campus library of the university where I worked, and deposited them in a giant, industrial-grade freezer (apparently a necessary purchase for most major libraries in humid regions) where they stayed for 2 months in minus 40 degrees celsius – the extreme cold is the only thing that kills all insects, larva and eggs. The remaining books were frozen in my own freezer at regular intervals. For two and a half years, my books remained inside plastic bags, taken out only when needed, and frozen them in batches according to a set schedule. Now that I’m back in dry and temperate Canada, the books are gradually being taken out of their plastic shells, to breathe for the first time in so long and to be aired in the sunlight.
The memory of that frightful experience lingers. Aside from useful information about book preservation, the ordeal also made me rethink my relationship with books and reflect on what precisely they meant to me. Knowledge cannot be eaten away, of course, and I know that even if the worst had happened, I would have been able to re-purchase the majority – if not all – of the books. Yet the issue was never the recoverability of the same texts, but that my first encounter with Hardy, my signed copies with memories of Ishiguro book readings, the marginalia that bespeak fascination – these cannot be replaced. Many bibliophiles perhaps feel the same attachment to the volumes inscribed by experience. In many novels, I had the letter “M” written on the corners of pages, to indicate ideas that could be useful for a novel project. My copy of Rilke’s Letters are filled with dates and personal records in the margins, indicating instances where Rilke’s words offered solace during a time of grief. I collect books from my travels as well, and the library has several volumes inscribed with memories from visits to notable bookshops in various cities. There are also the pieces of ephemera, serendipitously discovered, or the lovingly written messages of dedication.
The infestation was a reminder of what I have and what I might lose. It also made clear that books are tactile objects even as they hold, between their covers, that which exists beyond physical form. The collecting of books also bespeaks a different kind of growth. What I purchase at different stages in life trace shifts in intellectual inquiry and slight changes in taste. Each section in life seems to be mapped out by books, and many bibliophiles can surely draft an autobiography using books read and cherished. Claire Messud wrote that a personal library maps out one’s intellectual progress. It also maps personal growth. These particular volumes with their individual origin stories and idiosyncratic markings contribute to a more narratorial sense of self at a time when the construction of such narratives has become increasingly difficult in the age of the internet. I tried my best to save my books, but they had saved me first, from times of aloneness and distress. The trouble of dealing with the infestation, and the subsequent shipping of over 1000 volumes back home, had been worthwhile.