22. Special Collections

There may be no better job for a lover of magical books than to work in the Special Collections of a library. The kind of goodness that comes across my desk on any given workday really couldn't be equaled or accessed in any other way I can think of. In the past few months, it was my "job" to catalog an autographed collection of Langston Hughes' poetry, a first edition of Countee Cullen's Colors, a set of newspapers from the 1800s advertising slaves for auction, and a copy of D.H. Lawrence's Love Poems wherein I found "Return", one of my new favorite poems.

But by far my favorite thing that has ever happened at my job is this:

Walking through the stacks one day I caught a glimpse of a book with a bright gold spine. It was about 14 inches tall and 3 inches thick. The book was gold velvet and was stamped "The Golden Book of Tagore" in gold leaf on the spine. Naturally I picked it up =).

It turned out to be a tribute to an early 20th century Bengali Nobel Laureate named Rabindranath Tagore. Mostly it included essays from friends and colleagues detailing his virtues as an artist and a man. There wasn't much of his work though. So later that day I checked out a handful of books - poetry and plays. Didn't get into the plays, but the poetry was very decent (I mean that as a compliment). I added him to my roll of Admired Writers.

A few months later I'm photocopying the archived papers of a woman who's name I don't remember for one of the library patrons. She'd requested copies of some of the woman's photographs and correspondence. In the middle of the assignment I notice the signature at the bottom of one of the letters: Rabindranath Tagore

It turns out, the woman (whose name I wrote down but don't remember), was the widow of a writer who had been deeply involved in the literary community of his time. When he died, she opened their home in Chicago to a community of writers around the globe who would come through the city for work. Artists like Tagore would stay at her home instead of in a hotel when they were in Chicago.

In the letters he wrote of his work, of the difficulty of writing well and living well among people, of winning the Nobel Prize and it's effect on his working life, of his travels and his lack of enjoyment of steam ships. And in one of the letters, as a gift, in appreciation for her friendship, he writes to her a poem, previously unpublished. It has always been my plan to go back, photocopy the poem, and frame it for my room.

In the meantime...

RETURN

Now I am come again, you who have so desired
My coming why do you look away from me?
Why does your cheek burn against me - have I inspired
Such anger as sets your mouth unwontedly?

Ah here I sit while you break the music beneath
Your bow; for broken it is and hurting to hear:
Cease then from music - does anguish of absence bequeath
Me only aloofness when I would draw near?